The Last Campaign (The Near-Earth Mysteries)

by Martin L Shoemaker

  “Ms. Morais,” she said. “I’m sorry, I would have been here if I had known you were coming.”

  “I expect you would,” I said, then pointed at the envelope. “What is that?”

  “Ma’am . . . what?” She looked at the envelope. “That’s . . . I have never seen that before.”

  “I see. Then you would not mind opening it.”

  “Ma’am, honest. I have never seen that before.”

  “Well, will you open it then, or should I?”

  “Ma’am, I . . .”

  I was bluffing. If she did not want me opening it, there would be a stink if I did; but I hoped she would fold.

  And she did. “Go ahead. I want to know too.”

  I opened it up, and inside were blockchips, voucher cards commonly used in interplanetary commerce. They could be tendered for goods and services on Earth, Mars, and Luna. “What is this?” I asked.

  Vile looked at the chips. “Ma’am, I have never seen those before.”

  “They are just on your desk with your name on them.”

  “Ma’am, I swear—”

  “Vile, you are suspended immediately. Give me your badge and your weapon.”

  “But, ma’am—”

  “Now! Or do I need to call Brooks and DeHaven in to take you into custody?”

  She removed her badge and her weapon and handed them over. “Ma’am, this is some sort of mistake.”

  “Oh, it is a mistake, all right.” I hit my comm. “Brooks, I need you to escort Vile to an interrogation room in Admin.”

  I would have to keep an eye on Brooks. She showed promise: she did not hesitate, she did not stammer, she just said, “Yes, ma’am.” And like that she was in the room taking Vile by the elbow and leading her out.

  I called through the door, “DeHaven, evidence bag, please.” He was not quite as quick as Brooks; but then it was a more unusual request. Who ever needed an evidence bag in the squad room? But he showed up with one quickly enough, and I sealed the envelope back up and dropped it in the bag.

  Then I turned to DeHaven and asked, “Did you see where this envelope came from?” He stared down at the desk. “Come, man, spit it out. Whatever it is, we need to clear this up.”

  “Well, a courier came in with a . . . delivery from the Merchant’s Association.”

  “A delivery? And you did not find that suspicious?”

  He still did not look up from the desk. “Ma’am, it wasn’t the first time. They bring by a little bit of food now and then, sometimes a recreation voucher.”

  “Space it! What do I have to do to get through to you people?”

  Finally he looked up at me. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

  I had to know what was going on in my own force, so I had to build a rapport with them. “Yes. This is off the record.”

  “Ma’am,” he said, “you’re trying to change an ingrained culture. We understand what you’re trying to do, but little gifts of appreciation are the way it’s always been in Public Safety. And it’s so easy to accept small stuff as a sign of appreciation, so we just kind of don’t question it.”

  “Small stuff,” I said, looking at the bag; but DeHaven probably did not know what was in the envelope. “I will tattoo this on your foreheads if I have to. Spread the word, I mean no gratuities. You can all get on board with that, or you can all put up with being watched at every moment. And you do not want that.”

  “No, ma’am, we don’t.”

  “All right, expect another meeting on this. In the meantime, get back to work. Somebody has to cover the squad room.”

  DeHaven left Vile’s office, and I sat back down behind Vile’s desk, turning over this latest event in my head. I did not like it. It was too pat. I had been an investigator for much of my career, and an admiral for longer. I had seen cover-ups, both official and amateur. And this one was on the amateur end. Paper envelopes in plain sight? Someone wanted me to find this, someone who could keep tabs on my schedule. I could not believe Vile was taking a bribe. I would have to make her suffer for a while as if believing she was guilty. I would make it up to her somehow. The real problem had to be someone close. Until I knew who had the evidence to back it up, I would have to pretend that I was fooled.

  But I had started to like Vile, and that could blind me. I needed to muster my objectivity. Not guessing, investigating. Maybe Vile was corrupt and stupid.

