by John Scalzi
“Neuroulease,” I said, helpfully.
“That’s it,” Vann said. “Don’t want a bunch of Hadens unlocked. That’d cut into the profit margins of a whole bunch of Accelerant’s companies. And you need them cranking out revenue for the next several years at least.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about Neuroulease,” Schwartz said, rising. “Now, as I said, I have a soccer game—”
“Do you know much about Salvatore Odell, Michael Crow, Gregory Bufford, James Martinez, Steve Gaitten, or Cesar Burke?” Vann asked.
“I don’t know these men,” Schwartz said.
“They’re the janitors killed when Loudoun Pharma went up,” Vann said. “They only just managed to get them dug out the other day. They’re doing the memorial ceremony for them today.”
“Right now, just about,” I said.
“That so,” Vann said, to me, and then turned back to Schwartz. “Our med people tell me that a couple of them died when the building blew up, but the rest survived the explosion. They died from being buried under four stories of concrete. Pressed them flat. Crushed.”
“Memorial is closed casket,” I said.
“It would be,” Vann said.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Schwartz said.
“Are you,” Vann said.
“I think that’s all the time I have,” Schwartz said.
“How close are you to Lucas Hubbard?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” Schwartz said.
“I mean, I’m remembering at dinner the other night when Lucas asked you a question and you blanked out on the answer,” I said. “Hubbard reached over to reassure you after you blanked and patted your hand. I’m not a slavish follower of gender roles, but that seemed pretty ‘not guy’ to me. You don’t strike me as the sort to need reassurance, and Hubbard doesn’t strike me as the sort to offer it to you. You’re his corporation’s chief lawyer, not his girlfriend.”
“I think you’re reading too much into it,” Schwartz said.
“And there was the moment I was talking to you about your threep, and you looked at me like you had no idea what I was saying,” I said. “Hubbard answered for you then, too. I remember you reading us the riot act when we had Bell in the interrogation room. I don’t think it’s like you to let someone else speak for you.”
“Maybe it wasn’t him not speaking,” Vann said.
“Maybe not,” I said, looking at Schwartz.
“You and I did speak,” Schwartz said. “I remember very clearly in your father’s trophy room we spoke about the fact I was using a woman Integrator.”
“Brenda Rees,” I said.
“She’s dead now,” Vann said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Opened fire at a café and then blew herself up with a grenade.”
“I was there for it,” I said.
“So was I,” Vann said, and motioned to her arm, in its sling. “She shot me.”
“Me too,” I said.
“It’s strange,” Vann said.
“Being shot?” I asked.
“Yes,” Vann said, and pointed at Schwartz. “But I was more thinking about Mr. Schwartz here having two Integrators blow themselves up in the same week.”
“That is strange,” I said.
“I mean, what are the odds?” Vann asked me.
“Pretty slim, I’d say.”
“I’d say pretty slim too,” Vann said. “Maybe not as slim as these Integrators being eaten by bears or falling into a wheat thresher. But still, overall, pretty remarkable coincidence.”
“Agent Vann,” Schwartz said. “Agent Shane. We are d—”
“She says you weren’t there,” I said.
“What?” Schwartz said, distracted.
“Brenda Rees,” I said. “She told me that you weren’t there at dinner. She says you were gone.”
“Right at the time Jay Kearney was doing his thing,” Vann said.
“Jay Kearney was integrated with Dr. Baer,” Schwartz said. “Baer said so on that recording of his.”
“Well, no,” I said. “Kearney’s mouth said it, and we assume that Baer was speaking it because Baer was in the background. But we have an alternate theory.”
“It goes like this,” Vann said. “You integrate with Kearney and go to Baer’s apartment. He’s expecting Kearney. You drug Baer so he passes out, make the video, shove a knife into his temple, position the threep to make it look like suicide, and then take a quick trip to Loudoun Pharma with Kearney.”
“And are back with us in time for dessert,” I said. “If we had dessert. I wasn’t there for that part.”
