by Tripp Ellis
"Sorry," Reese said without any trace of sincerity. He sat behind his desk, feet up like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Next week a shipment of hervoxin is coming in, and I was supposed to meet with the supplier. We've never been able to discover Duke’s source. And I was this close," he gestured with his thumb and index finger. Agent Prescott was with the Drug Enforcement Agency.” I guess it didn't occur to anyone to check with us before instigating a raid on one of the largest narcotic traffickers in the area?"
"I guess it didn't occur to your agency to inform us you were engaged in an undercover operation in our jurisdiction?" Reese countered.
Prescott grumbled to himself. Then, looking to shift the blame, pointed his finger at Max. "And this one… She damn near killed everyone in that warehouse. Is she even a cop?"
Reese fumbled for words. “She's part of a special task force on… crime. Recently deputized.”
Prescott’s eyes blazed into Max. She forced a smile and went along with it. It was quite a surprise that Reese was defending her, but his ass was on the line now.
“We identified ourselves as police officers before the raid,” Reese said. “They responded with weapons fire. As far as I'm concerned, they were all clean kills.“
Prescott shook his head, not buying it for a second. “And what's the DA going to say about it when Duke's attorney presses for an investigation?”
“The mayor is determined to clean up the station. I think the DA will see our actions in line with the mayor’s initiative. He wants us to be a center for intergalactic commerce.”
Prescott scoffed. “Mayor’s initiative?” he said mockingly. “Orion Station is a center for intergalactic crime. Always has been, always will be.” He paused a moment. “You should have never been alone in the office with Duke. If you'd have just left him alive, the deal next week might still have gone through. Instead, we lost one of the largest narcotics traffickers in the galaxy.”
“I wasn't alone with Duke," Reese snapped. "Officer Tidwell was with me. He can verify that Duke reached for my weapon. He had no choice but to take the suspect out."
Dylan interjected. “Unfortunately, this case is no closer to solving my brother’s murder."
"I can assure you, the perpetrator of the crime has been brought to justice,” Reese said.
"We'll never really know for sure now, will we?“ Dylan said.
"I've got thousands of hours of recorded conversations between Duke and his associates," Prescott said. "What information are you looking for?"
"We're trying to determine Duke’s involvement in the death of Detective Chace Carter,” Dylan said.
Agent Prescott pulled out his mobile device. He tabbed through a few screens and launched an app. All of the surveillance audio and video Prescott had collected had been transcribed and indexed upon import into the application. The contents of the files were keyword searchable. Prescott was able to plug in the name Chace Carter, and within moments, a list of files that contained the name were displayed on the screen. Prescott scrubbed through them one by one, listening to the sections surrounding the utterance of Chace’s name. It didn't take long to undercover a conversation of interest. An angry voice boomed through the speaker on Prescott’s mobile device as he replayed a file. "I want that son-of-a-bitch dead. I don't care how it gets done. Just do it." There was no doubt the voice belonged to Duke.
“He’s a cop. Don’t you think that might bring down a little heat?" another man responded.
Prescott stopped the playback. “The second voice you hear is Tom Corrigan.” He pressed play again.
"I know who he is,” Duke grumbled. “And it's not going to bring anything down on me if you do it correctly. If you can’t do it, I'll move on it. And that's the last thing you want me to do. Because in that scenario, what do I need you for? I only keep people around me who are useful. Are you useful?"
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Agent Carter’s death needs to look like an accident. If you can't make it look like an accident, you need to set someone up to take the fall. Either way, if Carter is still breathing by the end of the week, you're not going to be. Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," the associate stammered.
Prescott stopped the playback. "It doesn't necessarily prove Duke had Carter killed. But he's at least guilty of conspiracy to commit murder. I’d say Corrigan is the shooter.”
“Where is Corrigan now?” Dylan asked. “Can we bring him in for questioning?”
“You could, but he ain’t going to say much,” Prescott said.
“Why not?”
“Cause dead in the warehouse.”
Reese smiled. "All's well that ends well."
Dylan was still skeptical. But it was probably the closest thing to closure that he was going to get.
25
"I guess that's it," Max said.
Dylan shrugged. "I guess."
Max could sense his doubt. She poured herself a drink from the minibar in Dylan's suite. She moved in front of the mirror and started picking the pieces of shrapnel out of her face. She winced as she removed each tiny shard. She gazed at her complexion and frowned. There was still a dark circle under her eye from the day before, now this. It would take a few days to heal, and even then she might need skin resurfacing.
“You got any antibiotic cream?”
