Fury from Fontainebleau

by Adrian Speed

  The taxi shot out of the car park and onto the open road. Around us hundreds of identical cars moved around the roads like shoals of fish. There were road signs and road signals but they were faded as if no-one ever bothered to look after them. None of the cars seemed to be driven by a human, no-one needed physical signs, I suppose.

  “This doesn’t look like New York,” I said, looking out at the buildings. None of them were more than ten stories high. If they weren’t a different style, I’d have said we were somewhere in London. The grey skies and driving rain only added to the feeling.

  “This is Brooklyn,” Sir Reginald said. “Even I cannot afford a parking space in Manhattan.” He chuckled. Our car turned sharply and began an on-ramp to one of the bridges towards the island I had always thought of as New York.

  The skyline had changed. The World Trade Centre buildings were gone, so had the Bank of America building and a bunch of others I’d never known the names for. Sometimes new buildings had taken their place and old iconic buildings like the Chrysler building and the Empire State building still stood as if they would outlast the pyramids.

  But my attention was focused on the sea. It stormed and howled at great levees that had been built all around the island. Every wave that crashed against it looked like it was going to go over the top, and then at the last moment pulled back and gave up. As I looked I realised not all of the city had been protected by the sea wall. Remnants of buildings sat in the waves like the ruins of Atlantis.

  “That would be why we landed in water,” Sir Reginald nodded, following my gaze. “Most of Manhattan was preserved but swathes of Brooklyn have been abandoned to the waves, I am afraid. Simply not cost effective to preserve. Especially when cities like Denver are in no danger.”

  “I find it hard to believe New Yorkers would leave half their city under water and do nothing about it.”

  “The Great Storms of ’04, ’14, ’47, and the back to back 49ers were quite persuasive,” Sir Reginald said. Then a seed of doubt woke up behind his eyes. “But er, don’t quote me on those dates. It has been a while since I last visited the twenty-second century.”

  The car passed over the bridge and down onto the island of Manhattan. As we passed over the levee it was terrifying to see the twenty-foot water on one side of the levee and a thirty-foot office block on the other with only engineering and concrete between them. No wonder people would abandon earth for the moon, when the earth was trying to destroy their home.

  “Roads are quiet.”

  “It is approximately 6:15 in the morning,” Sir Reginald said. “The police investigating Jonathon’s death will have arrived only half an hour ago.”

  The taxi flitted through the shoals of other cars and came to rest outside a skyscraper I didn’t recognise. It could have been built in the interceding hundred and fifty years, or it could have been one of the boring blocks I’d never paid attention to before. Either way Capital Pictures hung over the door. We passed a drug store and a closed restaurant as we entered the atrium but the building wasn’t empty. A rabble was scrambling at the front desk.

  “My son is up there, for God’s sake! Let me see him!”

  “Sir, the system can only grant access to the police and those they’ve authorised until they clear the lockdown. I physically cannot open the elevators for you.”

  A woman yelled, “I have a Capital Pictures pass, surely the system will–”

  “I’m sorry, no, not even Mr Sotheby-Arnold’s wife would be cleared for access–”

  “I’m his girlfriend!”

  “So you aren’t his wife.”

  “Ahem.” Sir Reginald had slid between the crowd like a snake and rested his hands on the front desk. “My name is Sir Reginald Derby III and this is my associate Ms Hannah Delaronde.” He reached out an arm and pulled me through the crowd. “We are here to investigate the death of Jonathon Sotheby-Arnold.”

  “Can I see your police identity card, Mr Derby, my aug isn’t recognising your face.” The receptionist tapped at the small piece of metal and glass tucked around her ear and projecting into her eye. Her clothes reminded me of the lunar colonists a hundred years from now. She had strips of LEDs on her eyelids and woven into her hair. Her clothes would have fitted in well with the punks in London's rave scene.

  “Alas, I am not a member of the police, I am a private investigator.” Sir Reginald reached into his coat. “This is my licence to operate in the state of New York, with provision for deputies.”

