by Barbara Paul
“Oh, you are most welcome,” he said.
King got ready for bed quickly, but he had trouble getting to sleep. He was excited; Gale was at least no longer saying no, and that was a big step. King had plunged into an area calling for Dennis Cox’s particular brand of expertise, and he’d handled it! He hadn’t stuttered or choked up or wheedled; he’d put his proposition to her in straight business terms and had come as close to convincing her as could reasonably be expected at this stage of the game.
Of course she’d want to own half of Keystone Robotics. That was a given. But would she want to own it badly enough to overcome her scruples against weapons? King rather thought she would; being handed half a prosperous business on a silver platter was enough to make anyone reconsider her personal ethics system. Gale was no fool; she’d know when it was time to adjust.
If anybody had told King a year ago that he’d give away half of his business, King would have thought that person was out of his mind. But he needed Gale to keep from losing the weapons platform project, and he couldn’t think of anything else that might bring her around. Besides, it was Dennis’s half he was giving away, not his own. King made a mental note to call the Pittsburgh lawyer who’d drawn up the original partnership agreement and get things rolling.
King honestly wanted Gale Fredericks as his partner; but beyond that, she was unknowingly a part of his plan to convince the police that he had no reason for wanting Dennis Cox dead. The next time he talked to Sergeant Larch or Malecki—and there would be a next itme, he was sure of that—the next time they spoke, he’d agonize over the impossibility of finding someone with Dennis’s precise combination of talents. Gale was the best designer he’d ever worked with, he’d say; she’d designed several complicated machines on her own as well as helped him on his bigger projects. But she lacked Dennis’s experience, he’d say, as well as his business acumen. King would make sure the police understood he was wrapped up in worries about the future of his company—worries that would not exist if Dennis Cox were still alive.
That should do it.
Eventually he calmed down to the point where he was starting to get drowsy. The big bed was even more comfortable than the one in his own home; maybe he should get a new one. It would be hard, leaving this apartment; he’d like to live here. And he got a kick out of sharing the place, even though only temporarily, with two attractive married women—one of whom he didn’t much like, the other whom he liked perhaps too much. Just thinking about them lying in their beds was enough to give him an erection. Neither woman had ever given King the slightest indication that a middle-of-the-night visit from him would be welcome. But perhaps if he took the initiative …
No. King groaned and rolled over. That much nerve, he didn’t have.
9
The next day was Sunday. Gale announced she had to get back to Pittsburgh; a new industrial robot she’d worked on was scheduled for demonstration on Monday and she’d already put the client off once.
King nodded. “Also, you need some time to think about my offer. Talk it over with Bill, see what he thinks.” King was counting on Husband Bill, who owned his own business, to look at all that extra money that would be coming in and help talk her into it. Unless he was one of those husbands who couldn’t stand having wives more successful than they.
“Oh, I already know what Bill will say,” Gale smiled. “He’ll say go for it. But this is a decision I have to make myself.”
King was tempted to tell her to forget about the weapons platform and accept the partnership with no strings attached. Before Dennis and Gregory had died, he would have done just that, blurting it out; now he was learning caution. “What time’s your plane?”
It wasn’t until late afternoon, so it seemed natural for Gale to sit in when King and Mimi had another go at planning a work schedule. Gale told Mimi she was just there to listen, but she couldn’t resist asking questions and making a suggestion or two. Neither of the other two did anything to discourage her.
“It seems pretty clear,” King said, “that what defeated the earlier design teams was not the operation of the weapons, but locomotion. Defense wants a platform that’ll move over any kind of solid surface, including ice.”
“The next generation,” Mimi said, “will be amphibious.”
“Yeah,” King grinned, “and won’t that be fun? But right now we don’t have to make this thing walk on water. However, half the earth’s land mass is impassable by wheels, so that means legs. Legs that move sideways as well as forward and backward. We can make the platform statically stable with six legs, but I’m wondering if that’s going to be good enough.”
