Blood Ties

by Robert J. Crane

  I checked a status update text from the head of the FBI Task Force here in SiliValley, which was a name I had probably not been the first to apply to this place, then pocketed my phone. I followed Mendelsohn over to his desk in the far corner of the open room, next to high-strung Kelvin, who was looking at us sideways during our whole approach.

  Mendelsohn ignored him, not out of malice, I suspected, but because he looked deep in thought. “Have a seat,” he said, waving vaguely to the chair in front of his desk.

  I did so, looking into Cam Wittman’s office behind him. Wittman was at his desk, staring at a tablet computer. When he saw me looking, he not so casually hit a button and his windows tinted so I couldn’t see him anymore. It wasn’t the first time I got a strange vibe from him, but maybe he was just really into his privacy right now. Watching porn or something.

  Another text buzzed my jacket and I pulled it out.

  Ugh. Request for a written report on the Inquest and Socialite events from Shaw. Bleh. I pocketed the phone without even bothering to answer. I hated writing reports, and as far as I knew, I hadn’t even done the one from the incident back in Queens yet. Which meant I’d really be working to clear a deluge of them when I finally got around to this least-favored part of the job.

  But for now, ignoring Shaw’s texts seemed the better course. Couldn’t write it if I hadn’t seen his communique, after all. I had a similar policy about checking my email, which was why my inbox presently had over a thousand unopened emails.

  “I might need a little time to think and work on some alternative possibilities for the components Grendel has stolen,” Mendelsohn said, sitting back in his chair and looking up at the ceiling pensively. He’d been thinking for a good long while now, really working on the problem in his head.

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” I said. “I might take a little time and work through a few loose ends, anyway.”

  “What kind of loose ends?” Mendelsohn asked, and once again he seemed completely focused on me, whatever he’d been contemplating just chucked aside in favor of giving me his undivided attention. In my experience, rare indeed was the man who offered that kind of active listening.

  “Something about Inquest is bothering me,” I said. “Their CEOs were all happy-go-lucky and willing to help when their affiliate in Chicago was hit. But the minute Grendel came to their campus here—”

  “They became uncooperative.” Mendelsohn nodded.

  “They hired meta mercs and turned them loose on him,” I said, “then shut us out. That’s not a normal reaction.”

  Mendelsohn was nodding along. “Counterpoint—maybe his attack on their campus provoked an emotional response rooted in their feelings of breached safety. A sort of tumble down Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, if you will.”

  “Right,” I said, doing a little nodding of my own. “Before they were self-actualized, working on problems that sustenance level farmers couldn’t even contemplate, all their basic needs met, and then suddenly, the house comes crashing down and they acted—well, rashly.”

  “Exactly,” Mendelsohn said. “And in a way that lacks rationality.”

  “Sort of a reciprocal, revenge footing,” I said. “I could see that. People act in weird ways all the time, especially when something of a traumatic event comes home to roost. But—” I shook my head “—I can’t shake the feeling there’s something else going on there.”

  “Okay,” Mendelsohn said. “Do you mind if I ask what the basis is for your thinking in this regard?”

  Once again, he forced me to speak aloud the gut-level reasoning I was going through. “Brittle Bruce.”

  Mendelsohn blinked. “The security guy at Inquest?”

  I nodded. “His reaction was very strange, standing in the midst of what was an obvious and odd situation. He’s hiding something; I’d stake my badge on it.” I glanced down at the leather badge case hanging on my belt next to my holster, where I’d had to move the backup Glock up to primary position after leaving my main pistol at the Socialite crime scene as evidence. “Not that my badge necessarily means all that much to me...”

  “What would you do about it?” Mendelsohn asked as Kelvin buzzed around to his desk across the aisle that led to Wittman’s office. He was watching us with slightly suspicious eyes, his cheeks a reddish shade.

  I watched Kelvin as he watched Mendelsohn, and a vague suspicion formed in my head. “Hey, Kelvin. Do you know Bruce, the head of security over at Inquest?”