  I went back over my numbers, but I was distracted by what DeHaven had said. “An ingrained culture.” That was what my guess had been too. I went through all the insurance reports. Every one of them had followed the same basic procedure: a claim of a loss, sometimes with a claim of a crime as well, investigated by the Department of Public Safety—or more recently by the police department—signed off by DPS as to the amount of the loss and the items recorded as lost.

  I was still looking at those numbers when I got a call from Nick. “Ms. Morais,” he said, “I have some information for you.”

  Sigh. He had been investigating without telling me, but now was not the time to chew him out about that. “Go ahead, Nick.”

  “I’ve been looking into some of the losses claimed. Precision machine parts, valves, raw materials, some pretty expensive stuff with high value went in for claims. SPM paid them off, because all of the paperwork was proper. But I’ve been looking at the business records of the people who filed the claims. They still met all their contracts.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t have full access. I don’t have police powers to investigate this; but if I did, I would subpoena records that I’m pretty sure would show that these claims for lost parts”—he pushed a file over to me—“were followed not long after by jobs completed by the claimants. Jobs that required those missing parts. I can’t subpoena those closed records, but you can. Nail them, Rosie!”

  I went through Nick’s reports, and I ran a quick correlations algorithm to tie them to what I was looking at. I found that in all of the cases, the Public Safety officers who had signed off on the insurance loss claims were Monè and Vile, including the cases since the force had started up. Damn.

  I packed up to head to Monè’s office. I was just passing through the residential district when I got a call from Flagg.

  “Yes, Lieutenant?” I asked.

  “Ma’am, I’ve got a problem,” he said.

  “Make it fast,” I said. “I am on the way to the metro district office.”

  “I’m there right now, ma’am. I had some errands to run over here, and I stopped into the squad room to check in and . . . well . . .”

  “Spit it out!”

  “Ma’am, this is going to make me the least favorite person in the squad for turning on one of our own, but I found an envelope on Monè’s desk.”

  “An envelope?”

  “Uh-huh. I think you’ll want to look at it.”

  “I think I will at that. Is Monè there?”

  “No.”

  “All right, get your evidence. Do not let him touch it. Get it down to the Admin Center, and don’t tell anyone.”

  Then I hung up with Flagg and called Nick back. “Nick, we need to meet and compare notes. We have an explosive situation on our hands.”

  Nick and I arrived at the Admin Center. The evidence in my comp, based on his notes and mine, could put this case to bed. I had called ahead and reserved a large meeting room, and I had also put some patrol officers on as guards. They brought in all the parties concerned: Vile, Monè, Flagg, Ammon, Schippers, Byrne, Wagner, Hulett, Brooks, and DeHaven. I also called up to Anthony’s office to ask if we could borrow Alonzo as a court reporter; and Anthony trailed along out of curiosity. When everyone was settled, I had Brooks and DeHaven tell the story of the envelope on Vile’s desk.

  Vile tried to object. “That’s not the way it happened at all!”

  From behind the large table Anthony said, “You’ll have your chance to explain your side of things, Lieutenant. In the meantime, let the police chief continue her interrogat
ions.”

  Then I turned to Flagg, swore him to honest testimony, and asked him, “Explain to me about this envelope that you found on Monè’s desk.”

  Monè stood. “Envelope on my desk?”

  “Lieutenant Monè,” Anthony said, and Monè sat.

  Flagg said, “Ms. Morais, Mr. Mayor, I was visiting the metro squad room for some errands.”

  I held up a hand. “What would those errands be?”

  “Just some questions about some reports that had come in that I wanted to confirm.”

  It was vague, but I let it go. “Go on.”

  “I went into Lieutenant Monè’s office, and I found this.” He took an envelope out of his jacket pocket.

  I offered him an evidence bag. “In here, please.”

  “What?”

  “In here, please. Now, Lieutenant!”

  He dropped the envelope into the bag. I sealed it up and handed it to DeHaven. “Take this to the lab. They are waiting for it. All right, go on, Lieutenant,” I said.

  Flagg continued, “Well, it looked suspicious. A delivery with Monè’s name.”

