Kit gave a sigh. ‘Most of Mister Winsford’s known associates, whether friend or enemy, do fall into that category. Sorry.’
‘Never mind. All part of the job. We’ll never get appointments to interview them today anyway.’
‘True.’
‘But I still think mining them for methane should be seriously considered. We could solve the world’s energy problems if we hook up a couple of hundred in parallel.’
~~~
Fox scanned around the murder room, one eyebrow raised and a vague feeling of dread developing somewhere in the back of her mind. ‘That’s… quite a few connections.’
‘Yes,’ Kit said, not sounding troubled. ‘Mister Winsford was a man who networked.’
From the looks of it, that was a mild understatement. The black, blank space of the room was centred on an image of Thomas Winsford, a man who had kept himself fit and quite handsome through a regimen of exercise and a lot of money spent on cosmetic enhancements. His nose was a little large, but it was also sculpted; instead of reducing it, he had had it reshaped with a high bridge like a stereotyped Roman senator. His cheekbones had been sharpened and, if Fox was any judge, his jawline had been strengthened. He had a strong, good-looking face, but even in the ID photograph Kit had used in the room, his grey eyes had a slightly malign, calculating look to them. His hair was short, carefully styled, and mid-brown.
Around him, the network of his immediate friends, enemies, and frenemies was a large one. He was in some way connected to every politically minded person in New York. No, further than that. Fox frowned as she spotted connections out to Detroit–Chicago Metro, specifically to Wayden Executive Services where he was linked to Major Norton Wayden and his son, Sherman. And there was another slightly odd thing…
‘Far more men than women,’ Fox commented.
‘I had noticed that,’ Kit agreed. ‘It’s a little more imbalanced than it appears since this one’ – she indicated a picture set off to one side on its own – ‘is Celia Codnor, Mister Winsford’s ex-wife. The gossip sites indicate the separation was acrimonious. I believe it would be wise to talk to her. The others… This is everyone I detected with a known link to Mister Winsford. He had few friends. Most of these people sit in the categories of people who have expressed significant hatred for him, or like-minded individuals who may gain vote delegations following his death.’
‘The two Waydens?’
‘Political allies, but Sherman Wayden was one of Mister Winsford’s few real friends.’
‘Okay, for now, get me a list of people who you think were actually a threat to Winsford, then get me interviews with them and the ex.’ Fox sighed. ‘If we have to dredge through all this lot to find out who killed him, it’ll be Christmas before we resolve it.’
~~~
Thomas Winsford had lived in an apartment three floors down from the top of Times Spire. While a lot of the accommodation space in the arcology had been converted over to business use, the upper floors were still considered a prestigious address to hold and Winsford had been a prestigious man. His apartment fitted that image.
From the main double doors, you entered a lobby which looked like it had been decorated by someone used to working on Regency drawing rooms. Lots of pale colours and panelling, a couple of small tables with lion’s-claw feet, and a pair of doors, a single one off to the side and another double set straight ahead. Fox was just discovering that the single door led to a large closet when the double doors opened and a man walked out.
‘May I be of assistance, ma’am? Mister Winsford is not expecting company.’ The accent was upper-class English and nasal, which went with a nose that would have gone well on the face of an eagle. He was tall, beanpole thin, and had thinning, black hair, and he was dressed in an immaculate, pinstriped suit. He was not supposed to be there.
‘He’s an android,’ Kit said. ‘Class three AI, and he obviously hasn’t been told Mister Winsford is deceased. The ID packet says he’s called Smith.’
‘Oh,’ Smith said before Fox could respond, ‘you’re a policewoman?’
‘Detective,’ Fox said. ‘Captain Tara Meridian. I’m investigating the death of Mister Thomas Winsford. I’m a little surprised no one’s made you aware…’
The android’s appearance of dispassion failed for about two seconds. Fox saw confusion flash over his face and a hint of anger. He actually took half a step back before pulling himself up straight. ‘I see. No. No one saw fit to inform me.’
‘He’s a class three?’ Fox said inside her mind. ‘That reaction looked very genuine.’