  He stiffened, looking almost scandalized. “How would I know—” He started to puff up, outraged, then let out a long breath and sagged. “Yes.”

  Mendelsohn blinked twice. “How did you leap to that conclusion?”

  “When he watches you normally, he’s jealous of the fact that you’re in a higher status and moneymaking position than he is,” I said, shrugging apologetically at Kelvin. “This time when I caught him looking, it was because he was interested in what we were discussing, and his reactions changed the second I mentioned Bruce.” I looked at Kelvin. “How do you know him?”

  “He’s my cousin,” Kelvin said, sighing again. “And an idiot. He only got that job because Mr. Wittman did me a favor.”

  I frowned. “How did Mr. Wittman get him a job at Inquest?”

  “Mr. Wittman is on Inquest’s board of directors,” Mendelsohn said. “And Socialite’s, for that matter.”

  “Right. This incestuous town,” I said. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest? Inquest and Socialite both have search engines.”

  Mendelsohn nodded. “And Inquest once attempted a social network feature that didn’t pan out. Lots of Silicon Valley companies have overlap to some degree. Features, directors, CEOs. It happens. Conflicts of interest are declared when applicable and we move on.”

  “Hm,” I said, and looked back at Kelvin. “Are you on good enough terms with Bruce that you could set me up a meeting with him? I need to ask some pointed questions.”

  He contemplated it for a few seconds, then sighed once more. “Sure. He owes me, anyway.” Then he pulled out his phone and dialed, walking away as he held it up to his ear.

  “That was impressive,” Mendelsohn said. “A very interesting chain of reasoning there, and leading to a good result.”

  “Thanks,” I said, trying to dismiss the praise. “But I wouldn’t go making a big deal out of it until it actually results in something other than a secretary calling his cousin for a meeting.”

  “There are several things about what you did there that fascinate me,” Mendelsohn said, leaning back, resting his entire hand on his chin. “I really think that they’re getting a lot of things wrong about you, Ms. Nealon.”

  “I told you, call me Sienna,” I said, doing my damnedest not to meet his gaze. “And I’m not going to bite on that. I really don’t want to know who ‘they’ are.”

  “You know who ‘they’ are,” Mendelsohn said. “Because in this case, ‘they’ is everyone who’s forming a bad opinion of you based on an outdated and incorrect narrative.”

  “Well, I don’t have all my life to go to war with them to try and straighten that out,” I said, checking my phone again. More texts, more heat from the boss. Man, Shaw was pissed. I didn’t dare unlock it. “I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.”

  Kelvin came strolling over just then, a Post-it note in his hand, which he stuck to the desk in front of me. “You’re welcome,” he said, a little prissy.

  I read it. It said Hot Grills Diner. Valley Springs, CA. 7:00 PM. Come in disguise. “Thank you,” I said, staring at the note.

  Come in disguise? What was the reasoning for that?

  I glanced at Kelvin, but he said nothing, already back to whatever it was he did during the day. Whatever the reason for the disguise, though, I had a feeling this was important.

  63.

  Valley Springs was a convenient two hours away, in the Central Valley of California. To get there, I had to first circle the west side of the bay, then hit 580 over the coast ranges. Past that wa
s a lovely stretch of rural America that could almost have been in the Carolinas or Colorado save for being just a little dustier at the sides of the road. Sure, there were differences, probably major ones, that a botanist would spot. But for me it was trees, hills, and long stretches of fields. Heartland. After spending the day in the quasi-suburban office park and part of the day before in the people-strewn cityscape of San Francisco, taking the limo out to the Central Valley was like a breath of fresh air for this people-fearing succubus.

  I strolled into the Hot Grills Diner a little early, wearing a trench coat and a fedora, dark sunglasses and a raven wig. I probably looked like someone who was in disguise, but I tried to spice it up with a couple fake tattoos peeking out of my corset, which was partially hidden by my trench coat. My sunglasses were a lot more glamorous than the basic ones that Sienna Nealon typically sported. My whole look was more glam than usual, really, and I was wearing heels which completely changed my posture and gait.

