Bloodlines (The Guardian of Empire City Book 1)

by Peter Hartog

  We parked at one of the designated ECPD platforms several stories above street level. The enclosed parking and walkways offered welcome protection from the elements. In this part of town, the ’ways ran up high, curving around the massive buildings to accommodate greater traffic. That meant additional pod hubs and stops. Most of these corporations had their main entrances above the mess and stench of the traffic beneath them. It was less about convenience, and more a means of reminding mortal pedestrians where their financial betters lived.

  An enclosed walkway crossed a gaping chasm of space separating the hub from Wrigley-Boes. Despite the insulation, the frenzied howl of the October wind buffeted against the thick glass and spell-forged steel. Some architectural genius had come up with the brilliant idea of installing a reinforced glass floor, providing a stomach-turning view. Although I hadn’t heard of any ever collapsing, there was always a first time.

  Don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t afraid of heights, but I did maintain a healthy respect for anything that might have gotten me killed, like angry ex-boyfriends, or falling from a hundred-plus-story building.

  Foot traffic here was as heavy as down below. The morning workforce flowed along, and we melted into the burgeoning crowd, maintaining a brisk pace. We passed through the large sliding glass doors embossed with the Wrigley-Boes logo and into the corporate headquarters of the pharmaceutical giant. I paused a few feet inside, took a moment to straighten my collar, and raked my fingers through my tangled hair. Buttoning my blazer, I left the SCU badge secure on my belt. Although we were here on official ECPD business, I didn’t want to draw attention just yet.

  “How do I look?” I asked Besim.

  Her face betrayed nothing.

  “Nervous,” she replied.

  Two uniformed security guards with stun batons at their hips sidled by, appraising the Vellan curiously before moving along. Dozens of people occupied the open floor, standing in small groups talking or wandering through numerous portals leading to who-knew-where. At the center of it all squatted an enormous circular kiosk, complete with the largest indoor holo-screen I’d ever seen. A constant stream of Wrigley-Boes advertisements played on it, along with the morning news from all the major enclave feeds, a side bar for sports scores, entertainment, trivia, and even the Nikkei, New London, and Azyrim-Dow indexes.

  I stared at the numbers and symbols as they rolled along the screen.

  “What is it?” Besim asked.

  “I never noticed it before.” I pointed at the screen. “Azyrim is part of the Empire City stock exchange.”

  “Indeed,” she replied. “His influence reaches far and wide.”

  “His?” I raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  She was about to respond when another advertisement caught my attention.

  An attractive young couple dressed in casual attire embraced in front of an idyllic seascape backdrop. Seagulls wheeled in the sky, while soft waves crashed against the sandy shore. Romantic music swelled as the scene cut to the two walking barefoot, hands entwined.

  “Live life the way you’ve always wanted,” a man’s deep, calm voice announced.

  The full battery of Wrigely-Boes health products scrolled alongside the image of the two strolling into the sunset. Anxiety settled into my gut.

  “Let’s get going,” I said, and headed toward the kiosk.

  I stepped up to the first available agent.

  “Good morning,” greeted a fair-haired woman with a bright smile. “Welcome to Wrigley-Boes, the world’s leader in personal healthcare! How can I help you?”

  She wore a white blouse beneath a slate gray jacket. All the men and women occupying the chest-high kiosk wore the same uniform, and each manned an individual virtual workstation. None of them appeared to be over the age of thirty. A holo-plate with the name Jennifer Mathis hovering above it rested on the lip of the counter.

  “Hello there, Jenny,” I returned her smile with a bland one of my own.

  Three alert security guards were stationed inside the ring behind her. I kept my eyes on Jenny. She smelled of lavender and artless youth.

  “I’m Mr. Holmes, this is Dr. Watson, and we’re from the Baker Street Consortium. We have an appointment with the R&D department at ten o’clock. Could you please tell me which floor they’re on?”

