“Was there a sender name on the deposit?”
“Swiss account, no name. All anonymous.”
“What did the bodyguards look like?” I interjected.
“They looked like cops,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Jennifer asked.
“What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean they looked like cops. Two white boys with crew cuts, cheap black polo shirts, cargo pants, and off brand combat boots. No visible tattoos, piercings, or bionics.”
“That does sound like cops,” Jennifer agreed.
“Could also be private security officers,” I said, “or even military contractors, depending on the Asian man’s wallet.”
“Mercs?” Cassdan asked, his brows lifting. “Whatever’s in that damn case must be worth a fortune.”
“It is,” Jennifer said, “and there will be more than appropriate compensation paid to anyone who assists in its safe return.”
“I’ll start with the online auction houses. I doubt anything will turn up in the public auctions, and it’ll take some time to get into the private rooms.”
“How do we get in touch with you?”
“Yeah,” I added, “preferably some way that doesn’t get me punched in the gut.”
He had a chuckle at my expense. “Here,” he said, pulling a brick-sized piece of plastic out of his jacket pocket and handing it to me. “I’ll call you when I’ve got something.”
“Does this actually work?” I asked, staring at the device.
The original off white color of the device had become yellowish with age, though the black antenna coming out of the top seemed new. Along the inward cut side, a grid of rubber buttons sat, barely retaining flecks of their original numbers, and above them was a small digital display, scraped and scuffed. The holes for the microphone and earpiece were so large that bits of lint had gotten stuck in them and didn’t seem to want to come out.
“It’s tuned to a scrambled RF band,” Cassdan explained. “Old tech is harder to trace. No GPS, no sim card, just an antenna and a hand set. I’m going to want that back when we’re done, so don’t break it.”
We parted ways with Cassdan, letting him leave first before exiting in the opposite direction. I kept a surreptitious watch on our rear as we made our way back out of the shadowed parts where our bodies would never be found. Lights and crowds in no way protected one from shooters, but it did make the attack harder. My client seemed to be picking up her pace as we moved.
“We actually have a lead,” Jennifer said, finally. “That was good work, asking about the bodyguards.”
“Uh, thanks,” I said, “but I don’t follow. What lead do we have? Even if the guards were actually cops, that doesn’t give us their names.”
“Maybe not, but I know where we might get them.”
Chapter 6
As we neared the Skyway entrance at the corner of Spencer and Walnut, the ballistic glass lit up with a welcoming yellow glow. Jennifer stepped close and leaned her left eye toward it. The doors slid open with a soft swish, releasing a pocket of warm air out into the damp street.
Jennifer led the way, but as I stepped inside the vestibule the glass turned red and a second set of doors slammed shut in front of us. Jennifer removed her wallet from her jacket pocket, opening it to show the badge and I.D. card to the doors.
“Jennifer Nadee, Corporate Investigator, AlterBionics. Vouching for one guest.”
The door responded in large, black letters, reading, “UNREGISTERED BIONIC.”
Jennifer let out a tense sigh through her teeth. “Jennifer Nadee, vouching for the safe behavior of one guest.”
The text disappeared, the lights turned back to white, and the doors opened allowing access to the steep escalator beyond. We both stepped onto the moving stairs, me still a step behind. Before putting her I.D away, she held it up again, showing it to the glass wall as it moved past.
“Home,” she said to the invisible audio/visual receivers.
“Home?” I asked.
“We’re going to need a change of clothes,” she responded. “I’m going to get us a meeting with someone who might be able to identify those two bodyguards.”
“We’re on a pretty tight timeframe here. Do we need dry clothes that bad?”
“It’s not the dryness that’s a problem. Appearances matter up here. Too much.”
Minutes later, when the escalator reached its peak, we stepped off onto the nearest of twelve conveyor belts, each wide enough for three people. Like the lanes of ground level roads, half moved in the opposite direction and the inner lanes moved at a faster speed. A large green circle of light appeared below our feet, encompassing the both of us, along with a blue arrow in front of us indicated that we were to continue forward.