  Lucky for metahuman dexterity, too, because I felt like I was going to sprain my ankle every fifth step, honestly. I was excited for this meeting to be over because I had a change of clothes waiting in the car. I hadn’t even been wearing this stuff for that long and already I wanted to rip it all off and throw it in the garbage. Honestly, the lengths I go to in order to appease people. Someday I’ll stop being such a people pleaser.

  Bruce was huddled in the corner of the diner with a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He was looking around at the patronage of the place, which was pretty light and mostly limited to what looked like a couple farmers and a tech bro who was sitting at the counter, immersed in his phone. A waitress buzzed around wearing a traditional apron and dress. She was mid-40s, looked like she knew the score, and was wearing comfortable enough shoes that I knew she’d been doing this a long time and was probably over the bullshit but still good at her job.

  “Get you something?” she asked, intercepting me halfway to Bruce.

  “Milk,” I said, playing against type. I was, after all, dressed a little like a dominatrix or hooker. The dress pants probably left her guessing which I was. Vampire could also be a valid suggestion.

  “Tall or short?” she asked, not missing a beat.

  “Tall,” I said, and on I went.

  I slid into the booth across from Bruce, watching him fidget as I did so.

  He looked me over once, then nodded, apparently a decision made. “You look...different.”

  “Do I pass?” I asked.

  He looked me over again. “You pass for not being yourself, which is what I was looking for.” He smacked dry lips together. “Sorry. But I can’t be seen with Sienna Nealon. Not right now.”

  “Hence the far, far, twelve-counties-out-of-the-way placement of the meeting,” I said, “and the reason I’m wearing a corset.”

  His eyebrows hit the ceiling like one of the test-of-strength machines you hit with a sledgehammer. How had he not noticed? My boobs felt like they were at my chin. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to change my shape a little,” I said. “I think I had to break between four and six ribs to fit into it, but I do look different. Silhouette-wise, I mean.” Plus there was the hair.

  His eyes seemed to creep just a little higher. “Did you really...break ribs?”

  I rolled my eyes under my sunglasses. “No. But I will say, I’m not sure how these things came to be associated with sexiness, because getting frisky is about the last thing I have on my mind now that these things are binding my chest to the point I can barely breathe.”

  “Oh, uhm,” Bruce said, and turned his attention back to his coffee. “Well...thank you for going through the trouble. Though you maybe could have just stopped at the wig and sunglasses.”

  “I take disguise very seriously, Bruce,” I said. “Which is one of the reasons I never got caught by the FBI in the two years I was on the run. The other reason is that I take personal security very seriously. Yours and mine, in this case. So, you called for disguise, I come in disguise. You tell me to drive to the Central Valley—here I am. Make it worth my while?”

  “I don’t know how much I can tell you,” he mumbled. This was where the rubber was going to meet the road.

  “Look, it’s pretty obvious to me that you’ve got some things on your mind,” I said.

  “Yeah, but whatever my little worries are, they’re not really FBI-type worries,” he said. Still mumbling, which suggested to me that not only were they FBI worries, they might be big-time FBI worries.

  “Okay, that’s fair enough,” I said. “But you’ve got me here. And in costume. And with ribs that are really hurting me—”

  “Do you need to go to the bathroom and adjust that thing, maybe?”

  “I think that might actually break the ribs,” I said, doing a little fidgeting of my own. “Let me just ask you a question instead—what did Grendel steal from Inquest? That seems a simple enough thing to—”

  “It’s not simple,” Bruce said, voice dropped to a whisper. “Not at all.”

  “Well, how about something a little easier,” I said. “Whose workstation did he break into?”

  Bruce paused, gauging the level of risk at telling me this. “Hannah Yang,” he finally said.

  “Great,” I said. “What does Hannah do for Inquest?”

  Bruce tightened up. I could hear his legs cross beneath the table, like he was girding himself for a kick in the balls. “I...can’t tell you that.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, and pulled out my phone. I started tapping away at it.

