Screw it. He had other worries right now.
The spot computer thrummed against his hand. He checked it while he walked. The data instantaneously darkened, adjusting to sunlight piercing the clouds from the east. InSIGHT—International Security Intelligence Generator of Human Tracking—updated the status with photos and preliminary stats of body temperature and decomposition. Images uploaded of little Isabelle all alone lying on the floor of a child’s bedroom, a favorite doll clutched to her chest.
York paused, a knot lodging in his throat. He shivered and his stomach clenched. He wouldn’t wish this tragedy on the genetic misfits hiding out in the tunnels, let alone on a valued friend.
He inhaled a breath, held it, then moved on with the exhale. He could feel Vee checking him out, probably wondering how he was holding up. Solid, he wanted to tell her, but didn’t.
Beneath the stately columned portico, Fredrick B-Gastion greeted them with the pride and formality one would expect from a dignitary. “Thank you for coming so promptly, Lieutenant.”
“Of course.” York clasped his friend’s extended hand. “I’m not sure you’ve met my partner, Detective Vivian Lester.”
“I have, but I can’t remember where at the moment.”
Vee angled her head. “I wish this meeting were under different circumstances.”
Didn’t they all? No matter appearances, A-Gastion was broken and hurting. The evidence rang clear in the director general’s halfhearted grasp and bloodshot eyes.
“Let’s go inside.” York urged him toward the half-opened door. Vee trailed behind them.
Feet rapped an uneven rhythm on glossy marble tile as they moved deeper into the living area. He and B-Gastion stopped and stared at each other, professional to professional, man to man, father to father.
“Who made the discovery?” York asked and swallowed hard. The look of anguish on B-Gastion’s face said he might have reached his threshold for holding it together. York placed an arm around his shoulder and directed him toward the sofa.
“Her mother.” B-Gastion cleared a catch from his throat. “How…how could this happen? It’s not supposed to happen.”
York smothered a curse. “We’ll damn well find out. I’m so sorry.”
“This is…it’s such a shock.” B-Gastion pressed his lips together, then turned his head to the side, looking away.
“The sooner we start the investigation, the quicker we’ll have answers. Where’s her room?”
B-Gastion glanced up the staircase, and his face began to crumple in earnest, his mouth quivering and wet with saliva.
York stood tall, wishing to give his friend strength. “I can find my way. Why don’t you have a seat?”
Drawing a breath, B-Gastion sucked back his emotional spill. “No. No. I should go with you.”
“The forensic team will arrive soon. You can usher them in.” York worked to find more words of comfort, but knew that was impossible. Condolences wouldn’t grant his friend what he wanted most. So he slipped a recorder ring from his finger and held it out, a stall technique to give B-Gastion time to compose himself.. “Dictate every detail you can think of. Anything and everything. The daily routine. Whether anyone new has been in the house.”
B-Gastion took the ring and with shaky fingers eased it over his thumb.
A few minutes later, York and Vee stood in the center of the two-year-old’s room. Inconceivable. He tightened his hold on his test case and struggled for perspective.
Focus on the job. If he could shut out the sound of weeping that came from the room next door, it would make his task a hell of a lot easier.
He knelt beside the small, delicate body of Isabelle D-Gastion. The child seemed as if in a deep sleep with her long blonde hair framing her face. She hugged a look-alike doll.
He exhaled a shuddering breath and fought the sting in his eyes. It had been six years since he’d come face-to-face with the death of someone this young, and his son’s passing had not been so peaceful. His hand shook as he opened the crime-scene bag. Images flashed–a toothless grin, a small hand tossing a red ball, arms wrapped tight around his neck.
He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them.
The quiet sound of Vee’s words brought his head up. Standing on the opposite side of Isabelle, she dictated information into her spot computer.
She met his gaze. “Hey, I didn’t consider it earlier. Why did Captain stick us with this one? It’s not our RO.”