The entire Skyway seemed sparsely populated with men and women in pastel suits and casual wear. Many had fashionable cutaways in their fancy clothes to show off the latest Marshall Engineering limbs, all in shiny white and gold casings, servos whizzing. If I were to guess, I would have said a good fifteen percent of these Uppers were sporting artificial limbs, much higher than a strict interpretation of the law should have allowed. A couple passing in the lane to our left was discussing the subject.
“That new doctor Corey recommended paid off,” the man said.
“Oh?” the woman asked. “You got approved?”
“Yep. I told him about this twinge I have in my elbow. He didn’t even look at it before declaring it irreparable nerve damage and approved a full arm replacement. This time next week I’ll be sporting a new ME-Limb Series Eleven arm, with full remote internet and Skyway I.D. enabled.”
“I hear the battery life keeps getting worse with each new generation. Why didn’t you just go with AlterBionics?”
“The doctor didn’t approve me for the nerve surgery, just the amputation and bone implants. Besides, that stuff about the battery life isn’t even true, not really. The Eleven series gets a full twelve hours between charges.”
“Yeah, until the ME-Limb Twelve series comes out next year and your mandatory updates cut that in half. And don’t even think about replacing the battery with a better one. That’ll void your warranty and get you blacklisted for any future repairs.”
“Jeez, Jacqueline, why do you always have to be a downer?”
If Jacqueline responded, she was too far away to hear. It made little difference, since our blue forward arrow had turned into a blinking yellow turn arrow. I followed Jennifer’s lead as she stepped off of the main conveyor onto a much slower side belt that followed a tunnel through the middle of a skyscraper. Jennifer began to walk, picking up our pace considerably. I followed closely, as did our green circle.
As we entered the building, I noticed recessed doors to either side. Many of them were numbered apartments. Others were elevator doors. All I could think was that this whole system seemed more convoluted than the Jetsons ever made it look.
We exited the first building, granting us a momentary view of open air and a dizzying drop. From fifty floors up, few details were visible in the world below. Long lines followed the edges of the surrounding buildings almost as far upward as they stretched downward into the dense shadows below. In that instant, my brain did the math and reassured me that, should the Skyway collapse and drop us into the emptiness below, the heart attack from unabashed terror would kill me long before I hit the ground.
“Get ready,” Jennifer said, slowing her pace.
She stepped off into the alcove of apartment one zero seven. I followed and our little green circle blinked out of existence. Jennifer placed her palm on the center of the door. It beeped in acknowledgement and slid open.
Automated lights illuminated an apartment very unlike the one I had grown accustomed to. The high ceilings and bare white walls gave the circular room a simple opulence. Four of my apartment could have fit inside this one, and yet the space was barely used. To the right was a kitchen with counter, sink, and a food printer that could make dinner for nine. To the l
eft was a king-size storage bed of solid white plastic, its drawers all but invisible in its precise construction. On the far side of the room sat a simple oval dining table, precisely at the center of a window that spanned a full fourth of the apartment. Jennifer no doubt enjoyed many fine breakfasts at that table, watching the clouds pass her window.
“Here,” she said, pressing a panel on the wall to the left. A door slid away, revealing a walk-in closet.
A light came on inside as she made her way to the back corner of the semi-triangular room, shifting neatly hanging outfits as she went. It struck me as odd but efficient that she had entire outfits hanging together, rather than a single article per hanger. If I owned enough clothes to need a system to organize them, I’d likely be doing the same.
“There it is,” she said, pulling a hanging garment bag from the rack. “My last boyfriend. I bought him a new suit with a couple of shirts and ties for his birthday. He decided to celebrate it with someone else.” She passed the bag to me. “It was tailored for him, so it won’t fit you perfectly, but it’ll pass for a couple of hours. You can change in the bathroom, Mr. Modest.”