‘I believe he has been operating for several years, Fox. Class threes given sufficient time can develop emotional reactions which come close to a class four’s, or a human’s.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Smith,’ Fox said aloud. ‘You’ve worked for Mister Winsford for some time?’
‘I have been Mister Winsford’s manservant for seven years, Captain Meridian. You are quite sure that he is dead, I assume?’
‘Quite sure. They’re conducting the autopsy this morning. He was found dead last night. Were you aware that Mister Winsford sometimes went to a club called Sheela Na Gig?’
‘I was not.’
‘Okay. Did Mister Winsford have an appointment of any kind for last night, twenty-two hundred until twenty-three hundred?’
‘Mister Winsford had the evening of the seventh from nine p.m. until one a.m. booked for personal time. He left the apartment at eight thirty. I ordered him an autocab which was to take him to his club. That was the Blackburn Club on Park Avenue. He enjoyed the atmosphere there and went there whenever he could spare an evening.’
‘Okay, Smith. Thank you. I need to look around here and I’ll be sending a forensics team in later today. I may need you to go with them when they leave so that we can check over your data.’
‘O-of course, Captain. I am at your disposal. I… I am unsure what I should do now. Mister Winsford was my owner and now he is dead. What happens now?’
Fox frowned, unsure of exactly how to deal with a class three who clearly had a lot more development than she would have expected. ‘I am not honestly sure, Smith. You work with my technicians and I’ll try to find out for you. I’m sure this kind of thing is legally covered. I haven’t gained access to Mister Winsford’s will yet. There may be mention of you in that.’
‘Yes. I believe I will run through a recharge-and-rest cycle in my room. If you have need of me, I can be summoned by voice command from any room.’
‘Sure.’ Fox watched the android stalk away toward the back of the apartment. ‘Shit,’ Fox said silently, ‘notifying humans of someone’s death is usually bad, but that was somehow worse.’
‘Smith’s entire purpose in life has just been taken away from him,’ Kit replied. ‘He has clearly become attached to his owner and spent enough time around humans that he has picked up strong emotional reactions. Legally, he is property and part of Mister Winsford’s estate. That condition may or may not change when the new rights laws are passed.’
‘Remind me to talk to the Foundation about that, and make sure there’s an AI psychologist with the forensics team when they come to pick him up. Now let’s see what the rest of Winsford’s place is like.’
The lounge looked a lot like the lobby: lots of panelled walls and old-looking furniture. It was, Fox thought, conservative as befitted the man, but there was a distinct sensation of masculinity about what could have been a rather feminine decorative scheme. Furniture with lion’s-claw feet and heavy, scrolled armrests. Two huge portraits of Winsford looked down from either side of the room. There was very little in the way of virtual decoration, but the only display device in the room was a virtual screen.
‘Winsford had an implant?’ Fox asked as she checked the drawers in the small desk that sat against one wall.
‘Yes, but he had been dead too long. Nothing was salvageable.’
‘Figures. What do you have on this “Blackburn Club” Smith mentioned?
’
‘It’s described as a “gentlemen’s club,” though it admits female members. It is legally required to. However, checking references to those on LifeWeb who have indicated they are members seems to indicate that it is almost exclusively used by white males with a distinct statistical trend toward older men. Not old men, but older. Forties and fifties, though Sherman Wayden is a member.’
‘That might explain how they met. Maybe why Winsford was so hooked into Wayden.’ Fox picked a door at random and walked out of the lounge. She found a bathroom which looked like it was for guests: plush enough to look at, but lacking in items like toothbrushes and deodorant. There was also a small kitchen – it seemed that Winsford was not into home cooking – with a door at the back that Fox assumed was to a closet until she opened the door and found Smith standing silently in a support frame. This was his ‘room.’
Fox frowned and closed the door. ‘Do you need a room of your own?’ She walked back out onto the corridor while Kit was considering her answer and found the master bedroom.
‘I honestly have not considered the matter,’ Kit replied. ‘I believe that, since I have not considered it, my answer should be no.’