“Do you have some kind of aversion to doctors?”
“Yes.”
Dylan dug into his suitcase, pulled out a gel tube, and tossed it to Max. She disappeared into the bathroom and pulled the rest of the tiny shards from her skin. She washed the blood from her face and applied the antibiotic cream. She glanced in the mirror, adjusted her hair and shrugged. This was as good as it was going to get for now. She took a sip of her drink and strolled back into the living room.
“Where are you going to go now?" Dylan asked.
"Well, first thing I'm going to do is track down my luggage. I had some really cute outfits in my bag. But I'm sure they’re halfway across the galaxy by now.”
Dylan chuckled. "Somehow I think you could make any outfit look cute."
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Carter.” Her crystal blue eyes sparkled at him. “What about you?"
"I guess I'm heading back to headquarters.” He paused for a moment, then pulled out his mobile device. He tabbed through a few screens. “I'm sending you all the information I have on Silas Rage. It would be's remiss of me if I didn't suggest you let sleeping dogs lie, but since I know you're not going to do that, good luck." Dylan hesitated a moment. "If you ever find yourself on Cygnus Minor 3, look me up."
Max's sultry eyes flicked to Dylan. A slight grin curled on her lips. "I just might do that."
There was a little something between them, but neither one knew what the hell it was. Dylan’s mobile rang, interrupting whatever moment was brewing. It was Agent Prescott.
“I did some checking. Tom Corrigan wasn’t the shooter. He wasn’t aboard the station at the time of the murder.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the info.”
“Where are you staying?"
“The Plaza.”
“I'll swing by in a few hours. I've got something you might be interested in." Prescott ended the call before Dylan had a chance to inquire further.
“What is it? Max asked.
“Looks like our work here isn’t done."
Max frowned. She pondered their next move. “Somebody had to see something.”
“OPD canvased the area. They talked to all the shop owners and as many store patrons as they could find. No one saw anything.”
“And you trust the OPD?”
Dylan's face crinkled up. "You're right. Let's go see what we can find.”
Dylan followed Max down to the lobby and out into the maze of corridors, weaving their way to the crime scene. The two hovered outside the men's restroom in the shopping district.
Dylan seemed hesitant. "I don't think I can go in there."
Dylan arched a single eyebrow at her.
“Don't worry. I can handle myself." She sent Dylan into the boutique, then she pushed into the men's restroom.
There were a couple of guys taking care of business at the urinals while she started searching the compartment for clues. There were still blood stains in grooves between the deck—despite the fact the restroom had been cleaned multiple times since the murder. She didn't know what she was looking for. It was probably just a dead-end anyway. Any shoe prints, or plasma residue, would be long gone.
She got a few sideways glances from the men.
“You looking for something, sweetheart?” A burly guy said, looking over his shoulder from a urinal. “Whatever it is, I can help you find it," he said with a lascivious wink.
“I don't know, seems like what you’ve got might be pretty hard to find.”
The man's grin turned to a scowl. He pulled up his pants and stormed out of the restroom.
Max continued scouring the facility. There was nothing of interest in the bathroom. Only a small crater from where the plasma bolt had exited Chace's skull and pitted the bulkhead above the urinal. It had created a tiny hole through to the women's restroom. She peered through the narrow aperture and could see the other side. From this angle, she could only see women primping in the mirror.
Max pushed back into the corridor and went into the women's restroom. She found the hole from the blast mark. She looked across to the opposite bulkhead to see if the plasma bolt had continued through with any measurable force. She was trying to get an idea of how powerful the killer’s weapon was. But the opposite bulkhead didn't seem to be affected.
She gave one last glance around the restroom before heading back into the corridor. Something caught her eye—a black dot on the bulkhead, near the ceiling. She climbed up to reach it. The spot turned out to be a small camera, stuck to the bulkhead. It was the size of a small button, with an adhesive back. She pried it loose, then hopped down. She held the device in her palm, studying it. It was clearly transmitting wirelessly to a nearby receiver. Someone was peeping on the women's restroom.
Max pushed back into the corridor and scanned the area. She caught sight of the station janitor rounding the corner, pushing a cleaning cart.
A slight grin curled up on Max's lips. She strolled to the dumpy guy pushing the cart. "Mind if I ask you a few questions.”
The man looked nervous and stammered, "I'm really busy. Behind schedule."
"It will only take a few minutes."
"I got six more restrooms to clean, if I don't finish them by the end of my shift, I'll get docked pay."
Max held out her palm, displaying the camera.