  “Let me see.” Jenny swiped her hand across the colored screen. “Oh, I’m very sorry Mr. Holmes, but they were located at our Long Island facility, which was recently closed.”

  I frowned in consternation.

  “Then why would I have been directed here?” I wheeled on Besim without waiting for Jenny. “Watson, I thought you confirmed the time and place of our meeting with R&D?”

  Besim’s demeanor went from placid to alarmed in an instant.

  “I truly apologize, Mr. Holmes,” Besim said, her posture bent, almost groveling. “The message I received was from James Solomon himself specifically stating we should arrive no later than ten o’clock, and to bring our proposal to him, and not the R&D team. I thought you already knew?”

  I had no idea who Solomon was, but at the mention of his name, Jenny sat up straight.

  “Something you failed to mention earlier.” I glared at Besim. “I don’t know why I keep you around.”

  I turned back to Jenny and forced a friendly smile. “It appears my plans have changed. Which way to Solomon’s office, then?”

  “Mister Solomon’s office is on the ninety-ninth floor,” the young woman answered. “Head around the kiosk, fourth elevator on the right. You will need to pass through security first. Mr. Holmes, I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience.”

  I thanked her, grabbed Besim’s elbow, and led her away from the kiosk.

  “Who is Solomon?” I asked in a low voice.

  “The Director of Wrigley-Boes,” Besim replied calmly, belying the worried expression she maintained for appearance’s sake. “The information Leyla provided us indicated their facilities were under corporate assault. While you were speaking with Father Davis, I contacted an associate of mine who confirmed all the Wrigley-Boes facilities have been closed. Their resources have been redirected to the corporate headquarters here.”

  “So, name dropping the head honcho of Wrigley-Boes was a good idea?” I grumbled, flicking away an invisible speck of dust from Besim’s coat lapel. “That was a helluva gamble.”

  “This building has one hundred and one floors,” Besim explained. “We presume Rumpelstiltskin is occupying one of them. The executive elevator grants us unfettered access to the entire complex. Once inside, we can visit any floor we desire.”

  “What about Solomon?” I countered. “Won’t someone be expecting us?”

  “Unlikely,” she tilted her head to regard the kiosk. “Miss Mathis is responsible for providing the correct floors for visitors, among other menial tasks. She would have no direct communication with that level of management without first elevating any situation to her superiors. In addition, James receives a steady supply of daily visitors. We are not as uncommon as you initially believe. The security checkpoint, on the other hand, will be the greater challenge.”

  I felt the weight of the SMART gun in its shoulder rig.

  “Good point.”

  Glancing ahead, I took note of the four-person security team guarding an enclosed archway leading to a series of glass and steel elevators.

  “It will be impossible for you to go beyond them without assistance,” Besim continued. “By now, our images have been added to the visitor registry. I calculate we have a few moments longer before our data is uploaded, and our identities revealed to Wrigley-Boes security.”

  “Lovely,” I grimaced in frustration. “How are we supposed to get through?”

  “Follow my lead, Detective,” Besim asserted, and strode purposefully toward the checkpoint.

  A small stack of plastic bins was arranged beneath a rectangular table before the archway. One uniformed guard spoke with an attractive woman wearing a white lab coat. A second watched the
crowd with practiced disinterest. I wasn’t fooled. I’d seen that expression a hundred times on trained professionals who could go from bored to ball-breaking at the drop of a hat. The remaining two conversed on the other side of the archway.

  Besim walked up to the second man.

  “I am Doctor Besim Saranda,” she announced with authority, emphasizing her accent. “And this is my personal bodyguard, Deacon Kole. We have business with the director.”

  I felt the persuasive force of her voice, and the air around her quivered. The guard’s eyes glazed over, then cleared. I maintained a neutral front, straightening my back, and glared at everyone with the same tough guy disgust I’d seen on Deacon’s face dozens of times since we first met.