Mimi chewed on the end of her pencil. “This platform, it’s going to have to be a self-directed shape-changer.”
“Totally self-directed?” Gale asked. “I see problems.”
“I know,” King sighed. “But the Defense Department wants the soldier-operator to concentrate on battle tactics and not have to worry about flat tires and oil changes. So the platform is going to have to switch means of locomotion by itself, in response to what its own tactile sensors tell it. No outside help.”
“Separate programming,” Mimi nodded. “But I’ll bet they want an override.” She shuffled through the papers on the table, looking for the right specifications.
“That’s not the biggest problem,” King pointed out. “Our main worry is space. We’re going to have to find a way to pack all the wheels and legs and treads and whatever into the small amount of room the specs allow us.”
“So that’s going to have to come first,” Gale said. “How big do the wheels have to be? Legs are collapsible, wheels aren’t—not dependably so, anyway. But what about treads? This platform’s going to be too heavy to do much serious climbing.”
“Tell that to the Defense Department,” Mimi sniffed. “Steps, hilly terrain—the electromagnetic gun platform stops at nothing.”
“Well, the steps won’t be a problem,” Gale told her. “You could use the technique Quest Technologies developed for their wheelchair that climbs stairs. Sonar sensors to measure the angularity of the steps and then treads substituted for wheels.”
King put on a sober expression. “But can it climb ladders?”
Mimi slammed down her pencil. “Oh, this is too much! Ladders? Why, the sheer weight of the platform—”
“I was joking, Mimi,” King laughed.
They worked steadily for several hours, until King’s growling stomach reminded them all they were getting hungry. They decided to grab a bite at JFK; both Mimi and King were beginning to suffer from cabin fever and needed to get out of the apartment for a while, regardless of the police’s warnings. Mimi called for the MechoTech limo to come pick them up.
On the way to the airport, Gale and Mimi got into a mild argument about some aspect of the platform’s design that they didn’t see eye-to-eye on. King was delighted; both women were acting as if it were a settled matter that Gale was now part of the team. He leaned back and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of their voices and not thinking about anything at all. He was happy.
When they pulled into the terminal and the limo driver let them out, King hoisted Gale’s carry-all over his shoulder and looked around. Usually he disliked airports; but this one didn’t seem especially intimidating, today. He led the way to the nearest restaurant.
They’d barely had time to glance at the menu when a young man who looked like Joe College stepped up to their table and showed them an NYPD badge. “Mrs. Hargrove, Mr. Sarcowicz—you shouldn’t be here. It’s too exposed. Will you come with me, please?”
Mimi was the first to find her voice. “How did you … you followed us?”
“Please come with me. We can’t protect you here.”
We? King looked around and spotted an even younger cop standing at the restaurant’s entrance, his eyes x-raying everyone in sight as he attempted to identify potential assassins lurking among the hungry customers. He and Mimi were being watched, followed? “It�
��s a public restaurant,” King protested. “Nothing will happen here.”
Gale placed her hand on his forearm. “We’d better do as he says.” She stood up.
King and Mimi exchanged a glance and somewhat impatiently followed suit. They all three trailed after the young … officer? detective?—who stopped just inside the entrance to the restaurant where the second cop was waiting. “You were asked not to leave town,” Joe College said to them in a tone of reprimand.
“We’re not going anywhere,” King replied irritably. “We’re just seeing off our friend here.”
The second cop pulled out a notebook and asked Gale her name. She gave him a strange look and then took a Keystone Robotics business card out of her shoulder bag. “I work for Mr. Sarcowicz,” she said in further explanation.
The young cop glanced at the card and nodded. “Gale Fredericks, right. You just got here yesterday.”
“That’s right.” Wonderingly.
“They checked with the security guards at the apartment building,” Mimi murmured.
“You checked on me?” Gale asked.
“We check everybody that goes into that apartment. Okay, I think you’d better say goodbye right here. Then we’ll escort you two back to your limousine.”
