by John Scalzi
“I wish they would,” Begay said. “We’ve got the office space and we could use the business. But no.”
“Do any of the private companies send reps or IT guys here?”
“The companies we got, if they had an IT department, they probably wouldn’t need us so much,” Begay said. “But they don’t need to come here anyway. They can access their servers and data remotely with standard software. What we do is host and act as backup if for some reason what IT people they have do something stupid. Which does happen.”
“Can someone hack into this place?” I asked.
“I should tell you no, but you’re a Haden, so I’m guessing you’re not stupid about these things,” Begay said. “So I’ll tell you that if anything is connected to the outside world, it’s hackable. That said, all the Nation data is on servers that are accessible only from Nation computers that are either GPS-tagged or require two-factor authentication or both.”
“And that includes this Medichord company,” I said.
“It does,” said Begay. “Why are you asking about Johnny Sani?”
“He died,” I said.
“That’s too bad,” Begay said. “He was a nice guy.”
“I thought you said he was slow.”
“He was slow,” Begay said. “Doesn’t mean he wasn’t nice.”
* * *
“This keeps getting more fucked up as we go along, doesn’t it?” Vann asked me. It was seven thirty in D.C. and from the ambient sound around her I could tell she was in a bar again, possibly picking up from last night on her quest to get laid. I was in the Window Rock Police Department, at a spare desk, using my inside voice.
“We have two choices at this point,” I said. “We have to believe that either a guy who couldn’t get a job pushing a mop is also a savant Integrator who somehow lured Nicholas Bell into that hotel room on the pretense that he was a tourist looking for a thrill, or we have to believe that someone tricked this poor son of a bitch away from his home, implanted a neural network in his head, and then convinced him to play along with their plan, whatever that was, which somehow involved Bell.”
“And then commit suicide,” Vann said. “Don’t forget that.”
“How can I forget?” I said. “I talked to this guy’s family today.”
“On a brighter note, I got a judge to okay our record pull for Bell and Kearney,” Vann said.
“And?”
“Bell’s don’t tell us anything we didn’t already know,” Vann said. “Bell just signed a long-term contract with Lucas Hubbard, as in, just today. He is also first call with a bunch of well-off Hadens when he’s not tied up with Hubbard. And then he does piecework for the NIH, just like every other Integrator. Well, until next Monday, when Abrams-Kettering kills that little program.”
“What about Kearney?” I asked.
“He’s got a long-term contract, too,” Vann said. “And as it happens, his is with one Samuel Schwartz, lead counsel for Accelerant.”
“That explains last night,” I said.
“You lost me,” Vann said.
“Hubbard and Schwartz were at my dad’s little soirée last night,” I said. “Hubbard was riding Bell, but Schwartz was riding a woman Integrator. Said that his usual Integrator had a previous engagement.”
“Yeah, blowing up Loudoun Pharma,” Vann said. “Who was the woman Integrator?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You know it’s not polite to ask.”
“Go through the D.C. Integrator listings,” Vann said. “You’ll find her.”
“So, Bell with Hubbard and Kearney with Schwartz,” I said.
“What about it?”
“Doesn’t that seem a little coincidental?” I asked.
“That two Integrators involved in weird shit on the same day work for the two most powerful people at the same corporation?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Honestly?” Vann said. “Yeah. But here’s the thing about that. There’s ten thousand working Integrators in the whole world. Maybe two thousand of them are in the U.S. So there aren’t that many of them to go around. D.C.’s got maybe twenty in the area. Meanwhile there are probably a hundred thousand Hadens in the area, because Hadens flock to urbanized areas that can support them. One Integrator for five thousand Hadens. You’re going to see a lot of overlap.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Definitely,” Vann said. “If you want to start making connections, we’re going to need more to go on.”
“All right, one more data point to throw at you,” I said. “Medichord.”
“What about it?”
“Medical care and services company,” I said. “Has the contracts here in the Navajo Nation.”
“Okay,” Vann said. “So?”
“Medichord is part of Four Corners Blue Cross,” I said. “Guess who Four Corners Blue Cross is owned by.”
“If you say Accelerant, you’re going to make me unhappy,” Vann said.
“Have another drink,” I suggested.
“I’m pacing myself,” Vann said. “I want to be able to feel later tonight.”
“A lot comes back to Hubbard and Schwartz and Accelerant,” I said. “We have too much piling up for it to be coincidence. I mean, hell, Schwartz is even Bell’s lawyer.”
“All right,” Vann said. “But let me say it again: If you’re going to suggest Schwartz was somehow complicit with the Loudoun Pharma bombing you’re going to need more than an Integrator contract. And you’re forgetting that when the bombing was going down, Schwartz was at a party with one of the most famous men on the face of the Earth and an FBI agent who, if hauled up in front of a court, would have to admit to seeing him there. You are his alibi, Shane.”
“There is that,” I said.
“Plus Baer was actually Kearney’s client,” Vann said. “He contracted with him three times in the last two years. It’s evidence of a prior relationship.”
