Resurrection

by Jeffrey Burger

  “By one-hundred-thousand credits.”

  “Is he a regular?”

  “He’s not a regular, but he’s been here before. And he’s always covered his debt before…”

  “And now?” inquired Chase.

  “It’s seems he’s had more than a run of bad luck…” The Pit Boss glanced over his shoulder, “May I turn around now?”

  “Yes, yes,” waved Mercedes. “So, what does he propose to cover his debt?”

  “He has a deed to a productive silver mine.” He held up an e-Pad, “He’s forwarded the documents - the appraised value, as-is, is over five-hundred-thousand credits. He is hoping that adding you to the deed as an equal partner might clear his debt.”

  Chase rubbed his chin, “Hmm, I don’t know…”

  Mercedes stepped forward, “No. We will clear his debt and give him an additional one-hundred-thousand for the deed. Buy him out.” She looked over at Chase, “I’d rather own it, than be partner when he gambles away the rest in another casino.”

  “Good point.”

  She turned back to the Pit Boss, “In addition, he can buy it back for three-hundred-thousand, but he only has thirty days to make that happen. Understood?

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “During that period, any profit provided by the mine is legally ours. After thirty days, the mine is ours permanently. Have the legal office write up the agreement and get his signatures. Don’t forget to collect the deed.”

  After the door closed, Mercedes flopped on the bed, crawling over to Chase, opening her robe and laying back atop him, her head on his shoulder, “So now we own a silver mine…”

  “Well, for now,” he retorted.

  She played with the hair on his chest, “He won’t be getting it back. He’s going to lose the extra hundred-thousand, too. You watch…”

  “Hmm,” he grunted, “you’re probably right.” He was wiping his hands on the sheet, “How is it I feel slimy and sticky at the same time?”

  “The slimy’s the oil… the sticky’s probably us.”

  “Hmm,” he grunted again. “So we did it, didn’t we.” It wasn’t so much a question as a realization.

  “More than once,” she countered. “I think technically it was three, but we fell asleep before we could finish the third time. In our defense, we were pretty exhausted.”

  “You are a terrible influence on me, lady. Making me do bad things…”

  “Hey,” she poked him, “I’ll take the blame for the first time, but the second time was all you, buddy.”

  He raised an eyebrow, “And the third time?”

  She stretched like a cat, “I think that was just purely a loss of all control, like a runaway train. We had to go till we ran out of steam.”

  “Or derailed,” he joked. “You just fell off the tracks.

  “I don’t remember, I think I passed out.” She ran her hand down his leg, “Want to do it again?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m so sore I can barely move… and even if I could, I am so dehydrated, I’d probably shoot dust.”

  ■ ■ ■

  Chase dropped himself into the casino office’s burgundy velvet sofa, Mercedes sitting behind Waycom’s old desk, Red who rarely felt the need to sit, standing as usual. “So how does it feel?” asked Chase.

  “It doesn’t physically feel any different. Though it certainly is much more convenient than having to review stored data from the ship’s mainframe system…”

  Chase nodded, “OK that’s what I meant – sort of. How much spare memory does that allow you?”

  “Checking…” It took only a second for Red to review his new capacity, “By my calculations, I have ten years of data room available.”

  “That’s after the ten-year archive we uploaded to you?”

  “That is correct.”

  Mercedes glanced over at Chase, “I think we’re ready to begin…”

  “I believe you may be interested in reviewing our security sweep results first,” said Red, matter-of-factly while fishing a small plastic evidence bag out of his tuxedo jacket pocket. He stepped forward and dropped it on the desk. “Listening devices we encountered on our daily sweep last night. They have of course, been disabled.” Each one had a small tag on it noting the location it was found.

  “This one says conference room sofa,” said Mercedes holding up a button-sized disk.

  “Yes Ms. Mercedes,” confirmed Red. “There is conformational video of its placement.”

  Chase frowned, edging forward in his seat, “Who placed it?!”