  “I don’t remember seeing your name on the list, Doctor Saranda,” the security guard said.

  “That is because James requested a private meeting, Mr. Sebastian.” Besim’s frosty smile was full of disdain as she stared down her nose at his nametag. “I do not believe someone of your…station…should be informed of such things.”

  “Well, like I said, your name isn’t on the list,” Sebastian responded with grit in his voice. “I’ll need to verify it.”

  Besim dismissed the comment with a haughty wave of her hand.

  “Of course. I’ll be certain to inform James of how you delayed my arrival and wasted my time,” she said loftily, adding more emphasis. The guard’s eyes glazed again. “If you feel verifying my appointment with James’ executive assistant Diana will save you from a formal reprimand, then do as you must.”

  She withdrew her phone from her coat and manipulated its controls. A heartbeat later, the image of a handsome middle-aged man with a mustache and goatee hovered above the screen.

  “Or perhaps you could inform James yourself.”

  That gave the guard pause, and he hesitated, doubt reflected in his eyes. He glanced at her phone, then nodded.

  “Please, step on through, Doctor Saranda,” Sebastian smiled as if he’d swallowed moldy cheese. “You too, Mr. Kole.”

  “Thank you,” Besim moved forward, beaming at him, her smile laced with contempt. She paused before the archway and gave Sebastian a pointed look. “You will disregard the sidearm my man carries. The weapon is for my protection, and I do not travel anywhere without it or him.”

  “Of course, Doctor Saranda,” he replied, nodding to the others. One of them waved his hand over a control panel on the other side of the archway. “They’re clear. Let ‘em through.”

  We passed beneath the archway. I hunched my shoulders expecting the alarms to sound, but nothing happened.

  “One final thing, Mr. Sebastian,” Besim instructed in an off-hand manner as we entered the elevator. “Please erase our arrival from all your security footage, including the archives. This is a private meeting, and I suspect James will take it poorly if he discovered my presence was recorded. We would not want that now, would we?”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  The elevator door slid closed.

  “How may I direct you?” a soft, feminine voice asked.

  Ignoring it, I confronted Besim.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Simple subterfuge was not going to be effective,” she explained quietly. “I opted for a different approach.”

  “Sure,” I said. “And Solomon?”

  “James and I have known each other for several years. I mentioned to you when we first met that I consult with a variety of interests in Empire City. James held previous employment with the Tyrell Corporation, a developer and manufacturer of labor machinery. It was through my recommendation James received the offer of employment to join Wrigley-Boes. When I am engaged in Empire City, it is not uncommon for the two of us to meet and discuss business of one kind or another. It was James to whom I spoke with earlier regarding Wrigley-Boes, and the attempted takeover by Azyrim.”

  “So now we’re expected to go upstairs and meet with him?” I threw up my hands, exasperated. “That’s just great. How much does he know? Need I remind you, this is an official investigation, and he’s a civilian! By telling him why we’re here, you’ve jeopardized everything. Christ, Besim, what the hell were you thinking?”

  “James is on holiday in the Caribbean Conclave with his family,” Besim asserted calmly. “He will not return for another week. I merely explained to James I wished to drop off a personal gift, something I did not wish for his wife to know about. Naturally, he understood discretion was required.”

  I shot her a look. “I don’t want to know.”

  “By instructing Mr. Sebastian in the manner that I did, there will be no official record of our visit,” Besim continued unperturbed. “Thus, if Rumpelstiltskin maintains surveillance on anyone who enters the complex, he will have no idea of our arrival.”

  “Presuming he hasn’t hacked into their security feed,” I pointed out, unconvinced. “Hell, he’s probably watching us right now.”

  “This elevator, and the accompanying executive floors above, is on a series of surveillance separate from the rest of the facility,” Besim said. “I had Deacon oversee its installation when James was brought on board as the director. Unless Rumpelstiltskin is a member of the executive staff, he would not be aware of this.”