“Rotation doesn’t come into play here. Gastion requested me.” He passed a scanner over the girl, watching the monitor for a sign of physical trauma, finding none.
“Oh, right.” She angled her head.
He sensed her watching him, perhaps looking for some reaction.
“This doesn’t make sense, Vee. No trauma. And they don’t die, even in an accident situation. Primps put them back together with cloning and such.” Unless the injury was to the head. GEI were given bonus health packages that far exceeded the basic medical unit of immunity to disease and illness for Profile people. Money could do that. Perfection cost a hefty sum.
Vee averted her gaze. “Yeah, strange.”
He shoved the test equipment into his bag, zipped it. “There isn’t a mark on her. Nothing.”
“Then what killed her?” she asked, her voice snagging.
York stood. “You okay?”
She nodded but evaded eye contact.
He knew better. It was a code of denial they shared.
“Any guess?” she prodded again.
He crossed his arms in an effort to control the tightness in his chest and shrugged. “Some sort of asphyxiation maybe. I don’t know.”
His QuL beeped in his ear, and he responded, “York.” On the other end, Captain Avery asked for a crisis update. York obliged with a list of stats.
“When are you going to get rid of that antique?” Vee whispered. Then she held up a hand. “I know. I know. Less likely to be traced.”
He listened to Avery. As usual, the captain sounded worried and was probably getting hit from all sides. Damn politics. “Right. One of us will go over there.” He disconnected, grimacing.
“Now what?”
“Avery wants one of us to fetch a geneticist. Take ’em to the morgue to evaluate the…situation.”
Her lips pressed tight, she focused her attention on wrapping up her notes.
“Vee? Talk to me.” At her obvious reluctance, he added their customary, “Flip you for it.”
Finally, she curled the spot computer into her chest. Good thing it was made of flex material because she looked as if she would crush it in her hand. Her almond-shaped eyes blazed. “You know how I hate those scientists.”
He stared back. “Like I don’t?”
“Will you do it? Please?”
He glanced around the room, taking in the perfect environment of a model GEI child. Just two weeks ago he’d bounced this sweet laughing girl on his knee. Something horribly strange was going on, and damn it, little Isabelle D-Gastion required him to set aside his personal qualms in order to unearth the truth. He’d work with those high and mighty scientists if it killed him.
“Don’t worry. This one’s mine.” No way he’d be satisfied with anyone else handling the case. Truth was, sometimes you had to do painful things. A door clacked shut downstairs, and then he heard voices. Probably the forensic team. “But you owe me a homemade pizza,” he added, recalling he hadn’t finished eating breakfast.
“Deal,” she said without hesitation. She flipped her hair around behind her ear and forced out a heavy sigh. “Guess we should let go of this hatred sometime.”
“Never.”
“Did the captain ask for anyone in particular?”
He lifted the equipment bag. “Wouldn’t you know it’d be that bitch B-Zaika.”
With an exaggerated consoling pat on the back, she said, “Sorry.”
“Sure.” He thought he heard a good-humored snicker behind him as they stepped out of the bedroom and into the hall. God knew th
ey needed something to ease the sting of leaving that poor little girl behind.
The moment of lightness from the banter faded when he hit the ground floor. Gastion still sat where he’d left him. There were more people in the room now, technicians going over every inch of the place, looking for crime evidence.
Gastion started to rise, but York motioned for him to stay put. Better to remain out of the techs’ way. “I’ll take that,” he said indicating the recorder ring, then waited for the dazed man to respond.
Slowly, Gastion handed it over.
York slipped it back onto his finger. “If you think of anything else, or if there’s anything I can do, call me.”
His friend rubbed the back on his neck, looked up. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be back later.”
As he traveled to the exit and moved closer to the gigantic matched panels of wood, all the anger and frustration, pain and memories tightened into a colossal knot in his chest. He’d forgotten rule number one: don’t allow people to get too close, because it hurt like hell.
He thought he’d learned that lesson.
He thought he was numb.
He thought he could lock out people, and disasters, and dying.