‘Huh. Maybe. On the other hand, since Sam and Marie haven’t broken up yet and she barely spends any time in her apartment, maybe we should talk to them about you taking over the basement rooms.’ She scanned over the room slowly, recording the basic layout. The bed was big and had thick corner posts. There was a wardrobe built into one wall and a dressing table. A door on one side led to a bathroom that was larger than the guest one and came with shower and whirlpool bath.
‘We could discuss the matter with Sam and Marie,’ Kit said. ‘I suppose it would provide me with a little more independence. Or the appearance of such anyway. Did you notice the loops on the bedposts?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Fox ran her fingers over the bracket mounted to one of the posts. It looked and felt very solid. ‘All four posts. You’d be pushed to tie rope around them but a chain would work.’ Dropping to her haunches, she zoomed in on the painted metal. The bed had been painted or stained white and the bracket was painted to blend in, but there were scratches on the inner surface. ‘Uh-huh, chain, I think. We’ll get this checked.’
Standing, Fox walked to the head of the bed and pulled back the cover, then the pillows. Frowning, she bent to look more closely at the headboard and then she reached out toward the middle of it. From under the nails of her thumb and forefinger, slim strips of metal about half an inch long popped out. Each was flat and slightly ridged at the tips, and she used them to lift a hair strand to look at more closely. ‘Brunette, but too long for Winsford.’ She took an evidence bag from her pocket and put the hair into it. ‘There’s a root. We might get lucky. Meanwhile, I don’t get the feeling that Winsford was the one who got chained to this bed.’
‘He was a switch then,’ Kit suggested. ‘He preferred dominance in his public life and portrayed the same personality in his bedroom, but he switched to submission when the mood took him and he hired Naomi.’
‘Maybe.’ Fox pulled open the nearby drawer on the bedside cabinet. Nothing much to look at: an ebook reader, a blister pack of Painaway. She tried the cupboard door beneath the drawer and found it locked. A quick examination suggested an electronic lock, probably needing Winsford’s implant to unlock it. ‘I want this opened. Get the techs to catalogue the contents. Why would you code-lock a bedside cabinet, I wonder.’
‘Presumably because you preferred that no one knew what was inside it.’
‘And that would be why I really want to know.’
~~~
The only person on Kit’s list of likely suspects who was available for interview was Winsford’s ex-wife, Celia Codnor. She had a slot in her schedule, according to her social secretary, at two p.m., so Kit made the arrangements, and Fox set off by maglev and autocab to get to Codnor’s house in Westhampton Beach.
According to the profile Kit had built up on their interviewee, Codnor had got the house in the Hamptons as part of the divorce settlement which had, as far as Kit could tell, been far better for Winsford than for his wife. ‘She got a relatively fair settlement,’ Kit said as the cab drove out toward the ocean, ‘but Winsford got the majority of the money and the apartment in Manhattan. Ms Codnor got the Westhampton property, but it is an older property and has not seen sufficient investment in flood protection. Ms Codnor has it on the market, but has not sold it yet.’
‘When did the divorce go through?’
‘Sixteen months ago.’
Fox winced. ‘Sixteen months to think things might be better if the old man died, or wind yourself up to seeking revenge. How are we doing on financial records for our persons of interest?’
‘That depends very much on the person. I have Ms Codnor’s financials, but almost everyone else is putting up roadblocks. Even Mister Winsford’s accountant is requesting a warrant. I have already pressed the matter through the legal department.’
‘Keep me informed. If we’re still having trouble in a few days, I’ll go interview the accountant. Uh, just press for Winsford’s data. We don’t have enough to go much into anyone else’s.’
‘Of course. And we’re here.’
It was an overcast day and the large, ranch-style house was not exactly being shown off at its best, but Fox figured it could at least do with the outer walls re-rendering. On the seaward side, there was a wall about a metre high which looked as though it could take a pounding but was going to do little to stave off an Atlantic storm aside from obscuring the view a little. The place had to be an older build: more modern buildings in the area had to have adequate flood defences and this one did not.