Gale’s mouth had tightened into a thin line. Her eyes darted back and forth between King and the two policemen, and her breathing became more rapid. “King, I’ve decided,” she said suddenly. “I accept your offer.”
His heart skipped a beat. “Which one?”
“Both of them. You shouldn’t have to face this alone.”
Ah, she’d found her rationale! King let out a whoop and gave her a hug—which embarrassed them both. “That’s great, Gale! I’ll call the lawyer first thing in the morning.”
“I can’t get back right away. One of us ought to—”
“I know. Call me tomorrow when you get a breathing space and we’ll figure out how to handle everything.”
Gale told Mimi goodbye, glanced uncertainly at the police, and went back into the restaurant. “Let’s go,” Joe College said.
The two youthful policemen marched them back to where the limo driver had parked, a lengthy trek. King didn’t mind; he could have floated the whole distance.
Mimi was watching him slyly out of the corner of her eye. “That was fortunate, wasn’t it? You know it was our official escort here that tipped the scale in your favor, don’t you?”
King grinned at her. “Whatever it takes.”
“You’re something of an opportunist, aren’t you, King? I would never have suspected it.”
“Oh, not really. She was already ninety percent hooked on the project—you know she was.”
Mimi admitted the truth of that. “Well, I’m glad it’s settled. Now we can tell Warren Osterman we’re back at full strength again.”
Full strength. Oh, yes indeedy. King had never felt stronger in his life.
It took King three tries the following morning to reach his lawyer in Pittsburgh. He told him he wanted to buy Dennis Cox’s share of the business, and to start drawing up new partnership papers.
That done, King tried to think what to do next. The unexpected appearance of the police in the airport restaurant the day before had reminded him exactly how seriously the NYPD was taking the supposed threat to his and Mimi’s lives. It occurred to him that if he went on acting as if he knew he wasn’t in danger, they just might change their minds. Things were going too smoothly for him to risk making the police suspicious now.
What would a man do who thought his life was in danger? Never leave the safety of his nest, first of all. But that was only a temporary measure; sooner or later, he’d have to go out. So then what? Hire a bodyguard? Possible, but unpalatable; King just didn’t want to put up with the inconvenience. But there had to be something he could do.
His phone conversation with his lawyer in Pittsburgh still lingered in his mind and provided him with the nudge he needed. He’d go see a lawyer. A man who thought he might die suddenly would make a will.
He scouted up a copy of the NYNEX Yellow Pages and found nearly fifty pages of lawyers and their advertisements. He looked at the guide of lawyers arranged by practice; under the heading WILLS TRUST & PROBATE ESTATES only about twenty entries were listed. Well, then, which one? He ran his finger down the list and one name jumped out at him: Howard J. M. Liebermann. Now who the hell was Howard Liebermann and why should that one name have stood out from the rest? Howard Liebermann, with two middle initials.
Two middle initials … it came back to him. The kid he’d met during one of his stops on Fifty-seventh Street—Ricky, that was his name. Liebermann was the lawyer handling Ricky’s father’s estate, and the one Ricky suspected of fooling around with his mom. King felt an urge to take a look at this seducer of grieving widows; he called Howard J. M. Liebermann and made an appointment for late that afternoon.
When the time for his appointment approached, he told Mimi what he was going to do and asked if she had made a will; his earlier reluctance to worry her had abated considerably. Mimi’s face changed expression about three times, but she said her affairs were in order.
In the limousine on the way to Liebermann’s office, King remembered that Monday was the day he was supposed to go back to the hospital for a check-up. But he couldn’t very well go when he didn’t know which hospital he’d been in. Of course, one telephone call to Rae Borchard would take care of that. Well, perhaps tomorrow. King kept looking through the rear window of the limo, trying to spot the police car that must be following him. No luck. In the movies, “making” a tail was so easy; in the reality of New York traffic, it was impossible.
