by Michael Rose
Conner licked her lips. “Gene was a good man, Agent Allen. But he did have… weaknesses. He occasionally hired prostitutes.”
Allen nodded. There was another lead for him to pursue. “Thank you for being honest, Miss Conner.”
“Of course.”
“Look, until this is all sorted out, I’d like to provide a Bureau escort for you.”
Conner’s eyes widened. “You think they would kill me, too? But without Gene we don’t have the votes, there would be no need to….”
“No need doesn’t mean no desire. If their motivations are political, they may want to drive home the point.”
Conner wiped at her eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I’ll have a couple of agents escort you to and from work and stand guard outside your home. This will all be over before you know it.”
Conner stood. “Thank you, Agent Allen.”
Allen reached into his coat and removed a card. “Here’s my contact information. Call me if you remember anything that might help us find Mr. Palmer’s killer… or if you need anything else.”
“I will, thank you.”
“I’ll see that your escorts are here before you leave the building this afternoon.” He held out his hand and she took it.
“Please find the killer, Agent Allen. Gene was a good man. He didn’t deserve this.”
“I’ll do my best, Miss Conner. I’ll be in touch.”
2
RICK SULLIVAN SAT on a bench in Central Park, looking out over a playground. From his vantage point, he could see the tall spire of the Underwood Building on Central Park West. He had finished his immediate business, and all he had to do now was wait. If they were able to identify him, he’d have to get off the planet. If he wasn’t found, there was still more work he could do here. But for now, on this beautiful day, sitting in the park was about as good as it got.
Sullivan glanced at the playground and watched the children. He envied them. Growing up on Earth, they had never known misery or want. The closest they ever got to violence was playing the virtual reality war games. Videos and photos of real wars on other planets were less vivid than those games. The gruesomeness of it, the destruction of it, the pain of it, seemed to be nothing more than a fiction to them. They knew it happened, but it happened to other people light-years away. On Earth, war was for entertainment.
Sullivan had played war games as a child. His home planet of Edaline was just as technologically advanced as Earth, he’d had all the same comforts and luxuries. But Edaline had none of the social and political stability. The people were not content with their government, and the government was not content to let any challenges to their power go unanswered.
When Sullivan was fourteen, those disruptions reached a fever pitch. Edaline’s military had been dispatched to put down a student uprising at Agrona University. The resulting massacre rallied the citizenry against the government, and for six months, revolution flared. As the people rose up, they took control of eighty percent of the capital, Agrona. In other cities around the planet, similar uprisings pushed the military back, drove the politicians into hiding and took over government facilities.
But the revolution burned brightly and was extinguished quickly. The military decided that by fighting street to street, they were at a disadvantage. In such fighting, they couldn’t bring their superior weaponry to bear. The rebels had gotten ahold of anti-tank and anti-air weapons, barricaded the streets and been able to repulse ground assaults and take down low-flying fighters. But the surgical strike missiles were idle. There was no way to use them and restrict casualties to the rebel forces. Even if the weapons’ precise guiding systems performed flawlessly, the destructive force of the missiles would damage the surrounding buildings. If Edaline’s military used them, civilian casualties would be heavy.
Sullivan’s neighborhood was one of the first to be hit. It was early evening, and his mother was cooking dinner over a grill on the balcony of their apartment. The power had been out for weeks, spoiling all the food that required cold storage, but they had managed to make do with the small supply of canned and dried foods they’d had in the pantry.
At first, Sullivan didn’t know what the sound was. There had been explosions since the start of the revolution but nothing like this deep, rumbling wave that shook the building and made his father stand and look toward the open balcony door. His mother came inside and closed the door just before the shock wave of another blast, stronger and closer, reached their building, shattering the windows and rattling the dishes off the table and the pictures off the walls.
Sullivan’s father took his and his mother’s hands. “Let’s go down to the parking garage,” he said, speaking firmly but calmly.
The unlit stairwell was filled with the other tenants of the building. A few had flashlights and were trying to illuminate the way for as many as possible. A cry rose up from the crowd as another missile hit.
“They’re getting nearer!” cried his mother.
Sullivan’s father leaned over the railing and looked down the stairwell. “Move, damn it!” he yelled.
Sullivan’s mother put her hand on his father’s shoulder. “Why have we stopped?”
“Something’s happened down there. I think someone’s hurt, blocking the stairway.”
The last explosion that Sullivan recalled knocked him sideways. He felt himself fall, land hard against what felt like another person and then the dim light from the flashlights faded as the smoke and dust rose and his eyes closed.
SULLIVAN BLINKED AND refocused his eyes as a child began to cry. He looked over at the jungle gym and saw a small boy lying in the sand, clutching his arm. The boy’s mother rushed to his side and cradled him.
It was time to go. If the boy was seriously injured, Sullivan didn’t want to be around when the police and paramedics arrived. He got up from the bench, slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way east across the park, away from the playground and away from the Underwood Building.
When Sullivan emerged onto Fifth Avenue, he paused to study some of the centuries-old buildings that still existed in Manhattan. There was nothing this old on Edaline. By the time the missile attacks on the rebel-held neighborhoods had ended, much of Agrona was in ruins. Sullivan had somehow survived it. As far as he knew, his parents hadn’t.