  “You don’t look forty years old.” The receptionist looked over the card carefully, checking every piece of information. Her aug flashed further information into her eyes as she checked it over. The picture of Sir Reginald could have been taken yesterday.

  “A fortunate fluke of genetics,” Sir Reginald said with a smile. “All Derby men look the same until we hit sixty, then our hair falls out, our bellies swell, and we start making fun of youth today.”

  "Well… it’s valid.” The receptionist passed the card back to Sir Reginald. “So it should let you pass through the lockdown. Report to Detective Inspector Kavanagh on floor thirty.”

  “Wait, wait, you’re letting him go up there?!” one of the men in the crowd exploded, slamming his fists against the reception desk. “He’s a complete stranger.”

  "Mr Sotheby, he’s got the paperwork. If you had the paperwork, you’d be going up.” The receptionist shrugged as Sir Reginald strode towards the elevator. I took a closer look at this twenty-second century Sotheby. He didn’t have quite the same features as the shooter in the future or the professor in the past. He was leaner, fitter, healthier, taller. He’d spent his entire life with money. But he did have that same fleck in his pupils marking him as one of the Sotheby family. “My hands are tied Mr Sotheby. That’s just the system.”

  Sir Reginald and I shielded ourselves from the argument by getting inside the elevator. It had glass walls that let us continue to watch the family stamp their feet and throw up their hands as they dealt with the unfairness of it. I felt their frustration. It seemed so arbitrarily cruel. As the elevator began to climb I realised that the rabble of family members were the only people left on the reception floor. There was a pharmacy, a convenience store and a restaurant for convenience but nobody seemed to be in any of them. The lockdown must have scared everyone else away.

  “So, forty years old, huh?” I nudged Sir Reginald.

  “I am afraid I was forced to tell the state of New York that I was born in 2125 when they decided that a one hundred and seventy-year-old man couldn’t renew his private detective’s licence,” Sir Reginald said with a smile. “Frankly I am surprised they allowed it to go on that long.”

  “I guess it must be easy to always make sure you have the right paperwork,” I nodded to myself. “With a time machine you can put the application in and instantly get the licence six to eight weeks later.”

  “Yes, alas it was all easier before the twentieth century. A man's introduction was his proof of character. Then the confidence tricksters arose and everyone needed to see paperwork at every single juncture.” He frowned. “Or their crystalwork. Or their personal trans-infinite identification code.” He crossed his arms. “It’s never so difficult that an intelligent man of means cannot overcome the obstacle. It is only ever a deterrent. But then again if it wearies me as it does, when I have one of the greatest means and wits there is, then it must be doing something.”

  The elevator came to a halt and Sir Reginald and I stepped out, into the lobby of a large open plan office. Abandoned computer screens blinked their screensavers plaintively for someone to return. Policemen had set up a checkpoint at the elevator. Their uniforms looked similar, but they all wore cameras on their chests and had numerous reflective patches on their knife-vests. Augs hung from every ear.

  “Gentlemen, Sir Reginald Derby III, private investigator, and my associate Ms Hannah Delaronde.” Sir Reginald stepped out and held his identity card out like a talisman. “I am to report to Detective Kavan
agh.”

  “Who hired a sodding PI?” The sergeant at the check point snatched Sir Reginald’s identity card to look for errors. “We ain't hardly told the next of kin.”

  “The laws of the state of New York do not require I tell you that.”

  “Bet it was one of the family downstairs.” The corporal shook his head. “They always try to get around the lockdown."

  “Kavanagh’s with the stiff and the coroner.” The sergeant thrust the identity card back at Sir Reginald so hard it was almost a punch.

  “Medical examiner,” the corporal corrected.

  “Whatever; they’re in the film archive room. O’Doul will take you there.” The sergeant glared at his corporal. The corporal shrugged and waved Sir Reginald and me to follow. We picked our way across the office to the other side where a corridor led through the building. More open plan offices sprang off it until we eventually reached the far side. Corporal O’Doul opened a door that looked like it would lead to a supply cupboard or a stairwell, but inside sat rows and rows of film cans, each as big as a car wheel. The air felt filtered as we stepped inside, but it couldn’t get rid of the smell of all that metal. The room was almost as large as one of the open plan offices but deeply claustrophobic. The film cans were stacked from floor to ceiling.