  “What was suspicious about that?” I did not say that I had similar suspicions myself.

  “There . . . have been rumors that Monè was on the take.”

  Monè shouted, “Ma’am, that’s a lie! I’m not—”

  I raised my hand. “Silence! Lieutenant Flagg, you had not reported those rumors to me?”

  “No, ma’am. If I was wrong, I would’ve ruined the reputation of a good man.”

  “That is a pretty serious charge you are making,” I said. “What proof do you have?”

  “Informants, ma’am. People I can’t bring in or they’ll clam up. So like I said, I have nothing I can prove.”

  I checked my comp. The lab was nearly done with the evidence. “And do you have any other reports of wrongdoing by Lieutenant Monè?”

  “Ms. Morais—” Monè objected again; but Nick waved a hand to stop him.

  Flagg looked at Nick, and his face got a little green. “Well, ma’am, I was following up on that investigation you assigned us. There were some irregularities in some reports, some insurance claims.”

  I looked over at Nick, knowing. “Oh, really?”

  “Most of the suspicious reports were filed by Monè when he was in DPS.”

  “Ma’am!”

  “Hush, Lieutenant Monè.” I turned back to Flagg. “Most?”

  Flagg swallowed and looked away. “The rest . . . The ones I looked at . . . The rest were by Vile.”

  “You can’t believe that, ma’am!” Vile said.

  I smiled at her. “Sit down, Lieutenant,” I said. “I do not believe it. But if I had acted like I did not, the real guilty party would have known I was suspicious, and would have fled. They would not have been here in this room where I need them.”

  At that, most of my squad sat straighter. No one spoke, but there was a tension in the air. Everyone stared at me, except for Flagg. He remained casual, unconcerned. Was he the one?

  I checked my comm, and I saw a message from DeHaven. “Alonzo,” I said, “could you let Officer DeHaven in?”

  Alonzo was as quiet and efficient as always, reaching the door before I had finished my request. He opened the door to the outer chamber, and Officer DeHaven came in. I held out my hand, and he handed over the envelopes, now in larger clear sleeves with the report attached.

  But the reports were just there for the chain of evidence. I did not need to read the paper, I had the reports on my comm already. I looked them over, paused, and then continued my exposition: “These are the results from the lab. The blockchips in both envelopes were untraceable, naturally, and they add up to a nice haul: confirmed 3,500 Lunars, in an unlocked condition. Legal tender here, on Luna, or anywhere in space; and convertible for a small fee in most jurisdictions on Earth.”

  I tapped the reports. “It is a nice little haul, but still not enough to risk your career over. Not unless you are getting this on a regular basis. I hope that if one of you is for sale, you do not sell yourself so cheaply.

  “Now as for the envelope . . . The lab found that clean of any fingerprints except mine”—I looked at Vile—“and yours.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Relax, Vile. As frames go, this was pretty ugly.” I turned around and looked at the squad, pausing at Flagg. Still he did not look up. “Pretty stupid, in fact. Mine are on it because I picked it up to look at it, of course. DeHaven’s are not. I made him use an evidence bag. And the courier, whoever that was, must have used gloves. But this thing is spotless, no prints whatsoever, except Vile’s. And she had not been there to pick it up!”

  At that, Flagg glanced at me; when he saw me looking back, he turned back to studying the floor. Vile, meanwhile, half rose and said, “You’re right!”

  I smiled. “You will find I usually am, given time. And the other envelope has only Flagg’s prints, since he . . . found it.

  “But there is more. Stratigraphic analysis shows my prints, a layer of skin oils, over top of yours. That would indicate that you touched the envelope before I did—and then were stupid enough to leave it out where somebody could find it.” Vile started to speak, but I continued, “You’re not that stupid. I have read your file. Besides, a chemical analysis of ‘your’ prints shows skin oil mixed with elements of an adhesive.”

  Vile’s eyes narrowed. “Adhesive?”