“No, because Loudoun Pharma blew up,” Vann said.
“You just accused me of murdering Baer,” Schwartz said.
“Yes,” I said.
“And the six janitors,” Vann said.
“And Jay Kearney,” I said.
“Eight total,” Vann said.
“I’m done speaking to you two,” Schwartz said. “I’m not going to say any more to you without a lawyer. If you plan to arrest me, do it now. Otherwise, get out of my house.”
“Mr. Schwartz, one more word,” Vann said.
Schwartz looked at her, impassive as only a threep can be.
“‘Interpolator,’” Vann said.
“What did you say?” Schwartz said.
“Oh, I think you heard me just fine,” Vann said.
“I don’t know what the word means,” Schwartz said.
“We’re past that point, don’t you think, Mr. Schwartz?” Vann said. “You know perfectly well what that word means. And you know what it means that we know it. It means that you are fucked, sir. Magnificently so.”
Schwartz was silent again.
“Options,” Vann said, and ticked up a finger. “Door number one. You maintain your right to remain silent and your right to an attorney. Good for you. I applaud your stand. We arrest you for those eight murders we’ve mentioned plus the murders of Bruce Skow and Brenda Rees. We’ll also be charging you with the kidnapping of Kearney and Skow and Rees. Not to mention the attempted murders of me and Agent Shane, here. Plus a whole other grab bag of miscellaneous charges which I won’t go into but I imagine that you are already running down a list of in your brain, because you are a lawyer. We go to trial, you lose, your body goes into a federal Haden detention center, and you get to speak to other human beings one hour a week, forever.”
“We’re fine with that option, by the way,” I said.
“Yes we are,” Vann said. She ticked up another finger. “Door number two. You talk.”
She put her hand down. “Make your choice. You have five seconds, after which we assume you’re going with door number one.”
“Which we’re fine with,” I said again.
“Yes we are,” Vann said.
Schwartz sat down and waited until the count of four, maybe four and a half. “I want a deal,” he said.
“Of course you do,” Vann said.
“Full immunity,” he began.
“No,” I interrupted. “You don’t get that.”
“You’re going to prison, Schwartz,” Vann said. “You better get used to that. What we’re discussing now is where, how long, and how bad it will be.”
“Full immunity or nothing,” Schwartz said.
“‘Nothing’ works for us,” I said.
“Mr. Schwartz, I don’t think you fully appreciate what I meant when I said you are magnificently fucked,” Vann said. “It means that we have more than enough to bury you. Forever. And we will. Forever. But the fact of the matter is, you’re not the person we really want. You’re not the main attraction. I’m pretty sure you know who we’re talking about, here.”
“But if we can’t get him, we’ll be happy to take you,” I said.
“It’s true,” Vann said. “And let’s be honest, Schwartz. He’ll be happy to let us take you, too. You of all people should know how many lawyers he has and how good they are. The very second he learns we bagg
ed you is the second all of it—all of it—gets shoved onto you. I can see the press release now.”
“He’ll be shocked and disturbed at the allegations and will pledge to cooperate fully with the authorities, which means us,” I said.
“And you know what,” Vann said. “At that point we might just decide to cut our losses and go with what we have. We’ll still look good, and honestly it’ll be a nice object lesson for you on the subject of blind loyalty to a man who’ll be happy to throw you to the dogs.”
Schwartz was silent again. Then, “What are you looking for from me?”
“All of it, of course,” Vann said. “Dates. Plans. How you used Accelerant’s various companies to further your goals. Who else is involved. What the end game was. What both you and Hubbard were planning to get out of it all.”
“Why you chose Sani and Skow,” I said.
“That’s right,” Vann said. “You have the upper echelons of the Navajo Nation ready to run you down with a car. You picked the wrong guy to mess with when you picked Sani. It’s probably just as well we’ll be putting you away for a while.”
“How long?” Schwartz asked. He was entirely defeated now. “How much time are we talking about here?”