  “The Chief Deputy of Sheriffs, during his meeting with Ms. Mercedes. It was found in the exact spot where his right hand went over the top of the sofa, tucked into the seam on the back.”

  Mercedes eyes were wide with surprise, “What about the others…” she said suspiciously.

  “While there is no video confirmation, they were all places the Chief Deputy had a presence yesterday; conference room, massage room three, the front bar near the waitress’ station and under the table where he ate his complimentary lunch.”

  “Son of a bitch,” growled Chase, rising to his feet. “He’s barred…”

  “No, no,” countered Mercedes, “we might be able to make this work for us.” She directed her attention back to the android, “Red, do these look like devices customarily used by the Sheriff? Can you tell?”

  “What the hell difference does it make?” objected Chase.

  Mercedes glanced at Chase then back to Red, “Because I want to know if the Sheriff is investigating us, or if the Chief Deputy is a paid lackey for someone else. Red, what do you think?”

  “I cannot be sure, Ms. Mercedes, but I do not believe the Sheriff’s Office of Sandorra has access to devices of that sophistication. They appear rather expensive.”

  “What is the broadcast range on these, can you tell?”

  “Possibly five-hundred feet. Unless there is a signal booster.”

  Mercedes’ eyes lit up, slowly turning to the sealed cigar humidor sitting on the desk that the Chief Deputy had gifted to her. “Could it fit in that?” she pointed.

  “Waycom’s Cigar humidor? Absolutely.”

  Mercedes raised an eyebrow in concern, “Waycom’s? No, this was given to me by the Chief Deputy yesterday…” She picked it up, “See, it’s still sealed. He said they were Waycom’s favorites.”

  “I think you are mistaken, Ms. Mercedes. That is the same box that sat on his desk for nearly a year. Waycom Hill did not smoke cigars. He considered them phallically offensive. He only smoked a pipe. I believe in that entire time he only consumed one of the cigars, by opening it up and using the tobacco in his pipe when he ran out of his customary blend.”

  Chase picked the aluminum box up off the desk, “How do you know it’s the same exact box, Red?”

  The android tapped on one of the rounded corners with a rubber-padded metal digit, “It has the same small dent in the same exact place. He always kept it in the same place on his desk. I saw it every day.”

  Chase slit the small paper seal with his thumbnail, “We need to see what’s in here…”

  “NO!” Mercedes was on her feet in an instant, clapping her hands over the top and bottom of the box to keep him from opening it, pulling it from his grasp. “No,” she breathed, “not until we make sure it’s not booby-trapped.”

  Red held his hands out, “I can determine that…”

  Many androids designed for mechanical duties, were built with the ability to see in different spectrums and wavelengths, allowing them to diagnose metal fatigue and early part failure for the maintenance and repair of heavy machinery and spacecraft. Red was such an android. “There is no mechanical danger in opening this container. And there are no electronics of any kind within it.”

  “You said mechanical danger…” queried Chase, suspicion in his voice.

  “Because I cannot determine biological danger until it is opened and examined. I would recommend we open it in a sealed bio-bag in the infirmary.”
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  ■ ■ ■

  Dropping a disposable sensor into the clear, oversized bag with the humidor already in it, Red folded over the open end, sealing it airtight. “All manipulations will have to be done through the plastic. Do be careful to not compromise the integrity of the bag.” He pointed to the medical monitor on the wall past the table, “Any sensor readings will display there…”

  Chase nodded, manipulating the latch through the skin of the bag, lifting the top with a little effort, the humidor’s seal releasing with an audible hiss and a wisp of vapor. The sensor immediately fed information to the large monitor on the wall, a litany of information scrolling, including the various tobaccos in the unique blend of the cigars. It took a little work, but he managed to get the top all the way open in the bag, letting it drop wide, displaying its contents; a moisture pad and at least twelve cigars.

  Red repositioned the bag and contents on the table, so it was centered in frame on the second monitor, letting the spectrometer cycle through its scans. The image changed to something resembling an odd abstract painting, the barrels of the cigars turning a sickly yellowish-green.

