“OK, so I made a call to the Cascades. So what? All I did was make a reservation.” Baines expression changed not one iota.
“Encrypted?”
“I encrypt a lot of stuff. You know… privacy?”
“I see,” said Burns. “He’s right, you know, Mullins. It probably was just a simple reservation, or at least a message that was designed to look like one. Difficult to make a charge like that stick in court and I doubt if the DA would even bother trying. ‘Conspiring to make a reservation.’ That would be a first, wouldn’t it?”
“Unique,” said Mullins.
“Hmm… Let’s try a different tack,” said Burns, placing a photograph on the table. “This is a print taken from security camera footage at the bottom of the stairwell adjacent to the locker rooms here at police HQ. It shows a man dressed in workman’s overalls heading in the direction of the kitchens – just before the detainees were given their morning meals. I understand that each tray would be clearly labeled with the detainee’s name and cell number.”
“It’s our belief that whoever this person is, they laced Zak Leonard’s breakfast with a lethal dose of Acromex,” said Mullins. “Do you have any idea who this man might be, Officer Baines?”
Baines shook his head. “No… no idea.”
“Really… Well let’s try another question. What do you know about Acromex?”
Baines shrugged.
“Nasty stuff. A very unpleasant way to go and once ingested there is no known antidote. On the other hand, it is fairly quick.”
“Funny stuff, though, Acromex. It doesn’t keep well. Did you know that?” said Burns. “It doesn’t have a very long shelf life. Once exposed to air it begins to break down, one of the by-products being a gaseous vapor…” He glanced down and consulted his data pad. “A vapor with a very long, unpronounceable name that I’m not even going to attempt to articulate, not that we need concern ourselves with that at present. What is of interest, however, is that the vapor – while harmless in itself – is detectable in trace amounts even months after the fact.”
“Which is why a warrant was served earlier today,” said Mullins. “A warrant to search your home.”
“It won’t surprise you to learn that when forensics sent in their sniffer-bots earlier today, they came up with a match,” continued Burns. “We couldn’t find the clothes you wore on the day of Leonard’s murder, of course – I expect you had the common sense to throw them away. We identified them from the cameras in the lobby, by the way. No, forensics found residue in the medicine cabinet in your bathroom. It was one of the first places they looked and if you’d ever had aspirations of being a detective you might have realized that.”
“Store in a safe place, away from food and out of reach of children,” said Mullins. “Zak Leonard never had any children, you know. I’m not sure you’ll be getting around to it either. As I said before, you need to consider your options.”
Mullins sat back in his chair and let the words hang in the air. Burns also remained silent, watching Baines closely as the man struggled to come to terms with his situation. Mullins opened his mouth to speak again but Burns gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Sometimes silence was their best weapon – that coupled with an expression that said ‘You’re going to jail’. The only question going around Baines’ head would be for how long.
“Why not make it easy on yourself?” said Burns. “Like they say in the movies, you’ll be better off in the long run.”
Baines gave a sigh and lowered his face to his hands.
“Why did you do it?” asked Mullins softly.
Baines looked up and shrugged. “Money,” he said simply.
“And your contact?”
“Now? I don’t have one. It used to be a guy called Spinks but he went down for armed robbery a few years back.”
“So how do you get paid?”
“The money just gets paid into an account.”
“And how were your instructions delivered?”
“For Leonard? A note through my door with the key to a luggage locker. The instructions and the stuff were inside the locker – simple as that. There’s nothing else that I can tell you. I’ll take a lie detector if you don’t believe me.”
“Oh, I believe you,” said Burns. “Mullins, if you please...”
“Marcus Baines, I am arresting you for the murder of Zak Leonard. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say may be used in evidence in a court of law. Further, it may harm your defence if, when questioned, you fail to mention something which you later rely on in court.
“And by the way,” said Burns. “IT didn’t really lose the results from your last firearms qualification – I have them right here. You just about scraped a pass. You’re a lousy shot, Baines, and a rotten copper too. Rotten to the core.” He pressed a button on the desk whereby a pair of officers entered.
“Cuff him and put him in Cell 4.” The officers pulled Baines roughly to his feet. A little too roughly, thought Burns, but then no-one likes a bent copper – especially a straight one. It was a matter of honor.
“Cell 4... Where Lenny met his maker,” said Mullins once Baines and his escort had left. “I was down there today – the chalk body outline is still on the floor.”
“Is it really? How remiss of me.”
“You don’t think Baines is in any danger, do you?” asked Mullins.
“From the Delph? No, I’m sure that Baines will survive to make it to trial. We’ll interrogate him of course but I don’t think we’ll get anything useful. I was hoping to get a lead to Chumly or Hobbs, but whoever it was that was pulling his strings was clever enough to keep him at arm’s length.”
“So what next?”
“We get Chumly up from the cells and charge him too.”
Unlike Baines, Chumly refused to utter a word until his attorney was present. It was hardly surprising; Chumly knew his way around the legal system as well as any of the various attorneys that had represented him over the years. Burns was equally unsurprised to learn that in this particular case the attorney in question was Foley, the same man who had represented Lenny.