God, he’d thought wrong.
With a white-knuckled grip on the brass handle, he threw open the door. “Get set for the piranhas.”
Vee stepped quickly out, almost breaking into a run. York matched her tempo. They had not gotten far when they were bombarded by reporters. York halted within inches of bursting through the wall of jacked-up men and women lining the pristine lawn. “Get the hell out of my way.”
No one budged. Fine. He’d enjoy mowing them down. That kinda day.
A cluster of drone cameras hovered overhead. At times like this, York detested procedure. In fact, rules weren’t necessarily the quickest route to satisfactory solutions.
“Move,” he bit out louder. Dealing with these dip-shit reporters wasted time he didn’t have. He needed answers ASAP. A child was dead.
Unexpected images of his own son’s death attacked his mind with strobe-light speed. A final wheeze of breath, an unnatural stillness, the scent of incense at the funeral. He fisted his hands, fingernails digging into his palms.
Danny. He thrust his hands in his pockets and slammed his son’s memory back into box number three. Another life. Another ambition. Another person.
The tall reporter in front went hostile, trying to block the way.
“Take it somewhere else.” York gave him a chance to comply before he tore the camera control, branded with the Chicago Times logo, from the guy and flung it hard. Above, a single drone spiraled out of the pack, plummeted, and crashed into the sleek marble courtyard fountain.
“Hey!” The reporter lunged forward with a searing glare. “Lieutenant”—the guy dipped his gaze to read his ID—“Richmond.” He stepped back. “Whose side are you on?”
“The child’s.” He gnashed his molars. Why did people reduce genetic issues to “our” side and “their” side? Like York, this man was a Coder. Born of the Profile Race. They consisted of mostly unaltered genetic code–as opposed to GEI, the Genetically Engineered Individuals who had taken over in the last eighty years or so. The reporter was built sturdy and muscular. York forced calm as his instincts fired. He glanced about.
The other reporters tightened ranks, like ants after a legs-up beetle. They spit questions.
“Is it true a GEI child died?”
“Isn’t that unheard of for test-tube babies?”
“Can you give us a name?”
“From which generation? C? D?”
“What does Fredrick B-Gastion have to do with this?”
York felt his spine tighten, one muscle at a time. He lowered one shoulder and shoved the tall reporter out of the way, ready to lineback his way to the transporter if necessary. Central in his mind rumbled the words, why and how. A lovely child. Dead. Somehow between one step and the next, Vee grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him to her, saying under her breath, “Easy, York. Captain’ll be pissed if we’re on the twenty-four hour news.”
He glared at her. “Don’t give a shit.”
“Well, you better.”
She was right. Still, he fought it as he sucked in a deep breath. With his steely gaze fixed on the reporters, he said, “You’ll know when we know.” To Vee, he muttered, “Happy?”
She shot him a smartass smile. Her light-brown hair was cut in the latest style, short on one side and angled down and around until it hung long on the other side. Her appearance was sharp, a person who had it together, but she seemed tired. Her green eyes locked on his a second too long, and he glimpsed sadness. Like him, she’d lost a kid after trying some new genetic-enhancement crap. God. If Vee could keep it together, he damn well had to.
He turned his attention back to the reporter in front. Setting his jaw, fisting his hands, he stared the guy down until the reporter stepped back and created an opening.
“Let’s go.” He gestured for Vee to step through the line.
They’d no sooner made it to the car when his QuL trilled. This time the call was from Gastion, personally, asking York if he would monitor events while at the morgue. Gastion had become a close friend over the past several years. He’d come to York’s aide when he’d been desperate for help and no one else gave a damn.
He sadly closed his eyes. “Of course, it would be an honor,” he replied. Time to repay a debt.
* * *
When Kindra arrived at Seville Genetics Center, she surged through the door of the large laboratory. Late, in a lousy mood, and still worried about Brianna’s bizarre outburst, she dropped her satchel on the long curved table where alternating workstations and comfort stations were sectioned off by glass partitions.