“Are you asking for a specific number of years?” I asked.
Schwartz turned to me. “I have children, Agent Shane,” he said.
“You’re missing that soccer game, Mr. Schwartz,” Vann said, surprisingly gently. “You’ll be missing high school graduation too. Depending on what we get from you now, we can work on having you out to walk one of them down the aisle.”
Chapter Twenty-four
NICHOLAS BELL ENTERED Cassandra Bell’s second-floor apartment and entered the living room, which was in fact where Cassandra Bell lived, the bedroom of the apartment being used as storage and as a lounge for her caregivers. Cassandra’s morning caregivers had left for the day. Her afternoon caregivers would not come to the apartment for another hour. Nicholas walked over to the living room’s major feature: a cradle, in which lay a young woman. She looked, as all Hadens did, as if she were sleeping.
“It’s good of you to come see me, brother,” Cassandra said. “I haven’t seen you at all this last week.” Her voice was carried by a speaker next to her cradle, into which was also embedded a small camera, which she could use to see within the apartment. Cassandra preferred a simple real-world presentation. Which may have been why Nicholas paused when he saw the unfamiliar shape in the room. A threep.
“A gift from an admirer,” Cassandra said, following Nicholas’s gaze. “Not someone who admires me enough to know that I don’t use nor have I ever used a Personal Transport. But one of my caregivers knows someone who needs one. It’s waiting for her to come take it.”
Nicholas nodded and smiled and took his small backpack from his shoulder. He unzipped it and reached inside.
“Why, brother,” Cassandra Bell said. “Did you bring me a gift?”
“Yes,” Nicholas said. He took the large kitchen knife he had drawn from the backpack and thrust it into the young woman in the cradle, driving it deep into her abdomen.
Two more hard, deep thrusts into the belly, pushing upward. A rough jab downward, piercing the left upper thigh—a thrust in search of the femoral artery.
The flesh sliced open, pale.
Three thrusts making a sloppy triangle of cuts just below the sternum. One vicious slash on the left side of the neck and a matching slash on the right, opening up the arteries taking blood to the brain, and the veins drawing it away.
Nicholas Bell dropped the knife to the floor, and stepped back, breathing heavily. He stared at the ruined body, as if something about it puzzled him.
Such as: The body he had stabbed eight times now had not one drop of blood coming out of it.
“Brother,” Cassandra Bell whispered. “It didn’t work.”
I launched myself from the chair I was sitting in and tackled Nicholas Bell, who went down rolling and squirming.
He managed to get out of my grip and scrambled to his backpack. I rolled up and saw him, gun in hand, aiming at me.
“Oh come on,” I said. “I just got this threep.”
The crash behind us—the sound of FBI agents breaking down the door to get at Nicholas—distracted Nicholas just enough for me to run at him, but not enough for him to break his aim. He fired, and the bullet took me in the shoulder, spinning me.
Nicholas turned and fired three shots into the sliding glass door separating the living room and the balcony, and then ran into the shattered glass, hands up to protect his face. The glass tore away in a sheet and then Nicholas was through and stumbling over the balcony.
“Fuck,” I said, and followed him.
That’s when I learned the shot Bell took at me had affected the movement of my right arm. I tumbled over the balcony railing and fell hard onto the concrete walkway underneath. If I had been in a human body, I’m pretty sure I would have been dead or paralyzed.
But I wasn’t.
I stood up, scanned around, and saw Bell thirty yards ahead, limping but moving surprisingly fast. His gun was still in his right hand.
“What the hell just happened?” Vann said, in my head.
“He jumped out of the balcony,” I said. “He’s running on Ninth Street. Headed toward Welburn Square. I’m going after him.”
“Don’t lose him again,” Vann said.
“Again?!?” I said, and then went running.
Bell’s limp had gotten worse when I caught up to him just short of Welburn Square. I jumped him and we both went down on the redbrick sidewalk. I grabbed at him with my one good arm. He kicked it off and pistol-whipped me with the butt of his gun.