  Mercedes rounded the table, getting closer to the monitor, “What the hell is that?”

  Red followed her, reading the scrolling content on the first screen, “The spectrometer is reading a concentrated level of animal protein in the areas highlighted.” He pointed to a specific line, the screen pausing at his touch, “There, batrachotoxin.”

  “Poison?”

  “Yes, poison. A very virulent type.” He turned to Chase still at the table, “Can you carefully break open one of the cigars and dump the tobacco in front of the box without compromising the bag?”

  “Sure…”

  ■ ■ ■

  The conference room seemed to be the best place to lay out all the evidence without a concern for space, an array of holographic images floating in the air of the night Waycom Hill was murdered. And now it became clear to all of them, it was the reason the Chief Deputy bugged the room - he guessed the same thing. He wanted to know what they knew… and he’d hoped he would hear them die, smoking heavily poisoned cigars where even the smoke would have been toxic enough to kill. It was surmised that because Waycom only smoked the packed tobacco, not the whole-leaf tobacco wrap, painted with the batrachotoxin, that it may have taken longer to affect him; absorbed slowly through his fingertips instead of inhaled and touched to the sensitive membranes of the lips and mouth.

  Several pieces of evidence had disappeared, simultaneous with the removal of Waycom Hill’s remains; the cigars and humidor, the ashtray he used, his lighter and his favorite pipe. Which implicated the Chief Deputy directly as the supervising investigator on the incident.

  Torn Dado, the only other person to be included in the display of information, sat silently watching it all unfold, until now, rising from his seat at the conference table. “What the hellion are we going to do now? You do know this asshole is running for Sheriff in the upcoming election, right?”

  “What could he possibly have had against Waycom?” asked Chase. “I gotta’ believe this is all tied back to Poppa Topps, somehow.”

  Mercedes shook her head, “Just to eliminate the competition? I don’t know…”

  “Isn’t it women who use poison the most? I thought I read that somewhere.”

  Mercedes gave Chase a sideways glare, “Is that a personal jab? Because I used poison - this is all about me now?”

  “When did you use poison, Ms. Mercedes?”

  “Never mind, Red,” waved Chase. “No,” he countered, turning back to Mercedes, “I just meant, if we’re looking for someone who pulled the trigger on a contract, because that’s what this is, maybe it was a woman.” He turned back to Red, “Did Waycom have any women that disliked him enough to want to kill him?”

  “Not that I ever saw, Mr. Chase.”

  Chase fingered his chin in contemplation, “Hmm. But you’re sure it was the Chief Deputy that gave him the cigars…”

  “Yes, sir. I was there. Of course, he wasn’t the Chief Deputy at the time, He was Chief of Detectives.”

  “And when was he promoted?”

  “Shortly after Waycom’s death…”

  “Ah geez,” grumbled Chase, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It was a payoff…”

  Torn Dado leaned on the table, “You think the Sheriff’s in on it too?”

  Mercedes rubbed her temples, “Or someone with enough money and influence to make it happen…”

  “It all comes back to Poppa Topps again,” admitted Chase. He turned back to the android, “Red, this may be a rumor, but we heard Waycom may have owed someone money or favors. Did he get himself in a bind somehow?”

  “And something about a secret coded letter?” added Torn Dado.

  It was the first time any of them had seen Red take a seat, as he pulled a chair out and sat tentatively at first, making a show of getting himself comfortably situated. “Waycom Hill owed no one, either favors or money. The Sandy Hill Bar and Casino was the first of its kind in Sandorra. These things are in my permanent memory, not in archived storage. I suppose you could say he wrote in code… machine code. The language I run on. Waycom was a machinist and engineer. Many of his records, orders and notations were written in machine code, directly into my permanent memory so I could always keep track of special finances and projects. As he got older he grew concerned his memory would fail him - so I became his memory. And it had to be my permanent memory, if it went into transferable archive, there was a possibility he may not remember to instruct me where to find what he was looking for.”