“And that would be…?”
“The corner on the other side of the door. Just press the panel. It’ll open.”
I dropped the bag over my arm and made my way around the curve of the room. The entire interior wall of the apartment seemed to be comprised of three foot wide panels, most of which were just solid wall. It took me three tries before one responded, popping inward and sliding aside to reveal the room within.
The restroom, while not to my taste, was at least a respite from the endless whiteness of this upper level world. A wide sink carved from a single slab of black marble matched the ergonomically designed toilet. The floor was made of wooden slats of bamboo separated by thin gaps, through which more bamboo could be seen, allowing water to pass without sacrificing the strength of the floor. There appeared to be no tub or shower, but as I looked up I noticed tiny pinholes in the brushed steel ceiling, most of which were densely packed in the center of the room. The entire room was her shower, which explained the waterproof container for the toilet paper hanging on the side of the counter. Just above that container on a shelf sat the only decoration in the room, three plastic seashells.
I chuckled to myself. “Must be a Stallone fan.”
Unzipping the bag, I laid its contents on the counter. One dark blue jacket and matching pants, one light blue shirt, one white shirt, one silver paisley tie, and one blue pindot tie. Considering my options and the situation, I decided on the white shirt and pindot tie to give the impression of “don’t notice me, I’m working.” I halfway wished the ensemble came with a glove, to help keep my hand from drawing the wrong kind of attention.
The tailored shirt ended up being a little snug on my stomach, but the jacket covered that pretty well when buttoned. At least the shoulders and chest fit properly. That’s what everyone looked at, or at least I hoped it was. The pants, I found, were about a half inch too short and lacked room for important things that need circulation. After getting my boots back on, I did what I could to adjust the pants.
The brick phone, I found, wouldn’t fit in any of the pockets. Coming from a time when dress jackets were supposed to fit loosely, the antique device had no place in a modern suit. I tucked it under my arm like a book and exited the bathroom.
I found Ms. Nadee already changed into a white business suit and light grey thick-heeled boots. She hadn’t bothered to add a tie to the soft cutaway collar of her blouse, but she had placed her badge on display in the chest pocket of the jacket. Despite the fine attire, I noticed she wasn’t bothering to carry a purse, a choice that amplified her natural aura of authority, but killed my backup plan for the where to keep the cumbersome phone.
She took a quick look at me, saying, “That’ll do.” She placed her phone in an interior jacket pocket. “Thankfully, Sam’s working late today. He said he can give us five minutes of his time, if we hurry.”
And hurry we did. People gave us sideways glances as we took a brisk walk along the inner lane of the Skyway, passing people even in our own lane, but we made good time. What would have taken me an hour on the street level took us minutes up here.
The black lettering along the glass wall above the entrance to the city police main office came up quickly on our right. I followed my client as she hopped from lane to lane to make our exit. People may have thought we were being rude, but no one spoke up.
On the other side of sliding glass doors, we stepped into a lobby far too lavish to be in a police station. Sure, it was effectively the corporate HQ for the city police, but brown leather furniture and hand carved driftwood tables seemed a bit much. On the ground level, police departments were nicer than the average building, but they were still all plastic chairs and cracked tile floors. The front desk up here wasn’t even protected by bulletproof glass.
“Jennifer Nadee, corporate investigator, AlterBionics,” Jennifer said to the officer tending the desk, “here to see Investigator Roberson.”
“Of course, Ms. Nadee,” he responded. “He’s expecting you. Shall I show you the way?”
He was already rising from the desk when she said, “No, thank you. I know the way.”
I followed her around the front desk and down a side hallway, past nine doors, each with their own names but no lights on. The tenth door, labeled “Investigator S. Roberson,” had a dim light shining through the frosted glass window. Jennifer walked in after a short rap on the door, not bothering to wait for a reply.