He’d woken up in a military hospital. The doctors had told him that it was a miracle that his injuries had been so slight. He’d fractured his femur. Aside from that and a few minor cuts and bruises, his body was sound.
Over the weeks that he spent in recovery at the hospital and later at the orphanage, he stopped every man or woman in a uniform and inquired about his parents. He told them that they hadn’t been rebels; they had only been trying to survive. Everyone he spoke to assured him that they’d look into it. He doubted if any of them ever had. Thousands had been killed in the bombardment. The government’s official number was eleven thousand, but most people knew it was at least two—maybe even three—times that.
Sullivan wandered Manhattan aimlessly before finally slipping into a bar on 77th Street. He took a seat at the bar and followed the bartender’s gaze toward a large screen covering the wall at the far end of the room. A news report was on. The caption below the image of the reporter read “Assemblyman Palmer Found Murdered.” Behind her, Sullivan recognized the front entryway of Underwood Building.
“Can you turn the volume up?” asked Sullivan, turning to the bartender.
“Sure thing.”
The reporter’s voice rose to an audible level. “… Palmer, who had long been a champion for Edaline’s admittance into the Stellar Assembly. The vote for that planet’s admittance, which had been scheduled for tomorrow, has now been postponed. The reaction at the Stellar Assembly hall has been one of shock and sorrow. Kevin?”
The scene switched to an anchor sitting behind a desk. “Thank you, Evelyn. For those of you just joining us….”
“Put the game on,” said a ma
n at the far end of the bar.
The bartender switched the channel.
“Some news,” he said, turning to Sullivan. “What can I get you?”
“Anything on tap.”
The bartender poured a beer and handed it to Sullivan.
“Thanks. Did they say if there are any leads, any motives?”
“No. The news just broke. I guess they found him this morning but had kept it quiet until now.” The bartender watched as Sullivan took a sip of the beer. “Your accent. You’re not from Earth?”
“No. I’m from Calandra,” Sullivan said, lying.
“Here on business or pleasure?”
“Business. But I have the day off, so I’m exploring the city.”
“Welcome to New York.”
“Thanks.”
Sullivan gulped down the rest of his beer then handed a pre-paid credit card to the bartender. He’d bought it before leaving Edaline; he didn’t want any of his purchases to be linked to him.
The bartender scanned the card and handed it back along with a terminal. Sullivan glanced at the amount, added a tip and pressed “Enter.”
“Thanks again,” he said, getting up.
“Enjoy your visit.”
“I already am.”
Sullivan emerged back out onto the street as the sun was beginning to set. He made his way back to Central Park to find a quiet spot for the night. Even a planet as wealthy as Earth had poverty, and no one ever paid very close attention to the homeless. He’d find a group and try to blend in.
3
ALLEN AND WAGNER sat at their facing desks, tossing a baseball back and forth. It had been twelve hours, and the prostitute lead had fizzled; she didn’t appear to be involved. On the surveillance footage, they had watched her arrive the night before then leave an hour later. Palmer had followed her to the door and could be seen grabbing her ass as she left the apartment.
But the footage of the assassin had proven to be much more enlightening. He could clearly be seen ringing Palmer’s bell and pulling and firing an energy weapon when the door opened.
Wagner tossed the baseball. Allen plucked it from the air and held it, turning it over in his hands. “So… Caucasian, one hundred and eighty centimeters, brown hair, medium build. Do we think he’s from Edaline or a hired pro?” He tossed the baseball back to Wagner.
She caught the ball. “The hit was professional. But they have hit men on Edaline. A local boy would be easier and safer to hire than trying to reach out to someone on Earth.”
“Especially if said hit man shares their political ideas,” said Allen, catching the return. “So we check passenger manifests for flights arriving from Edaline.”
“Problem is, Frank, he could have planet-hopped his way here. Or he could have come in a year ago and been lying low. If we go back that far and restrict the search to just flights from Edaline, we’re still probably talking about over a million guys matching our description.”
“We can narrow that down. I researched the Edaline issue earlier. The first time Palmer publicly announced his support for incorporation was on April third.”
“About a year ago.”
“Right. Let’s say that as soon as he heard about Palmer’s support, the assassin got on the first available flight to Earth. The fastest ships can make the trip in three months. Add to that the three months it would’ve taken for an outgoing ship to carry the news from Earth to Edaline, and we’re up to six months. And that’s being generous. With the time it would take the rebellion’s leaders to decide upon a plan and find someone to do the deed, I’d bet we’re down to four months. Still, we’ll go back six just to cover our bases. If we don’t find anyone we like on those flights then we’ll start looking at flights from other planets.”
As Allen was speaking, Wagner went to work on her computer. “So all flights from Edaline to Earth within the past six months….”
“Don’t forget freighters. They often take on passengers and list them as crew.”
“Unless they’re smuggling someone in.”
“Let’s just see what we have on legal entries first.”