  “How convenient,” I rolled my eyes. “Well, once I arrest the bastard, there will be an official record.”

  “You have probable cause, do you not, Detective?” the consultant asked, tilting her head to the side. “The evidence, albeit circumstantial, has directed you here.”

  “Fine. We’ll leave that little problem for Mahoney and the DA’s office. Let’s track down Rumpelstiltskin.”

  Besim nodded her agreement.

  “Have you ascertained his whereabouts?”

  The interior of the elevator contained a miniature version of the holo-screen above the information kiosk. Waving my hand before it, I brought up a directory, and cycled through the different departments, looking for “Research and Development” without success.

  “The transition is too new,” I ground my teeth in frustration. “They haven’t updated their intranet yet.”

  I searched for sister departments, but none of them contained what I was looking for.

  And then I had a thought, because I was brilliant like that.

  “Hey, um, Miss Elevator, I actually do need some direction.”

  “How may I direct you?” the elevator repeated.

  “Where would I find the Research and Development team recently transferred from Long Island?” I asked.

  “The Research and Development team has been relocated to the twenty-fifth floor. They now share workspace with Creative Design. Doctor Bartleman is in the conference room. Shall I contact him?”

  The image of Bartleman floated on the screen, an amiable-looking man in his fifties.

  “Uh, no, thanks, we’ll just surprise him. Would you please take us there?”

  The elevator hummed into motion, its smooth transition almost imperceptible.

  A moment later, the door opened onto a small foyer ending at a receptionist’s desk. Tall glass walls wrapped around both hallways revealing dozens of short cubicles. These were occupied by men and women in white lab coats huddled around virtual workstations. Space appeared to be at a premium. I noticed a few heated exchanges between several of the employees. Wrigley-Boes must’ve installed noise-dampening ceiling tiles and walls, because all I heard was a low murmur.

  A skinny young man with watery eyes worked the front desk.

  “Hi,” he said, offering us a hesitant smile.

  “Hello there.” I held out my ID, placed the SCU badge on the counter, and made with the introductions. “Now don’t be alarmed, but where can I find the R&D team? One of your scientists is a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.”

  “Oh my,” he gulped, his face turning beet red. “I thought you were here about my…um…never mind. I’ll need to let Miss Chew, the floor manager, know.”

  “Son, d
on’t,” I held up a hand, giving him a stern look. “There’s not a lot of time. Just take us to them.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  I’ll give the kid credit. For a second, I thought he was going to dig in his heels. But then his shoulders sagged as if I’d just stolen his girlfriend.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  We walked along the cubicle farm. Besim generated a few curious stares, but most were intent on their work. Turning left, we came across a glass-walled conference room occupied by over a dozen men and women of various ages. As we approached, two men wearing white lab coats stood at the head of the table by the door. One was Bartleman. He spoke to the others, gesturing at times to the second man, followed by a round of muted applause. The second man nodded and bowed, then shook hands with Bartleman.

  “We’ll take it from here,” I said.

  The young man tripped over himself as he doubled-timed it back toward his desk.

  “Ready?” I asked Besim.

  Without preamble, I stepped into the conference room.

  I locked eyes with the second man who turned to face me the moment we entered. I didn’t need the Insight to tell me who he was. His image decorated the Wrigley-Boes pamphlets at Tony’s apartment and Ettelman’s office.

  “Rumpelstiltskin,” I announced in a loud, clear voice. “By the authority vested in me by the enclave of Empire City, you are hereby under arrest.”

  Chapter 38

  “What is the meaning of this?” Bartleman demanded. In his hand, he held a plastic knife. “And who the hell are you? You have no right barging in here!”

  The men and women around the conference table regarded me with apprehension. Set on the table were plates, plastic forks, and a rectangular white cake with the caption “Happy Retirement Dr. Blakely” drawn in blue frosting. The cake sported three golden flowers on its upper right corner.