  Bruce peered at me in slight alarm. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking LinkedIn for Hannah’s profile and current job title,” I said, not looking up from the phone. “It’s really amazing what people post online these days.”

  Bruce deflated some. “She’s a programmer. Works on the site’s search functions.”

  “That doesn’t really narrow it down for me, does it?” I asked, frowning at him.

  This caused Bruce to tighten up more. A lot more. Immeasurably more, really, to the point where his ass might not let go of the bench seat he was on without a tranquilizer.

  “Uh, Bruce?” I asked, watching him all the while. “Stop clenching, bud. You’re going to break something.”

  “Sorry,” he said, but did not loosen up. Instead he took another swig of coffee and made a face, probably because it wasn’t fair trade organic with soy or whatever. “Look, the thing you have to know is—our CEO is crazy.”

  “I thought you had two CEOs?” I asked. Of course I had a feeling that Berniece was the one wearing the pants in that place, but I figured this question might lead me somewhere interesting.

  “Hollister is the brains—” Bruce pushed some hair out of his face “—but Berniece is everything else, including the brawn.”

  “Does she scare you?” I asked.

  “Hell yes, she scares me,” Bruce said, looking around again. “Because she’s crazy. And not like, small-margin crazy, okay? Not ‘only wants brown M&Ms in her personal candy bowl’ crazy.” He lowered his voice. “She’s ‘break into your apartment and smother you in your sleep if you piss her off in some small way’ crazy. That kind.”

  “Has she done that before?” I asked, trying to take that with a grain of salt. “Broken into someone’s—”

  “There are rumors,” Bruce said, eyes darting. “And yeah, she broke into my apartment once. I turned off my phone for a night. Just needed some chill time after a rough week at the office. I woke up and she’s standing over me—”

  “Damn, personal boundaries—”

  “I know, right?” Bruce looked like he was ready to launch into the stratosphere. “She dragged me into the office. Not physically, but berated me until I came in to help deal with the ‘crisis.’” He made scare quotes with his fingers. “And it wasn’t even a crisis! It was my predecessor deciding to move on to a different company. But she wanted him locked out of everything, right then.” Snapped his fingers. “So I had t
o do it. At freaking three AM on a Friday night. Because she came into my locked apartment and woke me up looming over my bed.”

  “Creepy,” I said, shivering a little. Berniece’s was not a face I’d want to wake up to, even if I leaned Veronika’s or Ariadne’s directions. Eyes too big, smile too nutty, manner too...overbearing, I think. “What did HR say?”

  “She breaks into my apartment and hovers over me until I wake up, and you think I’m going to go to HR with it?” Bruce’s voice rose, straining in a whisper as he tried to contain his excess emotion.

  “All right, fine, she’s crazy,” I said. “I get that. Sometimes bosses go a little nuts. Seems like out here in SiliValley, they might go a little ‘more so,’ you could say, since everything here appears pushed slightly to the extreme.”

  “You can say that again,” he said, putting his head down in his hands. “That town is crazy. Makes me want to go home, but...”

  I waited, adding only a “But...?” for prompting.

  “But the money is too good,” Bruce said. “And what am I going to do back in Hutchinson, Kansas?” He threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I’m thinking about Austin. Texas, I mean. There’s a serious tech presence out there, but it’s not quite as nuts as here.” He shook his head again. “I just don’t know.”

  “Bruce,” I said, softly, and he looked right at me. A lot of his emotion had been spent letting all that out, and by listening, I could feel that I’d let him unburden himself too. Reporters and spies had a name for this type of exchange—seduce and betray. Well, I’d done a good portion of the seduce part just by listening. “What did Grendel steal from Inquest?” I reached out and took his hand, trying to be reassuring. My leather gloves brushed wet, sweaty palms, but wearing these meant at least I didn’t have to worry about killing him.

  “You look like a dominatrix,” Bruce said, slumping. He was drained just by that simple admission, didn’t even squawk at me holding his hand.

  “Well, I’m not going to crack a whip on you like one,” I said, hoping that was the right thing to say. And it was better than looking like a hooker, though maybe he was being kind by not saying that.