In each and every interview that Burns conducted, he tailored his strategy to suit the needs of the occasion. With Lenny it had been necessary to play a cat and mouse game until the opening had presented itself. With Baines it had been more a case of creeping up from behind and catching him unawares.
For his interview with Chumly he determined that the straightforward approach was best. Without preamble he slapped two photographs on the desk. One with an outstretched arm in the center of Jimmy Frank’s back, and the other showing Chumly standing behind and to the right of Jimmy Franks, an enlarged image of his right hand superimposed in one corner.
“Take a good look, said Burns. Notice any similarities?” asked Burns.
Both Chumly and his lawyer leaned forward to examine the two photographs. Chumly just shrugged and leaned straight back again. Foley spent more time scrutinizing the two images, looking back and forth from picture to picture, eventually transferring his gaze to the little finger of Chumly’s right hand.
“My client will make no statement at this time,” he said.
“There’s a surprise,” said Burns. “Though there’s not very much he can say, is there? Mullins, read the man his rights.”
“Jericho Chumly, I am arresting you for the murder of Jimmy Franks. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say may be used in evidence in a court of law. Further, it may harm your defence if, when questioned, you fail to mention something which you later rely on in court.”
“And now you can do all the conferring you want,” said Burns. “If and when your client wishes to make a statement you know where to find me.”
Barely an hour later, Burns and Mullins were again sitting opposite Chumly and his attorney. The photos were still sitting on the desk but Foley barely glanced at them, delving instead into his briefcase to withdraw a sheaf of papers.
“Oh, really?” said Burns. “Now where have I heard that before?”
“My client admits to pushing Jimmy Franks to his death, but categorically rejects the notion of premeditated murder.”
“Is that so?”
“What we have is a clear crime of passion. My client believed that Mr. Franks was, shall we say, making unwanted advances to his sweetheart. One Alice Villiers.”
“Oh, come now,” said Burns. “May I remind you that Chumly is a married man?”
“Irrelevant. My client and his wife have been estranged for some considerable time, a fact that can easily be verified.”
“And may I also remind you that any relationship between your client and Miss Villiers is also at an end.”
“Which is precisely the point. The emotional stress of being rejected not only by his wife, but also by his lover was simply too much for him to bear. He saw Mr. Franks as the sole reason for his rejection and when they met on the station platform – purely by chance, I might add – he snapped, as men are wont to do. In a fit of jealous rage he pushed him to his death under the wheels of the onrushing train, a deed for which he now feels considerable remorse.”
“He snapped?! Oh yes, he snapped all right. Killed Jimmy Franks and then beat his beloved Alice to a pulp. I saw her face after your client had finished with her. Does he feel remorse for that too?”
Foley didn’t bat an eyelid.
“Should separate assault charges come to bear the same extenuating circumstances will of course apply. Diminished responsibility.”
“And you seriously expect us to believe that?”
“What you choose to believe is entirely up to you. My client will make no further comment and wishes to return to his cell. This interview is at an end.”
Escorted by a pair of uniformed officers, Chumly rose from his chair and calmly followed Foley from the room. Unlike the attorney, who as usual strode out like a monarch exiting his court, Chumly ambled along behind like a man without a care.
“Diminished responsibility?” said Mullins once they were alone. “You have to be kidding me.”
“The worst of it is they’ll probably get it. The only way we could sway the jury that Chumly was carrying out a hit is with Alice’s testimony. And you know what will happen if we put her on the stand.”
“Foley will rip her to pieces. Paint her as a vengeful harlot who broke up Chumly’s marriage and then cast him aside in favor of Jimmy Franks, spinning a web of lies about Chumly’s involvement with the Delph along the way.”
“Exactly,” said Burns. “I can’t see the DA pushing for anything more than voluntary manslaughter.”
“What’s that? Maximum twenty years?”
“Be more like ten, and out earlier with good behavior. And Chumly knows how the game is played. He knows the rules. If he keeps his nose clean inside he’ll be out in five or six years.
“Better than nothing, I guess. At least we’ll have gotten him off the streets for a while.”
“Better than nothing?” said Burns. “I suppose so… though I wonder if Jimmy Franks would agree?”
* * *
Cascades Club, Atlas Central
There had been a definite spring to Jack Hobbs’ step all day long, a bounce that even the news of Chumly’s arrest couldn’t diminish.
‘Chumly? Who the hell cares about Chumly?’ thought Hobbs. ‘Certainly not me, not when I’m about to become Chief of Operations on Canuxa’.
It wasn’t just a step in the right direction – it was several rungs up the corporate ladder to boot. True, Canuxa wasn’t a particularly large colony and neither did it lie within the core worlds, but it had a growing population, a robust economy, and better still, it had a democratically elected administration. And there was no better environment to set up and maintain a crime syndicate than in a thriving democracy.