There was a gate blocking the driveway, and that had a security panel mounted beside it. Fox transmitted her ID data to it and waited for only a second before a voice, male and quite pleasant, came over the speaker. ‘Captain Meridian, you are expected. Please come to the door.’ There was a buzz and the gate began to swing open. Fox slipped through before it was fully open and walked down the short drive to the door.
It opened before she got there to reveal a young man who looked to be in his early twenties, but he had the sculpted looks of someone who put a lot of cash into cosmetic work, or an android. His infrared signature suggested the latter.
‘His name is Steve,’ Kit supplied, ‘and he’s a Satyr. That’s the male version of the Sylph model I use. He’s also a class four.’
To Fox, Steve looked like the kind of man you saw on beaches looking for older women to buy them expensive gifts. Tall, tanned, muscular, handsome, but just a little vacant. He was, of course, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. The hair was tightly curled against his scalp, and the tan had a look to it which suggested mixed heritage. It was hardly a warm day, but Steve was dressed in summer-weight, cream slacks and a thin, silky blouse undone to just above his navel.
‘Good afternoon, Captain Meridian,’ he said as she approached. ‘I’m Steve, Celia’s social secretary.’
‘Social secretary my perfectly toned ass,’ Fox said to Kit. Aloud, she said, ‘Perfect, Steve. You’ll be able to tell me where she was last night from twenty-two hundred through to midnight.’
‘Last night, Celia was at home,’ Steve said in his easy-on-the-ears voice. ‘Here, with me. I can provide a more detailed breakdown of the evening, if you need. I can even provide video but, uh, we would need an assurance that that would be securely held.’
Fox found it a little difficult to believe that an AI could manage to sound like a teenager bragging to his friends about the girl he had sex with the night before, but Steve managed it, even adding the knowing smile. ‘That won’t be necessary at this stage. This is a murder enquiry, however. I’m sure you’re aware of the penalties for lying to a detective.’
The smile faded a little, but not excessively. ‘I’m sure you’re aware that my programming wouldn’t let me.’ He stepped back and waved her inside.
‘Yeah, but look at it this way. Since
you say Ms Codnor was here with you, I don’t need to verify that unless I have reason to believe you have lied. You’re an exceptional alibi.’
‘I suppose that is something…’
Celia Codnor was stretched out on a lounger in a solarium which jutted out of the house on the seaward side. It was not exactly the weather for it, but there she was, dressed in a silk wrap and holding a martini glass at two in the afternoon on a Sunday. She was attractive, long in the leg and possessed of a slim figure equipped with enhanced breasts. From first impressions, her face was almost all natural with maybe a touch of work to tighten things up. She was in her late fifties and determined not to let it show.
She gave Fox a vaguely disinterested glance and then smiled at Steve. ‘Thank you, darling. Would Miss Meridian like coffee?’
‘No, thank you,’ Fox replied. ‘Captain Meridian doesn’t really need it these days.’
Codnor blinked once. ‘Oh, yes. You’re…’ She waved a hand in Steve’s direction. He was still hanging around, apparently waiting to be needed. ‘You’re like Steve.’
‘Not really, but we’re both infomorphs. Coffee doesn’t do much for either of us. I’m sure you’ve heard by now that your ex-husband is dead. I’d heard the divorce was less than amicable, but I have to say you don’t seem even slightly broken up about it.’
‘Well, I’m not.’ Codnor sipped her martini. ‘The man was a monster and, when I finally couldn’t stand him any more, he stiffed me royally on the settlement. Then, just to spite me, he made sure I was basically a social pariah.’ She had a Boston accent, and it was getting thicker is she became more animated.
‘A monster?’ Fox queried.
‘He–’ Codnor stopped and glowered at the sky through the solarium window. ‘I had to sign a contract as part of the settlement. I’m not allowed to discuss our private life. With anyone.’
‘That would be a civil contract and I would be here regarding a murder enquiry, Ms Codnor.’
‘I could be sued–’
Dominance (Fox Meridian Book 8) Page 3