  “Detective Inspector Kavanagh, there’s a private investigator here to see you,” Corporal O’Doul announced as we followed the stacks deeper into the room.

  “Right here.” A hand waved from the far end of the stacks and we headed towards it. As we turned the corner it was impossible to miss Jonathon Sotheby-Arnold’s body. The medical examiner was bent over him as he lay in a bean-bag chair staring at the ceiling. A film projector sat next to him. I felt like I’d seen it before, but I couldn’t put my finger on where.

  A huge man headed over to us as we arrived. “I’m Detective Inspector Kavanagh. I’m afraid whoever hired you’s wasted their money. Drug overdose. Plain as day.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Ooh yeah, boy; howdy.” The medical examiner stood up from inspecting the body. “He's got enough heroin in his system to kill the last rhinoceros. I don’t care what he thought his tolerance was, this is at least a hundred times more than would kill you.”

  “Indeed.” Sir Reginald inclined his head. “I think I shall wait for the official report.”

  “Get some billable hours in, eh?” Kavanagh slapped Sir Reginald on the shoulder hard enough to bend him double. “Be my guest, lad, be my guest. Delgado, keep an eye on the PI and finish up here won’t you?” Kavanagh nodded to his deputy and headed for the door. “Get me a draft report by the morning and we’ll give a press conference at nine.” He seemed to be ignoring the fact it was already six a.m.

  “Yes sir,” Deputy Delgado saluted as he left. She shared none of her superior’s assurance. My eyes flickered from her to Sir Reginald and a snap of understanding passed between us. The door swung shut behind Kavanagh and Delgado seemed to sag.

  “It’s such a shame,” the medical examiner said as they began to pull their equipment off Jonathon Sotheby-Arnold. “I've been a fan of his since Bibliography of Broken Promises. The way I hear, this was supposed to be his Oscar film. All the drama of his indie work plus the action of a blockbuster.” She packed away her equipment, brought out a slate and tapped on it a few times. “Right, the report’s all yours Delgado.”

  “Thanks Miantan.” Delgado tapped her aug to check the report had come through. “That’s great. I'll see you back at the station.”

  “After some sleep,” the Medical Examiner nodded and suppressed a yawn. “See ya.”

  Delgado, Sir Reginald and I did our best to stop ourselves from watching her leave. When the door closed you could practically hear the muscles relax.

  “You don’t think it was just an overdose, do you Ms Delgado?" Sir Reginald spoke first.

  “Jonathon was an addict for a long time, and he was on an opiate substitute while he was ‘clean’. No matter how much his tolerance had gone down, I still think that dose would have been survivable.”

  “Nonetheless," Sir Reginald approached Jonathon’s body and crouched down next to it. “An overdose is the most likely cause of death for a man in his position. Relapsed addicts rarely get their dosages correct.”

  “He had a Cobradyne aerosol injector.” Delgado crouched down next to Sir Reginald and held out an evidence bag. “These are designed to be able to find the safe dosage to give to someone.” Sir Reginald took the bag from Delgado and turned the device over in his hands.

  “Could it be tampered with?” I asked.

  “It could,” Delgado conceded. “It would not be an easy job.”

  “If I am looking at this device correctly,” Sir Reginald tapped a small instruction panel on the side of the injector, “the maximum dose this device can inject at one time is well below what would have been in Jonathon’s system.”

  “He had six of them,” Delgado said. “And if you use them all at once, they don’t realise the others are working.”

  “Sounds like quite the design flaw.” Sir Reginald put the injector down and regarded it with the same suspicion he might a bloody knife.

  “Getting your hands on even one of these requires some of the highest medical security. If they don’t log into the medical database every day they shut down.” Delgado shook her head, making her ponytail bob in time with her LED lights. “He must have got them from smurfs.”