  “These special finances and projects, what were they?” asked Torn Dado.

  “Money owed. Operational secrets. Favors he was keeping track of.”

  “Wait,” waved Chase, “I thought you said he didn’t owe anyone anything…”

  “He did not. They were owed to him.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this,” said Mercedes, sitting back down at the conference table. Chase and Torn dado sat back down as well.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?”

  “You never asked me,” replied Red, his hands folded casually on the table.

  Chase pointed at him, “I knew he was going to say that.”

  “Congratulations,” muttered Mercedes, “you’re clairvoyant.” She turned to the android, “Tell us about the money and favors he was owed…”

  “As I mentioned earlier, The Sandy Hill Bar and Casino was the first of its kind in Sandorra, established a little over one-hundred-twenty-five years ago, by Waycom’s father. Waycom was born here in this casino, his mother was an exotic dancer. He was raised here, educated here and learned to maintain this ship, the Hollister…”

  “And how he learned machinery and engineering?”

  “Exactly. I tutored him quite often. Around his twenty-fifth birthday, his father began teaching him the casino business. His father passed away about twenty years after that and Waycom took over.”

  “What about the money and favors?”

  “Wacom’s father was a smart business man, which in practice, he passed on to his son. Father and son, both, invested in businesses and people. Sometimes though money, sometimes through favors, sometimes influence. In the beginning, Waycom’s father was the most influential man in Sandorra. Waycom held quite a bit of influence in his day as well.”

  “When did that change?” asked Chase.

  “It was gradual to be sure, I do not recall any one particular tipping point. But I expect it was when Waycom was in his sixties. You see, his father lent a large sum of money to a former employee of his, to purchase the rights to a copper mine and the necessary equipment. The copper mine produced some copper, some quartz, but turned out to be a major producer of gold. That former employee was, Daritt Topps. Father of Harland, the man you call Poppa Topps.”

  “Oh geez,” breathed Chase.

  “Daritt Topps was a hard man. Always was, even when he worked here at the S
andy Hill. I think it may have been part of the reason Waycom’s father gave him the money - he wanted Daritt out, but he wanted it to be on good terms. Daritt never lived up to the contract he signed with Waycom Sr., nor has Harland, who is as equally, if not more difficult than his father ever was. Part of the deal was a small percentage of the yearly profit of the mine after the initial loan was paid off. For copper it would have been measurable, but nothing in comparison to the margin of gold. The numbers were quite substantial and Waycom knew it. But to keep peace, he never pursued it. I don’t understand it, but I think both, Daritt and Harland, resented him for that.”

  “Harland hated owing Waycom,” volunteered Mercedes. ‘That can eat at your conscience.”

  “Then he should have paid him,” grumbled Chase. “Asshole. But that doesn’t explain Harland’s behavior.”

  “Harland,” continued Red, “had everything handed to him at once. Unlike Waycom who benefitted from his father’s guidance, Harland had it all thrust upon him when his father died unexpectedly…”

  “So, he was a spoiled brat,” offered Chase. “Continue…”

  “And, there were questions about the circumstances of his father’s death which were never answered. When he came to Waycom for guidance, especially with the casino, Waycom turned him down.”

  Torn Dado rolled his eyes, “Ouch.”

  “If there were unresolved circumstances,” mused Chase, “I think the obvious question is, who was the investigator?”

  “I do not know,” responded Red, “perhaps we should enquire. Any one of our security team that work with the Sheriff’s office, should be able to find out…”

  Chase puckered his lips, “I don’t know, we’d have to be very careful who we ask, we’re not even sure who we can trust anymore…”

  “It would certainly have to be exceptionally discreet as well,” added Mercedes. “If he got caught and there is a connection to both murders, it could tip our hand and we’d be screwed.”

  Chase looked dubious, “I have another suggestion, but I don’t think you’re gonna’ like it…”