“Not all of my ideas are going to be gold,” I said.
“Stop thinking for the evening,” Vann said. “You’ve done enough for the day. When are you coming back?”
“I’m about to finish up here,” I said. “The Window Rock police are letting me park my loaner threep here for a couple of days in case I need to come back. Once that’s squared away I thought I might try visiting that place I’m renting a room in.”
“Crazy idea,” Vann said. “Get to it. Good night, Shane.”
“Wait,” I said.
“Talking to you is cramping my evening’s planned festivities,” Vann said.
“Johnny Sani,” I said.
“What about him?”
“The family wants the body back.”
“When we’re done with him they’re welcome to him. The FBI will work with them so they can have someone pick up the body.”
“I don’t think his grandmother and sister have that sort of money,” I said.
“I don’t know what to tell you about that, Shane,” Vann said.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll let them know.” I hung up and switched back over to my outside voice. “I’m about done here,” I said, to Redhouse.
“No one’s using that desk,” he said, pointing to where I was sitting. “If you want to just plug in there, there’s a socket on the floor. Captain told me to ask you to let us know before you’re going to drop by, but otherwise you’re fine for a few days.”
“I appreciate it,” I said.
“Did you talk to them about Sani’s body?” Redhouse asked.
“I did,” I said. “When we’re done with it I’ll give you a contact in D.C. to have the body shipped.”
“That’s not going to be cheap.”
“When they find out how much it is, let me know,” I said. “I’ll have it dealt with.”
“Who do I tell them is dealing with it?” Redhouse asked.
“Tell them it’s an anonymous friend,” I said.
Chapter Eleven
I WAS ON THE corner of Pennsylvania and
Sixth Avenue, walking away from the Eastern Market Metro, when I heard them in Seward Square: a bunch of young, probably drunk, and almost certainly stupid dudes braying at each other about something.
That in itself didn’t interest me. Stupid, drunk young men are a fixture of any urban setting, especially in the evening hours. What got my attention was the next voice I heard, which was a woman’s, and which didn’t sound particularly happy. The calculus for that many drunk young men and a single woman didn’t strike me as especially good. So I continued on Pennsylvania into Seward Square.
I caught up with the group where the little walkway cut across the grass from Pennsylvania and Fifth. There were four dudes who had taken it on themselves to surround someone, who I assumed was the woman in question. As I got closer, I saw that the woman was also a Haden.
That changed the dynamic of what was going on a bit. It also meant these guys were drunker or more stupid than I had previously guessed. Or some combination of the two.
The woman in the center of the dude pocket was trying to shoulder her way through the group. When she did, the four would move and re-form their pocket around her. It wasn’t entirely clear what they were planning to do but it was also clear that they weren’t interested in letting her get away.
The woman moved again and the four men moved again, and that was the first time I saw the aluminum bat one of them was carrying.
Well, that was no good.
So I walked up, making as much noise as threepily possible as I did so.
One of the men caught the movement and got the attention of the others. In a minute, all four of them were looking at me, the woman still in the center of their pocket. The one with the bat was bobbing it lightly in his hand.
“Hi there,” I said. “Softball practice get out late?”
“What you want to do is just keep walking,” one of them said to me. It was clear to me that this was meant to be threatening, but he was pretty drunk, so it just came out as the drunk version of threatening, which isn’t very threatening at all.
“What I want to do is check on your friend here,” I said, and pointed to the Haden in the middle of the group. “Are you okay?” I asked her.
“Not really,” she said.
“All right,” I said, and then looked at each of the men in turn, using the second I held each one’s gaze to scan their faces and send the scans to the FBI database for identification. “Here’s my idea, then. Why don’t you let her walk away, and then you all and I can talk about whatever it is you wanted to have a conversation with her about. It’ll be fun. I’ll even buy a round for you all.” Because what you need is another drink, I thought, but did not say. I was trying to make this all nice and pretend friendly. I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to work, but it was worth it to make the attempt.
It didn’t work. “How about you fuck off, you fucking clank,” said another one of them. He was just as drunk as the first, so this was as ineffectively blustery as the first threat.
So I decided on a course of lateral motivation. “Terry Olson,” I said.
“What?” said the dude.
“Your name is Terry Olson,” I said, and then pointed to the next one. “Bernie Clay. Wayne Glover. And Daniel Lynch.” I pointed to the one holding the bat. “Although I’d bet twenty bucks that you go by Danny. And your last name is full of irony at the moment.”
“How do you know who we—” Olson began.
“Shut the fuck up, Terry,” said Lynch, thereby inadvertently confirming the identity of at least one of the four. These guys were geniuses, all right.
“He’s right, Terry,” I said. “You do have the right to remain silent. And you probably should. But to answer your question, I know who you are because I just did a facial scan of the four of you, and your information popped right up from the database I’m plugged into. It’s the FBI database. I’m plugged into that database because I’m an FBI agent. My name is Agent Chris Shane.”
“Bullshit,” Lynch said.