Dictators and oligarchs – who could often be described as little more than crime bosses writ large – were as jealous as they were paranoid and had the unpleasant habit of sending in their security forces to eliminate anyone who got in their way. That went for political opponents, dissidents and competing mobsters alike. There was nothing like a few summary executions for putting people firmly in their place.
On the other hand, democratically elected governments were subject to a whole range of checks and balances, all aimed at guaranteeing all the rights and freedoms normally associated with a free and liberal society. Like every other citizen, even the hardened criminal was afforded his – or her – fundamental human rights. Until he was convicted, at least, at which point some of those rights – though probably not all – would become forfeit.
The bottom line was that it was much better to wake up to the local sheriff delivering a subpoena than to a death squad hammering down your door. The democratic environment of Canuxa would provide plenty of opportunities to expand the Delph’s business empire and enlarge Hobbs’ personal fortune into the bargain. The future was bright. Very bright indeed, but right now he needed to take care of the present.
On reaching his office he closed and locked the door behind him. Firing up his personal console, he sifted through his document library until he found the folder he was looking for, one that contained numerous files and sub-folders. Delving through the sub folders he eventually found one that contained a list of birthdays and anniversaries. It was also home to a super-encrypted hidden file that held the only physical data relating to Tristar Holdings and its phantom staff.
Hobbs was genuinely saddened to have to dissolve his virtual partnership with Tristar. It had been a very profitable venture, but all good things must come to an end and with Hobbs’ departure, Tristar must disappear too.
First to go were the phantom directors. With a swipe of his finger they ceased to exist, the company’s imaginary premises quickly following them into the ether. Then all records of the company’s financial transactions were consigned to the digital shredder until finally, all that remained was a single bank account containing the company’s last few assets. A minute later the remaining funds had been transferred to an anonymous, numbered account and with a final tap of Hobbs’ finger, Tristar was gone forever.
In the final accounting, Tristar Holdings had generated a little over three point seven million credits. And since the company existed only in the virtual universe, there were no overheads, taxes or insurance to worry about. It was all nice, clean profit, all of it stashed away in a high interest account and making even more money while he slept.
Perhaps a similar opportunity would present itself on Canuxa. And if not, he’d just have to construct one. After all, he’d be the boss, wouldn’t he?
* * *
At about the same time that Jack Hobbs was calculating his net financial worth, Sam was strolling along the carpeted hallway towards St.Clair’s offices. Arriving at the threshold he gave a gentle knock, and after a polite pause he eased the door open and bent an enquiring head inside.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Sam. Come on in,” said St.Clair from a chair next to the genuine log fire. “Get yourself a drink.”
Sam ambled over to the bar and poured a shot of whisky before lowering himself into one of the two wing-backed leather chairs which sat on either side of the fireplace in St.Clair’s office.
“Good whisky, Gus,” he said, stretching out his legs and sinking back into the plush, leather upholstery.
“Only the best, Sam. Different from the stuff we used to drink, eh?”
“That it is, Gus. That it is.”
Sam was one of the very few people on Atlas – or anywhere else – who were on first name terms with Augustus St.Clair. Not on all occasions, for during the normal course of his duties Sam treated his master with the same respect and deference as everyone else. But at times such as this when the day’s labors were over and they were alone in the confines of St.Clair’s office, formalities were dropped and they treated
each other with the same familiarity they had enjoyed for over forty years.
Sam and Gus were raised on the same backstreets of Graisley Row, probably the most undesirable precinct in Atlas Central. For a kid growing up in one of the city housing developments, prospects were as bleak as the drab grey walls of the apartment blocks they inhabited. For Sam and Gus, the choices were straightforward – join a gang, or join a different gang. Opting out just made you prey to every street ruffian with an insignia hanging around his neck, and there were plenty enough of those.
Much better to have friends – even stupid ones, as most of the hoodlums they came across turned out to be. Sam and Gus joined a gang called The Wall, but even as a young man in his mid teens, Augustus St.Clair was calculating enough to recognize that leadership within The Wall was virtually non-existent. There was no direction, no forethought, no planning… just a penchant for wanton violence, an over accentuated code of honor and a lunatic arrogance that guaranteed either a spell behind bars or bleeding out in some filthy gutter – and all that before reaching adult maturity.
Gus had other ideas. He wasn’t just ambitious, he was intelligent – a thinker, a planner. Graisley Row held opportunities aplenty if the band of brothers he was chained to could just change their mindset and channel their efforts into creating a sustainable income rather than pointless blood feuds.
It took time but within a few years he had enough supporters to stage a coup and oust the gang’s leaders, two brothers known on the street as Scoobie and Rat. Singularly unimpressed with his eviction, Scoobie returned a few days later wielding a large knife. He burst into the gang’s basement headquarters, skewered one of his previous underlings and was half way across the room to do the same to Augustus before Sam got in the way. He skillfully disarmed Scoobie, pushed him up against a wall and all but decapitated him with his own blade. Rat turned up dead a few weeks later, whether by one of his own or by a rival gang with a grudge, who could say?
The Blunt End of Oblivion (The Blunt End Series, Book 2) Page 25