“Sammy,” Jennifer announced upon seeing him.
“Jenny,” he responded, a warm smile lighting his eyes.
Samuel Roberson was a hefty, dark skinned man with a voice like a black bear. Age had given the man a bald head and a dark grey beard, as well as a keen sense of fashion. The collar of his violet oxford shirt sat open, the sleeves rolled up to expose thick forearms, over which he wore a black vest, cut perfectly to his form.
He reached out a hand to me. “And you must be the bodyguard.”
“Jackson Bell, sir,” I responded, gripping his hand carefully.
He twisted my hand in his broad grip, getting a better look at it. “Is that custom?”
“Uh, yeah,” I responded, thrown off a bit, “I guess you could say that.”
“My, that must have been expensive.”
“Not as much as you might think.”
“Had my shoulder replaced a while back. Took two hits from a shotgun my first week as an investigator. Bit of nerve damage. Turned the muscles into hamburger. I was one of David Wright’s first applicants. Good man.”
“I keep telling him he needs to get a newer one,” Jennifer interjected. “Electric motors are more precise than those early nylon monofilament muscles.”
“Maybe so, but those damn electric motors sound like they’re powered by annoyed cats. Reer, rowr, reer, rowr.” He chuckled at his own joke as he took his seat, gesturing us toward the two chairs across from him. “I gather this must be important, to call on me so late.”
Jennifer and I sat and she began. “It’s both important and time sensitive.”
“And as usual you can’t give me many details?”
“Exactly.”
“Then tell me what you can.”
“A little over twenty-four hours ago, a very important piece of technology was stolen.”
“The armored truck hit on Peach Street?”
“You know about it?”
“It’s not my department, but word gets around. My understanding is that the police were asked to stay out of it. Why come to me now?”
“My investigation is turning up evidence that a member of the Z.A.C. may be our primary suspect.”
His gentle smile faded by a degree. “That explains the bodyguard.”
“But a witness described the Z.A.C. agent’s bodyguards as looking like cops.”
“Ah, so you came to your favorite Internal Affairs investigator to see if I
know of any officers moonlighting on the wrong side of the law.”
“Precisely.”
He leaned on the desk, folding his arms. “It so happens that we’ve recently finished a little house cleaning project we were working on the last few months. Twelve officers were charged in connection with organized crime. Five more were fired for being too closely associated with all of that. And if there’s anyone else that we missed, they’re going to be keeping their heads down for the next few months.”
“So, there’s little to no chance those bodyguards were actual cops?”
“That, or your thief isn’t connected to the Z.A.C. at all.”
Jennifer pondered that thought for a moment before standing and thanking “Sammy” for his time. I stood with her and gave the man another handshake, repeating the sentiments, but without the familiar nickname. I hadn’t expected to like anyone who lived in the upper city, but Investigator Roberson was growing on me. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was going to betray us.
“Do you trust him?” I asked, once we had stepped back outside the glass front doors.
“I do,” Jennifer replied, “within reason.”
“Within reason?”
“Everyone has secrets, and motivations, and weaknesses. Sammy, for example has a wife and kids. Connections like that can be leveraged against you.”
I began to chuckle.
“What’s funny,” she asked.
“You sound like me.”
“The job will do that to you. Suspicion can keep you alive.”
I laughed. “I was just thinking the same thing. Unfortunately, that does bring up another question. Were any of your security officers unaccounted for at the time of the theft?”
“We run twenty-four hour security, three eight hour shifts on weekdays, two twelve hour shifts on weekends, which means at the time of the theft, four-fifths of our team were off duty. That’s forty-eight people. We intentionally keep our security team small so we can vet our people carefully, but there’s always a chance that some of them could be taking side jobs. That being said, this was a top security project. Outside of those directly involved, no one knew about it.” She paused for just a moment. “Even the team on the armored transport had no idea what was in the case.”
Under the Skyway (Skyway Series Book 1) Page 5