  “Yes.” I paced before the squad. “I am disappointed in whichever of you did this. Not just that you are corrupt, but that you’re stupid! This trick was old in the twentieth century. It is my fault, I guess, I should institute a proper police academy and teach you all better investigative techniques.” I turned back to Vile. “Someone with access to something you touched lifted your prints with an adhesive and laid them down on the envelope. I suspect we will find Monè’s sticky prints on the other envelope. It was a pretty clumsy effort.”

  “But who?” Vile asked, staring suspiciously at her squad mates.

  “That is what we are here to answer,” I said. I tapped my comm, pushing reports to the big screen on the wall behind Anthony. “Let us review. There have been a number of suspicious accidents in the city, what we believe to be fraudulent insurance claims. Most of those predated our department, but were investigated by Public Safety; and you all were part of Public Safety then, right?” They nodded. “So looking at these reports, we see”—I zoomed in on a relevant line—“that all of them were investigated and signed off on by the same people: Erica Vile and Arun Monè.”

  “What? I never—”

  “Relax, Monè. That is what is in the official records here in the Maxwell City offices. But apparently our security needs some work. Someone has gotten access. But who?” I smiled at Flagg. We would see how well his cool held up. “Someone who could not access the records filed with São Paulo Mutual, and could not imagine we would ever check there.” I turned to Nick. “But we did. Mr. Aames, what did we find?”

  Nick rose from his chair and took a step behind Flagg. “Ma’am,” he said, “I just got the results back from São Paulo, and they’re the same in every case: every one of those reports was signed off on originally by Jordan Flagg.”

  I watched Flagg, wondering if he would bolt, deny, or try to bluff. Nick was ready if the man became violent.

  But he surprised me. Without looking up at me, he said in a calm, measured voice, “My name is Jordan Flagg, and I am a citizen of Bettendorf, Iowa. I demand to have my case heard by a representative of my government.”

  14. PORT SHANNON

  “He cannot do that!” I said.

  “Of course he can, Ms. Morais,” Nick said. “It’s in the Compact.”

  “Space the Compact!” I said.

  Anthony glanced around his office, as if worried who might have heard me. But the room was practically empty. I had asked Vile and Monè to join us in the mayor’s office, but the rest of my squad had escorted Flagg down to the holding area. It was just Anthony, N
ick, Vile, Monè, Alonzo, and me.

  But Anthony still seemed nervous. “You have to watch that kind of talk, Rosie,” he said. “You’re going to give the Realists ammunition.”

  “Space the Realists,” I replied. “That man is an accessory to murder.”

  “Probably,” Anthony answered. “But the Mars Compact is the overriding authority here. The international signatories that chartered our settlement all agreed that any member of any mission or settlement could choose the jurisdiction of their home nation over that of local authorities.”

  “But that is ridiculous,” I answered. “That has not been invoked in . . . in years. In a decade or more.”

  Alonzo cleared his throat. “I’m afraid you’re wrong there, ma’am. It gets invoked all the time on minor matters. I’m afraid it’s something of a standard way to settle labor disputes. A worker threatens to invoke the Compact, and that makes the boss decide just how big of an issue some disciplinary matter really is. Most of the time, they drop it. Sometimes, though, they press it; and then the worker invokes the Compact.”

  “And then what? We wait nine months for someone from Earth to get up here to handle things?”

  Anthony sat, scowling. “No,” he said with a sigh. “What happens is the government in question first decides whether they accept the jurisdiction. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they decide that the citizenship claim is invalid. And then usually they delegate their authority in the case to the Initiative representatives here on Mars.”

  “Oh, great,” I replied. “That means Chief Hogan and Admiral Etough.”

  Anthony nodded. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. Etough delegates to Hogan unless it’s a high-profile case, and Hogan can be reasonable. Sometimes the employer’s in the wrong. Those he settles pretty consistently for the employee. Sometimes the employee’s in the wrong, and they’re surprised to learn that Hogan finds for the employer, and they have to face sanctions dictated up from Earth. But sometimes I think Hogan just likes to stick it to us.”

  “One more argument for the Libertists,” Alonzo interjected.

  I looked around the room. “So our hands are tied?”