I ignored him. “I tried to be nice to you, but that’s not how you wanted to do this,” I said. “So why don’t we try it this way. While we’ve been standing here having our little conversation, I’ve already put in an alert to the Metro police. Their station house is just two blocks away, which is something I have to believe you didn’t know, because otherwise you wouldn’t have been stupid enough to try to bash someone here.
“So. You are going to let her”—I pointed to the woman—“come over and stand by me, and then you four are going to go home. Because if you’re still here when the cops show up, at least one of you is in trouble for underage drinking, Bernie, and at least one of you already has an assault charge on his sheet, Danny. The cops take a dim view of each.”
Three of the four looked at me uncertainly. The fourth, Lynch, I could tell was calculating his odds.
“I figure at least one of you is thinking he’s not going to get into that much trouble for taking a shot at a threep,” I said. “So this is where I remind you that D.C. law treats crimes against threeps the same as it does against human bodies. So all of you are going to be on the hook for assault. And, since it’s pretty clear to me you’re targeting this person because she’s a Haden, you’ve got a hate crime charge to go with it.
“So you just want to think about that,” I said. “While you’re thinking about that, I should mention that I’ve been recording this entire event from the minute I walked up, and that footage is already in the FBI’s servers. So far, all I have is four guys being drunk and stupid. Don’t let’s change that.”
Terry Olson and Bernie Clay stepped aside. The woman began walking toward me. As she cleared the men, Lynch let out a grunt and pulled back the bat to take a swing at her head.
Which is when I zapped him, because I had my service stunner behind my back the entire time and had him already zeroed in as the target. All I really had to do was fire when my interior reticle went red. I had him pegged as one of the “not quite clear on long-term consequences” types as soon as I had walked up, on account of there was only one idiot in attendance with a bat. He’d come out to dance. The others were just drunken wingmen.
Lynch stiffened and then fell to the ground, convulsing and vomiting. The other three men bolted. The woman knelt next to Lynch, checking him.
“What are you doing?” I asked, coming up to the two of them.
“I’m making sure he’s not aspirating his own vomit,” she said.
“What are you, a doctor?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah,” she said.
“Can you do that while I’m cuffing him?” I asked. She nodded. I cuffed him.
“Great,” I said, and stood back up. “Now I really do have to call the police.”
She looked up at me. “You hadn’t already?”
“I was pulling their data from the database and targeting this asshole,” I said. “I was a little bit busy. Why didn’t you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“They just seemed like harmless drunks,” she said. “They came up from behind me and I didn’t think about it until they started talking to me. And I didn’t realize they were a problem until this asshole started asking me how far I thought my head would fly if he took a bat to it.”
“Tell me you have that part recorded, at least.”
“I do,” she said. “And I told him that I did. He just laughed.”
“I don’t credit Mr. Lynch here with too many brains,” I said. “Either that or he figured that after he was done playing Babe Ruth with your head, there wouldn’t be a recording left. Now. Are you done examining him, Doctor?”
“I am,” she said. “He’ll live. And thank you, by the way.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. I held out a hand. “Chris Shane,” I said.
“I know who you are,” she said, taking it.
“I get that a lot,” I said.
The doctor shook her head. “It’s not that,” she said. “I’m Tayla Givens. I’m your new housemate.”
<
br /> * * *
Tayla and I had just finished up our statements to the arresting officers when I noticed someone walking up on us. It was Detective Trinh.
“Detective Trinh,” I said, to her. “This is unexpected.”
“Agent Shane,” she said. “You’ve had an exciting evening.”
“Just wrapping up,” I said.
“You planning to make a federal case out of this one, too?”
“Not really,” I said. “The Haden in this case lives in D.C. So this is going to be handled by Metro.”
“That’s probably wise,” Trinh said.
“Are you planning to be involved?” I asked. “We’re in the first police district right now. I was under the impression you worked out of the second.”
“I work out of the second,” Trinh said. “I live here. I was having a drink at Henry’s when the report came in over the radio. Thought I’d come over and see how you were doing.”
“I’m fine now,” I said.
“And maybe to have a chat with you.”
“All right,” I said.
“Privately,” Trinh said, nodding to Tayla.
I looked over to Tayla. “You want me to get them to take you home?”
“We’re less than a hundred yards from where we live,” Tayla said. “I think I can make it on my own.”
“All right,” I said.
“See you there soon,” she said, and headed home.
“You live with her?” Trinh asked, as Tayla walked off.
“New housemate,” I said. “This is actually the first time I’ve met her.”
“Interesting way to meet your new housemate,” Trinh said. “She’s lucky you were around. We’ve been having a spike of Haden bashings today.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“The walkout and the stunt with the trucks on the loop, but I’m sure you knew that,” Trinh said. “When you spend days making it difficult for other people to do their thing, they get pissy about it. And because so many of you are flooding into town for the march, there are lots of targets of opportunity, as it were. It’s open season on threeps. We had five attacks in the second district today.”
“And how do you feel about it?” I asked.