The suite of offices occupied by Howard J. M. Liebermann and staff reflected a solid if not glamorous practice. Liebermann himself was a surprise; the great Lothario was short, plump, and balding. He had delicate hands that he used gracefully when he talked, showing off the carefully manicured nails. A bit vain, then. But the overall impression the lawyer created was one of stodginess, and King began to suspect that Ricky had been mistaken.
King didn’t have to do much explaining. Liebermann knew who he was; he’d read the Times account of the two deaths last Thursday and got straight to the nub of the matter. “You think you are in danger, Mr. Sarcowicz?” he asked.
King frowned. “The police think so. At first I was convinced both deaths were just accidents, but now I’m not so sure. Anyway, I figured it wouldn’t hurt …”
“I understand,” the lawyer murmured smoothly. “Everyone should make out a will anyway, whether there’s danger or not. Do you have a previous will?”
“No. I can’t tell you exactly how much I have to leave, because it changes from week to week. A dollar amount isn’t necessary, is it?”
“Not at all. All that’s needed is a statement of your intent for the disposition of your property and effects.” Liebermann drew a legal pad toward him and started making notes. “How many heirs will there be?”
“Only two. With the exception of a hundred thousand dollars, I want everything I own to go to Gale Fredericks. That includes my business, my house and its contents, and a few investments my partner made for me. My late partner,” he amended. Reading upside down, he saw that Liebermann had written down Gail Fredericks. “That’s g-a-l-e,” he told him.
Liebermann raised an eyebrow and made the correction. “Changing times. ‘G-a-l-e’ used to be a man’s name. Her address?”
King gave him the address of Keystone Robotics. “I’ll get her home address to you later.”
“Fine. And the hundred thousand dollars?”
“I want that to go to Mrs. Rowe, r-o-w-e, my next-door neighbor. She’d going to be having medical expenses and a cash gift will help.”
“First name?”
King felt sheepish. He’d lived next door to the old lady for eleven years without ever bothering to learn her first name. “Elvira,” he improvised. “No—wait. She once told me that was her middle name. I’ll have
to get back to you on that.”
Liebermann asked for her address and wrote it down. “Well, I see no problems. Call me as soon as you have Ms Fredericks’s home address and Mrs. Rowe’s first name, and I’ll have the will ready for your signature an hour later.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. It’s a straightforward bequest with no conditions attached. Just don’t delay getting the missing information to me.”
King said he wouldn’t and thanked the lawyer for his help. He was tempted to ask Liebermann what Ricky’s last name was and whether the boy was doing all right or not; but even that tenuous a connection to Fifty-seventh Street was something he’d better avoid. When he left the building he paused a moment, to make sure the police saw him coming out. He still couldn’t spot them.
He climbed into the limo. King wanted to buy a billfold, but he didn’t want a repetition of yesterday’s scene at the airport restaurant. He took a fifty-dollar bill from the envelope of cash Gale had brought and asked the limo driver to go into a store for him. All the time the driver was gone, King kept looking around for Joe College or whoever was on duty today. A man could get paranoid.
Back at the apartment, with his new billfold containing cash and nothing else, King indulged in a few moments’ silent gloating. Someone from the police department was probably in Liebermann’s office right then, finding out what King had been doing there. Or, if they truly were protecting him and not checking up on him, he could mention to one of the investigating detectives that he’d just made out his will and Liebermann would be there to back him up. He was covered either way.
But his visit to the lawyer’s office had set him to wondering how old Mrs. Rowe was doing. Would she be back home yet? Probably not. So King called Shadyside Hospital in Pittsburgh and made his inquiries. He was told that the old lady had suffered a second stroke Friday morning and had died.
Tuesday was Dennis’s funeral. King remembered something he ought to do; he called Gale Fredericks and asked her to find a phone number for Dennis’s parents. King had never met them, but they’d think it odd if they didn’t hear from him at a time like this.