Wagner squinted her eyes at her screen. “Adding commercial passengers and freighter crews comes to… eight hundred thousand, seven hundred and fifty-two, of which five hundred nineteen thousand, two hundred and eleven are men. Damn.”
Allen got up from his desk and moved around to see Wagner’s screen. “How many were Caucasian?”
“Two hundred and eight thousand, three hundred and forty-nine.”
“All right… now set the height variable for a range from one seventy-five to one eighty-five.”
“One hundred ninety thousand, seven hundred and three.”
“We can ignore hair color, that can be easily altered. So how many of those are still on Earth?”
“Two thousand and eighty.”
“All right, one final variable: how many have either been in or through New York within the last week?”
“One hundred and seventy-seven.”
“You want to know what I think? I think our perp came to New York at least a week ago. He’d want to spend some time tailing his mark, learning his habits. And I think he plans on staying a while longer. He’d have to know we would check passenger manifests. What would stand out?”
“Someone who left today, soon after the murder.”
“Exactly. I’ll bet he’s still in New York or within a few hours of the city by train.”
“If we eliminate those recently passing though, we’re down to ninety-five.”
“We can work with that number. Bring up their files, one at a time.”
“Yes, no, maybe time?”
“You got it.” Allen pulled his chair around, and the two spent the next hour and a half evaluating the suspects based on appearance, reason for visiting, occupation, traveling companions and anything else that caught their attention. At the end of their labor, they had their three groups.
Allen rubbed his eyes as he looked away from the screen. “My eyes are going fuzzy. What are the numbers, Liz?”
“Yesses: twenty-nine. Nos: fifty-eight. Maybes: eight.”
“Good. The surveillance footage shows Palmer was killed around twenty-three thirty last night. Let’s see if we can locate any of those twenty-nine yesses on the city’s surveillance system.”
Wagner typed the commands into her computer. A bar appeared across the bottom of the screen, slowly creeping toward the right as the request was processed. After several minutes, the search had been completed.
“Here we go,” said Wagner. “The network’s facial recognition software found hits on twenty of our yesses.” She scrolled through the information. “Only one of them was near Palmer’s building at the time.” She pulled up a video of a man walking down the street, two blocks from the scene of the murder. As they watched, he wiped a hand across his forehead.
Allen leaned in. “Enlarge that, will you?” Wagner did so. “He’s not wearing a ball cap, but the rest of the clothes look like a match to the man caught on the building’s cameras.”
As they continued watching, the man brought his right hand up from his side and placed a cap on his head.
“There’s the cap,” said Allen. “Who is he?”
Wagner called up the man’s information. “Richard Sullivan, aged twenty-six, arrived in London from Edaline on the eighth. Took a flight from London to New York on the ninth. Staying at the Fletcher Hotel ever since.”
Allen had returned to his own desk and leaned in to his computer screen. “I’ll put in a request to get the Fletcher Hotel’s records.” He waited a moment as the request traveled across the Stellar Assembly’s governmental computer network to a waiting judge who would evaluate the request then, at the touch of a button, either approve or reject it.
“We got approval,” said Allen. He typed in a few short sentences informing the Fletcher that a warrant had been served to search their records. Within a few minutes, he was granted access to their computer sys
tem.
Allen looked from his screen to Wagner. “Sullivan, right?”
“Yes.”
“He’s in room seventeen eleven and checking out on Saturday. That’s four days from now.”
“Sit on him?”
“I think so. We can’t risk pulling up with lights flashing and spooking him.” Allen was busy at his computer again. “His room faces the street. There’s another hotel across from the Fletcher that we can set up in.”
Wagner went to work at her own terminal. “I’ll make the arrangements to get us in a room facing the Fletcher.”
“Good. Meanwhile, I want to read up on Edaline some more. I want to know where Sullivan is coming from.”
ALLEN TURNED HIS attention from the front door of the Fletcher and looked up at the room Sullivan had rented. Despite the human observation and a continuous feed from the cameras along the street in front of the hotel, no one matching Sullivan’s description had been seen either coming or going during the three days of the stakeout. Allen heard the door handle behind him and turned as Wagner entered the room with a paper takeout bag.
“Well, I think I’m finally ready to admit that we’ve been had,” said Allen, peering into the bag as Wagner held it out to him. He began poking through the items in the bag, trying to decipher the pen scrawls on the top of each takeout box to figure out which of them belonged to him. He found his sweet and sour pork and white rice and removed them. “Sullivan’s not in that room, Liz. I don’t think he’s ever been in that room. Did you get soy sauce?”
Wagner removed the rest of the items. “Here it is,” she said, handing him a packet from the bottom of the bag. “So we know he checked in the day he arrived. The cameras catch him leaving the Fletcher a few minutes later, they catch him near Palmer’s building the morning of the murder, then nothing. Where is he? Where has he been sleeping?”
“The Park? Hundreds of homeless sleep there every night. He could have blended in with them.”
“Or he’s left the city. He might even be off-planet by now.”
Allen swallowed a bite. “He can’t get through security without being flagged. He can’t get on a plane, passenger shuttle, train, bus or boat without us knowing. Either he’s just keeping his head down, wearing a hat and glasses, or he got out under the radar.”