“I’m looking for Dr. B-Zaika?” An unfamiliar baritone voice penetrated her thoughts.
With a brief glance across the room, she froze. Watson, her lab assistant, directed a deeply tanned, rock-solid looking man her way.
What now?
She had half a second to scrutinize the stranger. Profile Race. Dark. Shadow of beard. Oozed an air of mystery. He turned and her knees nearly buckled under the onslaught of his gaze. An exotic and unfamiliar awarness fired through her.
In a few great strides, he stood only inches away. His earthy male scent fascinated her, a paradox considering the near-lethal accusation she found in his black-brown eyes.
He looked…annoyed. She fell back a step, then realized her mistake in retreating. He eased closer. She stared up at him.
“Dr. B-Zaika?” he said, as he lifted a thick raven-black eyebrow.
“Yes. How can I help you?” Did she know this man? No, she didn’t think so. But the intensity of his eyes suggested he knew her. She glanced beyond his large shoulder to where Watson tried to catch up.
“Doctor Kindra B-Zaika, this is Lieutenant York Richmond, Chicago PD,” Watson said as he halted.
An invisible capsule of tension crackled around them. Lt. Richmond offered a wary, yet conventional nod. Police didn’t frequent the genetics center. What was going on?
Her anxiety escalated with his silent, critical glare. Did she measure up? No, she didn’t think so. Different standards. He was of the Profile Race–people who descended organically one generation to the next as far back as the beginning of time. There was forever the foolish debate regarding gene manipulation that raged between his people and her own GEI race. Still, Kindra received the impression that the cosmic heat shield of hostility he wore arose from far more than basic ideological differences. She sensed anger. Somehow this was personal.
“You’re the genetic specialist?” he confirmed.
“Yes.” She put on a winning smile, then turned to Watson. “Is the Samuel experiment complete yet?”
He indicated it was not and trotted off. The clack of his shoes echoed in the cavernous lab. Good or bad, she didn’t want her assistant meddling into whatever the police were here for.
> She faced the handsome lieutenant. “It’s most unusual to have a detective visit Seville. What brings you here?”
“I’ve been instructed to escort you to the Lakeshore District morgue.”
Her smile faltered as her stomach flipped and made a hard landing. Not in a million years would she have expected… “The morgue? Why would I need–”
“Tell me about Series D.”
“D?” A prickle of fear skated along her spine. Brianna. She resisted the urge to scream, Is my baby okay? Tension darted through her, out of control. When she finally looked him in the eye, he stared at her as if anticipating more information.
“Yes, D,” he said.
She drew a calming breath and forced composure to overrule her shaken nerves. Be reasonable. In an instant she could display the top-secret details on the overhead instructional computer. Should she?
“Perhaps I should check with–”
“I have the required authority,” he said with a snort. “I assure you.”
“Secure ID level?”
“Yes.” He sighed impatiently. “Crescent M.”
She eyed him, hesitant, then shrugged, deciding he’d earned at least the lightning version. “The main differences between C and D Series are that The Committee narrowed the physical choices–”
“Incredibly, you scientists keep doing that.” He uttered scientists like it was a filthy occupation.
She ignored his tone. “And increased the intellectual potential three standard deviations.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“These children are beyond genius.” She smiled a little, thinking of her daughter, then realized she’d better find out what this was all about. Only one reason she could think of to visit a morgue. “Why are genetics of interest to you?”
“There’s been a Series D death.”
“An accident?” She struggled to conceal her distress.
“No.” His gaze zoned in on her. “We don’t have answers yet. But we need to start with natural causes.”
“That’s impossible. Why, a series D child would be no more than–”
“Two. The girl would have been three in a few weeks.” His jaw tensed, creating a chain reaction of muscles rippling to his dark brow. “A prominent and very distraught family is insisting on an investigation. It’s a requirement regardless. These things aren’t supposed to happen.”
Forever At Risk: Terror, MN Page 9