  “Smurfs?”

  “Small blue trolls,” Sir Reginald said and blinked. “I… er… I mean persons who gain a prescription for medication and then accept money to pass it along to someone else.” Sir Reginald looked to Delgado for reassurance. “That’s the nomenclature in the twenty-second century isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Delgado’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right.”

  “So… that would explain the overdose, right?” I said. “He’s not using the injector the way it’s supposed to, it gives him too much of the drug?”

  “That’s what Kavanagh thinks,” Delgado agreed. “I… I am not sure. Even with six of them… they are meant to be fool proof.”

  “Why did the Cobradyne personal assistance droid walk into a bar?” Sir Reginald said under his breath.

  “What?”

  “Sorry, a joke a robot told me.” Sir Reginald looked over Jonathon’s body and reached out a pencil to turn the man’s face one way then the other, looking him in the eyes, ears, mouth and nose. Jonathon had the same eye fleck as his father. He'd be the only man of Arnold blood to have it, I realised, as the inheritance wave passed to Marlin Arnold. His face was more handsome than the other Sothebys, with the strong features of the Arnolds breaking through in the brow. I didn’t know where he got the redness in his cheeks, but it was brighter than either Sotheby or Arnold. Then I noticed the crusted mucus around his nose.

  “He had a cold,” I said, crouching down and inspecting his face. His nose was dripping with snot. “I can’t imagine how annoying it would be to die with a cold.”

  “Annoying indeed,” Sir Reginald nodded. “Although heroin withdrawal can cause a running nose.” He turned to Delgado. “But you must have more than this, to think it was more than an overdose.”

  “We know from his augs that before he locked himself in here to watch old films the last person to see him alive was Raymond Delacroix.” Delgado waited for some kind of response; when she didn’t get one she continued. “His rival. The one he had a punch up with a week ago. He kicked Deleacroix off the film and they had a fight.”

  “I see,” Sir Reginald nodded. “Revenge, good motive, last person to see him alive, good opportunity, tainted drugs, reasonable murder weapon, easy to hide. Where is Delacroix?”

  “He was in the bar, but now.... he’s in digital compositing, studio A. He was trapped in the building in the lockdown.”

  “Then take us to him, Deputy Delgado.” Sir Reginald stood. “And let’s see if means, motive and opportunity are all they’re cracked up to be.”


  Chapter XXI

  Walking through the open plan offices took on an eerie aspect knowing Jonathon was dead just a few yards away. People’s desks were covered in half-filled notebooks, annotated script pages, half-drafted contracts and slates left abandoned on the assumption they’d be back to work in the morning. Deputy Delgado’s words didn’t make it anymore comforting.

  “We know from his aug his fight with Delacroix was at 1:14 a.m. last night,” Delgado explained. “It started civilly enough but swiftly fell to shouting and even a few blows. Delgado left at 1:47 a.m. and headed to level twenty-seven and the bar.”

  “How late does the bar stay open?” I asked.

  “The bar has automated service on a reduced menu all night until relieved by a human barman at 9 in the morning.”

  “Sounds like a recipe for alcohol poisoning.”

  “Oh, Delacroix’s aug would have told the robot to stop serving him long before he got in danger of that.”

  “Comforting.”

  “Jonathon continued to work on notes regarding the digital composits for his film until 2:32 a.m. when he closed down his slate and... unhooked his aug. After that we have only the security sensors to go on. He seemed sober enough when he entered the archive room carrying an old projector at 2:57 a.m., but he never left the room alive.”

  “No sensors in the archive room?”

  “Only humidity and temperature. There’s nothing anyone cares about in there. All the original master prints went to the Rocky Mountain Range deposit system years ago.”

  “When was Jonathon found?”

  “At 5:23 a.m. by his producer’s assistant, Sam Smith.”

  “Does Jonathon have his own assistant?”

  “No, he wanted to preserve his ‘indie credibility’.” Delgado said the words in the same way she might say ‘child molestation’. “He either did things himself or sent one of his crew. And usually the crew would send their own assistants.”