by Mel Odom
Shelly paused only long enough to reach into the back of the hopper for a smartslick. It was worn as a small package on the shoulders behind the head. When it sensed rain, it unfolded to cover the head, shoulders, and upper body, refolding itself when no longer needed.
Two hotel security men waved to us from the rooftop elevator. Both of them were professionally dressed and looked very much like fraternal twins. We made our way over.
Once the two sec men saw that I was a bioroid, they shifted their attention and proximity from me to Shelly.
“I’m Detective Nolan.” Shelly waved her hand in front of the PAD one of the sec men held out for verification. “This is my partner, Detective Drake.”
The e-ID reader in the PAD pinged when it registered the e-chip embedded in Shelly’s hand. Her police identification superseded all other information on the chip and kept it secure with extra firewalls. That was one of the perks of working with the NAPD.
The sec man with the PAD was blond-haired and blue-eyed. He consulted the device quickly as the response juiced through from the hotel’s secure Net, then nodded to his partner.
Brown-haired and brown-eyed, the second sec man offered his hand. “I’m Sergeant Toomis, L’Engle Security. This is Sergeant Carter.”
Shelly took the man’s hand briefly. “Good to meet you. Where’s your commanding officer?”
Toomis flustered a little at that.
“Captain Latimer told us we could brief you.”
“Captain Latimer isn’t running my investigation, is he?” Shelly’s tone was neutral. She pushed past the two sec men and I followed her automatically. She looked at me. “You said our victim was in one of the executive suites?”
“Yes. Ninety-sixth floor. D unit.”
Toomis looked surprised. Then he looked disgusted. Shelly didn’t like it when people disrespected me. I didn’t recognize any offense, and I’d tried to tell her that on several occasions. She’d told me it was as much an insult to her as it was to me.
Toomis reached for the elevator control panel but Shelly got to it first. Her police ID overrode the security protocol.
The elevator doors shut the rain and the night outside and we dropped along the magnetic lift lines.
*
The ninety-sixth floor was divided into quadrants. A single hallway bisected the floor. I followed Shelly’s lead from the elevator, staying one step behind her on her right so I could watch over her.
Toomis spoke aloud, but he wasn’t talking to us. “Captain Latimer, this is Toomis. Be advised that we’re skipping the prelim briefing and coming straight to you.”
From the way Toomis frowned and looked distressed, I surmised the news wasn’t well-received. I didn’t care, but I took note of all reactions. The L’Engle sec team wouldn’t be the first hotel sec agency to kill a guest in their care. Suspects were everywhere. I kept a log of them all. Shelly depended on me to see things she missed if she developed tunnel vision.
We stopped for a moment in front of the plain black door with an elegant, glittering gold D. Toomis started to knock, but Shelly waved her hand in front of the sec lock and the bolt released with an audible thunk.
The door slid aside with a whoosh of displaced air. We stood suddenly face to face with an older, heavyset sec man in a plain suit that wouldn’t have gotten him noticed anywhere. He had perfected innocuous. I knew who he was only because of my built-in e-reader. I scanned him and recorded the information automatically.
His name was Earl John Latimer and he was fifty-six years old. He had been with the L’Engle Hotel Security Agency for twenty-seven years, the last nine of them as captain. His face was broad and natural, and even had acne scarring that hadn’t been lased away. With his big head, massive jaw, and iron-grey hair, he looked like a bulldog.
He shoved out a big hand. “Detective Nolan. Bad night to get out, isn’t it?”
Shelly took his hand. “There aren’t any good nights for this, Captain.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Latimer shifted his attention to me. His gaze was one of forthright appraisal. “You’d be ‘Detective Drake.’”
“Yes.” I took his offered hand and felt the strength of his grip.
“Haven’t ever met a bioroid police detective before.”
“There aren’t many of us.”
Latimer took his hand back. “I have met bioroid sec men. Not too bright. Not intuitive enough.”
“That result is usually based on the neural channeling used to install the personality indices, not the unit, sir.”
One of the subroutines hardwired into me was the instant rebuttal of all negative complaints about Haas-Bioroid—as long as such rebuttal didn’t adversely affect an ongoing investigation. The NAPD had insisted on that once they’d discovered the routine.
Actually, the NAPD had insisted on complete removal of the subroutine. Haas-Bioroid had merely gotten better at hiding the programming and toning down the immediate defenses.
“I am very intuitive,” I added.
Latimer put his hands behind his back and nodded. “Yes, I suppose you would have to be.”
Shelly hid a smile.
The captain turned to Shelly. “I suppose you’d like to see the victim.”
“Yes.”
“This way, detectives.” Latimer turned and headed deeper into the suite. “Toomis, Carter, why don’t you two see if you can keep the door secure?”
Neither of the sec men appeared enthusiastic about their assignment. They glared at me as if I were somehow to blame. Or maybe the reaction was a direct result of being jealous of my invitation to the crime scene. The nuances between the assignation of blame and resentment were too fine to register with my cognitive programming.