This did not work as well as he wanted it to. I had turned down my pain sensitivity. He turned the gun on me and I rolled away. Bell took off again, limping, cutting across the central circle of the grass in the square, scattering passersby when they saw his gun.
I went after him again, tripping him short of Taylor Street. He turned as he stumbled, and fired at me, hitting me in the hip. My left leg collapsed under me. I looked up to see Bell give a small grin of triumph and then run out into Taylor Street—
—on which he was immediately struck by a car. Bell splayed dramatically across the hood of the automobile and then collapsed on the road, clutching his leg.
Vann got out of the driver’s side, walked over to Bell, ascertained that he was not in immediate danger of death, and handcuffed him.
Two minutes later all the other FBI agents had caught up to us. Vann walked over to me, still down on the sidewalk. She sat down next to me and pulled her e-cigarette from her jacket pocket.
“That’s the third threep you’ve ruined in two days,” she said.
“Fourth,” I said.
“I don’t want to tell you how to do your job,” she said. “But I will say that if I were your insurer, I’d drop your ass.”
“You hit our suspect with a car,” I said.
“Oops,” Vann said. She sucked on her cigarette.
“You could have killed him.”
“I was going five miles an hour,” Vann said. “And anyway it was an accident.”
“You’re not supposed to be able to get into accidents like that anymore,” I said.
“It’s amazing what you can do when you disable autodrive,” Vann said.
“We promised Cassandra Bell we wouldn’t hurt her brother,” I said.
“I know,” Vann said. “It was a risk. On the other hand, that asshole just shot my partner. Twice.”
“It wasn’t Bell who shot me.”
“That’s not the asshole I was talking about.” She put her cigarette away.
* * *
“I’m curious about a number of things,” Vann said, to Bell. They were sitting across the table from each other in one of the Bureau’s interrogation rooms. Vann had a manila folder in front of her. “But I’ll tell you what I’m curious about right this second. It’s that you’re he
re in an FBI interrogation room, under arrest, and you have neither affirmatively invoked your right to remain silent or asked for your lawyer. You should. You should do both.”
“Yes,” I said. I was standing behind Vann. I was in one of the threeps the FBI used for visiting agents. The agent who had been using it half an hour before was currently stewing in Chicago because I had interrupted her work. She could stew for a while longer. “Although if I were you I wouldn’t try to call Sam Schwartz.”
“Why not?” Bell asked, looking up at me.
“We arrested him this morning on charges of murder and conspiracy, relating to the Loudoun Pharma bombing,” I said. “Won’t his boss be surprised.”
“Hubbard’s in the clear,” Vann said. “Everything points to Schwartz alone. Not the best sort of extracurriculars to have, though.” She turned back to Bell. “Now. Would you like to remain silent?” she asked. “When you answer, keep in mind that the minute you were out of your apartment and on the way here, we executed a warrant to search your residence and belongings. Which is to say we’ve already found the video you made confessing to the murder, and also, your suicide.”
“Which explains the gun,” I said. “Stabbing’s fine for your sister, but you wanted your own end to be quick and mostly painless. But I suppose me rushing you scrambled your plans a bit.”
“So,” Vann said, again. “Do you want to remain silent? Do you want a lawyer?”
“You have the video,” Bell said, to Vann. He motioned up to me. “Your partner saw the attack. What would be the point?”
“To be clear, you’re waiving your right to silence and to an attorney,” Vann said. “I really need you to say ‘yes’ if that’s in fact what you want.”
“Yes,” Bell said. “It’s what I want. I intended to kill my sister, Cassandra Bell. That was my goal.”
“Well, that makes our lives a lot easier,” Vann said. “Thank you.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” Bell said. “I wanted people to know my sister is dangerous.”
“Is this covered in your suicide note?” Vann asked. “Because if it is, if it’s all the same we can just skip ahead to us taking you in and putting you in federal detention while you await sentencing.”
“Well, there is that one thing,” I said.