I felt a desire to smile at their discomfiture, which wasn’t in my programming at all. That made me wonder if I was about to experience another glitch, or if the earlier one had left some kind of residual programming damage.
Either way, I did not care for my reaction or my inability to know why it was there.
Chapter Four
The opulent suite held expensive 3D viewing equipment, a stocked wet bar, a kitchen area, and a small office work area complete with secure Net hookups. The center of the room was a bloody mess around “Richard Smith’s” body.
The blood was almost completely coagulated, offering mute testimony that the murder had taken place sometime within the last thirty minutes. A small crimson holodisc lay beside the body.
Shelly knelt beside the body and examined the dead man without touching him. According to procedure, we had to wait for the medical examiner. “You’ve confirmed the victim’s ID?”
Latimer stood a short distance away with his arms crossed over his barrel chest. “As Richard Smith, yes, though I think we both know that’s not this man’s name.”
“Don’t you have safeguards against obvious aliases?”
“There are people named Richard Smith in the New Angeles megapolis, Detective.”
“Seems like the name and the fact that he paid with a prepaid credaccount would trigger some kind of response.”
“If ‘Mr. Smith’ had checked into one of the economic units in this hotel under such conditions, yes, there would have been a soft investigation into who he actually was. This is one of the exec suites. We don’t do that to these people.”
“Wealth has its privileges.” Shelly nodded.
Latimer grunted. “At the L’Engle Hotel, we prefer to think anonymity for those able to afford it is simply one more of the services that are offered. CEOs, execs riding a corporate chit, and other wealthy guests often require…privacy. Sometimes it’s for personal recreation. Sometimes it’s to transact business they want to keep away from the nosies.”
“Yeah, but sometimes the personal recreation is illegal and the business is criminal.”
Latimer sighed and continued speaking by rote, a tone that Shelly had cautioned me against in the beginning of our partnership. “At the L’Engle Hotel, we do not
condone such activities. If malfeasance comes to our attention, we summon the proper authorities.”
“Sure you do.”
Shelly’s caustic attitude was deserved. Most of the hotels nowadays had unwritten policies to stay out of a guest’s business as long as possible. Only when hotels were endangered, either from attack or from litigation, did they bring forth such knowledge about their guests, and even then they complied only when no longer able to hide behind a legal technicality.
But, people continued to go missing and get murdered within the plush rooms of five-star hotels like the L’Engle, as well as the low-rent establishments like the San Bernadino Ruins. Sometimes a hotel even “cleaned up” after a guest so there would be no corporate involvement.
If an attorney was really good at his job, and desperate for a big payout, he or she could track back most of the sleazy hotels to the same chains that owned the big ones. Profit in that industry came from both ends of the food chain.
Such action was dangerous for the attorney and his client, though. Sometimes people disappeared or turned up dead later. Not all high-stakes games were played in the casinos.
Shelly shifted and examined the cuts on the man’s face more closely. She carefully avoided the holodisc. “What can you tell me about this man, Captain Latimer?”
Latimer took out his PAD and flicked through his notes. “Checked in two days ago. Room and casino privileges were secured through a prepaid credaccount.”
“Did he play the casino?” Shelly looked at me as she asked the question.
“He did. Infrequently.”
I nodded to verify that. All of the information I’d downloaded in my database corroborated the response.
Shelly persisted. “What did he play?”
“Blackjack.”
“No craps or roulette?”
“No.”
“Blackjack is a mathematician’s game.”
Latimer frowned at that. “The casino people don’t like to look at it that way.”
“A skilled player can win at blackjack. Especially if he’s a card counter.”
I knew where she was going with her thinking, but I didn’t think our victim was a professional gambler. Still, I ran the composite face I’d assembled against the licensed gamblers in the megapolis.
The various tax agencies and casinos insisted on the licensing of professional gamblers. That worked for and against the gamblers. On the plus side, they were given more secure Net accommodations—when they were bucks up and could afford it—and were often comped in casino hotels. The hotels were willing to give away beds and room service to patrons they felt certain would rain profits on them.
On the downside, the tax agencies all got their fair share of declared winnings. Also, at times, the professional gamblers—or their families—became targets of criminals. As a result, the gamblers were allowed to legally live under assumed names.
I got no hits on either the face or the Richard Smith name. I gave a slight shake of my head to Shelly.
“Did the casino keep track of Mr. Smith’s winnings?” Shelly got to her feet. She was irritated and antsy. I knew it was because we were only minutes behind the killers.
A murder investigation burned hottest for the first forty-eight hours. After that, people’s memories, leads, and the media pressure tended to fade or shift gears. Getting a solid suspect in the first two days was important.
Solving the murder would be even better.
“I’m sure they kept track of Mr. Smith’s winnings.” Latimer rocked forward on his toes as if he were antsy himself. “The casino has to do that. I don’t have those figures.”
“Mr. Smith was $2,157 up on his account.” I had those figures from my earlier search through the hotel records. “That was over sporadic play totaling six hours, nine minutes, and twenty-six seconds. His account remains active in the casino.”
Latimer looked surprised. “Smith didn’t cash out.”
“No.”
“So he wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”
I played devil’s advocate because that was part of my required role as Shelly’s partner. “He could have cashed out after he left with an e-transfer.”
Almost immediately, Shelly shook her head. “That would have left a trail. This guy was all about not leaving footprints.”
Her logic was impeccable.
“So what was Smith doing the other forty-two hours?”
Her mathematical skill was not always so flawless. I provided the overview based on the e-card travel. “Smith was actually registered at the hotel for the last fifty-three hours, forty minutes, and seventeen seconds. Six hours, nine minutes, and twenty-six seconds were spent at the casino. He spent five hours, twenty-two minutes, and fifty-three seconds in the dining rooms. Three hours, forty-six minutes, and nineteen seconds were spent on food preparation, based on the time his order was turned in to the kitchens—”
Shelly waved me to silence. I had other time increments that I could give her, but she knew how much she needed. If she wanted more, she’d ask later. “How many meals in the dining rooms?”
“Six.”
“Alone?”
“According to the receipts, always alone. I can further break that report down by figuring the individual times he spent in each of the four restaurants. He did not patronize two of them.”
Shelly shook her head. “That won’t be necessary at this time.”
“Wow.” Latimer grinned uncertainly. “I don’t know whether or not to be impressed by this thing. My agency may need to look into getting one.”
“Not a thing. Detective Drake is an entity.” Shelly’s rebuke was sharp and quick.
Latimer grimaced. He clearly was not a man who took correction from outsiders well.
I placed my hand on the security captain’s shoulder and warmed the synthskin to a pleasant temperature. “In the event you should decide you are impressed by my performance, I can provide you with a private contact within Haas-Bioroid.”
Neuro-linguistic processing, the communications bridge between humans and computers, had been made easier by a computer’s ability to more directly interact with humans. The field was closely associated with neuro-linguistic programming, a technique used by communicators and con men. With my warm, compassionate touch, I planted the subconscious texture of being impressed with Haas-Bioroid as a positive thing to do.
I didn’t have a choice. Soft-selling the corporation was also a subroutine.
Shelly shot me an unhappy look. She recognized the sales effort for what it was. She didn’t like it, but—like me—there was nothing she could do to circumvent it.
Her voice was light but firm. “Maybe later.”
“Of course.” I took my warm palm from Latimer’s shoulder.
Latimer was aware that something had taken place between Shelly and me, but he didn’t know what it was.
“The point is that Smith spent most of his time in his room.” Shelly turned and slowly inspected the room.
Nothing appeared to be out of place. The open curtains covering the window on the wall opposite the door showed the falling rain. A deluge cascaded down the bulletproof glass. Hoppers cruised by outside, but none could see into the suite due to the image damper broadcasting on the transplas. The suite was an armored egg sitting on the top of a man-made mountain.
“He was hiding, or he was waiting for someone.” Shelly gave both possibilities some thought before moving on. “How much time did Smith spend on the Net?”
Latimer started to pull up the figures on his PAD. He stopped and glanced at me. “Go ahead.”
“Three hours, twenty-two minutes, and four seconds.”
The time troubled Shelly. “Not much time for someone that wanted to get away to do work outside the office. What about visitors?”
“No visitors were registered to the hotel.” Both of us knew the hotels didn’t keep track of that unless credaccounts were used by strangers ordering room service.
“Doesn’t me
an he didn’t meet anyone here. We’ll have to review the sec vid.” Shelly glanced at Latimer. “That won’t be a problem?”
“No. That’ll be fine, except that we don’t run vid on the exec floors.”
I knew that wasn’t entirely true, since I’d been able to bypass the hotel seccams in order to bring up the image of the victim in his room on our way over. But, this wasn’t the first time we’d encountered different levels of security based on floors.
Although there were legal movements aimed toward not allowing seccams in private areas—including hotel rooms and their connecting hallways—the issue was still being debated, and Shelly and I were used to finding different security measures in different locations. Having limited vid on exec floors was just another no-peek perk offered by the top-of-the-line hotels. In case of emergencies, guests always had panic buttons on their PADs.
“How many exec floors are there?”
Latimer shrugged. “As of the last two days, the top three. Two other floors float between exec and econ units.”
“We’ll have access to everything below that?”
“No problem.”
“And the elevators to the exec floors show e-card and e-ID usage?”
“Definitely.”
That didn’t rule out the possibility that Richard Smith had met someone, also housed in the exec floors, and brought that person up. Shelly was merely running down the variables. The first thing a detective tried to ascertain, was how wide to throw the investigative net. Then, we worked on narrowing the scope, hopefully in the right direction.
Shelly decided to take a new tack as she stared at the holodisc beside the dead man. “Who found the body?”
“Still-life sec popped up on the screens. The monitor team saw all the blood and responded immediately, but it was too late.” Latimer looked down at the dead man and grimaced. “Something like this, you’re gonna be too late no matter what.”
Still-life sec was a new security feature. Not all hotels had updated to the new software, and there was some resistance to the installation. The NAPD and the District Attorney’s office were lobbying hard to make it standard.