The janitor swallowed hard, and his face went pale. He looked guilty as sin.
Max knew she had her man. She pointed to Dylan who was questioning the store clerk. “You see that guy in there? He's an FCIS agent. I bet he would love to hear about your illegal recording activities. You could go away for a long time for something like this.”
26
"You're not going to arrest me, are you?"
“Not if you cooperate,” Dylan said.
Max and Dylan interrogated the janitor in a small utility compartment away from public eyes.
“How many cameras do you have placed in restrooms on the station?” Max asked.
The janitor shrugged. "All of them."
“Even the men's rooms?" Max asked.
“No. Just the women’s.”
“Well, that doesn't really do us any good, does it?” Dylan said.
“You're looking for information about the murder, aren't you?"
“What do you know?" Dylan asked.
"I saw who did it."
Dylan's eyes widened.
“Who?"
“I don't know what her name was. She looked a lot like you," the janitor said, pointing to Max. “Not identical or anything, but same build, same hair color. Good looking.”
“Why didn't you say anything before? Report it to the authorities?" Max asked.
“My life may not seem like much, but I don't want to lose it. I learned a long time ago to keep my mouth shut about things I see on the station."
“How did you see the murder?”
“I was in the restroom, taking care of business in one of the stalls. I heard the pistol go off, then looked over the divider to see the dead man on the deck and the girl rushing out of the compartment. It's a good thing she didn't check the stalls, or I’d be dead too.”
Dylan and Max exchanged a glance.
“So, we're all good, right? I told you what you want to know, and you guys forget about my creative filmmaking.“
"What exactly do you do with this footage? You get off to this?" Max asked.
The janitor's face twisted up. “No. I'm not into that kind of thing. Lady, you don't know the kind of people that are out there on the Galactic net. People pay big money for these clips. And cash is tight. The robots undercut everything, and our union isn’t as strong as the sanitation department."
Max looked astonished. "People pay for this?"
"High dollar."
“To watch women pee?”
“It takes all kinds, Lady.”
“How much of this stuff do you have?"
“I got at least three years of footage. 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Of course, not all of it is usable.”
“Tell you what. I'm going to give you 24 hours to remove all the cameras from every restroom on this facility. And destroy all the footage.”
The janitor's eyes widened. "All the footage?"
“All of it. I'm going to pull a search warrant and have Federation agents search your premises. So you better hurry and get rid of everything.”
The janitor grumbled, but what choice did he have? He was getting off easy.
Max and Dylan let the janitor go, then stepped back into the corridor.
"Do you think he's telling the truth?" Max asked.
Dylan shrugged. "I don't know. Seems like people have an aversion to the truth on this station.” He sighed, heavy with frustration. "Why don’t you run back to the hotel room, I’ll meet you there.”
“Where are you going?"
“I'm gonna run down a lead—a clerk from the boutique that was working at the time of the murder.”
“Want me to go with you?"
“I need you to go back to the hotel and wait for Prescott. He said he's got some information that might help."
Max and Dylan parted ways.
Weaving through the maze of corridors, Max made her way back toward the hotel room. But she had the distinct feeling that she was being followed. She kept glancing over her shoulder, catching sight of a robot weaving in and out of the crowd, trying to keep up.
Max turned the corner at the next junction, then pressed her back flat against the bulkhead and waited. When the robot rounded the corner after her, she grabbed the android and slammed him against the bulkhead. She placed the barrel of her plasma pistol against his head.
The robot’s nervous eyes went wide. “My name is Winston. It's urgent that I speak with you."
He was a sleek XR-709 service bot. He stood 5’10” tall with composite plastic body panels, designed by the famed sports car designer Zapharini, over an alloy skeleton. Precision crafted gears, servos, and joints allowed Winston to have smooth and fluid movement. A composite smart-polymer allowed him to form expressions on his face plate. He was state-of-the-art, and one of the more expensive models. Too expensive for a cop to afford.
It took Max a moment to realize who Winston was. “You’re Chace’s personal bot.”
"Yes. Is there somewhere more pri
vate we could speak? I'm taking a big risk by approaching you.”
Max pulled him into a storage compartment adjacent to the main hallway.
"Everyone's been looking for you."
"I know. But it hasn't been safe. And I haven't been sure who I could trust. I have information that I think could be beneficial."
"Regarding Chace's death?"
"Yes."
“Do you know who killed him?”
Winston hesitated for a moment. "Are you familiar with the Crygon Sphere?" Winston asked.
Max nodded. “It’s a weapon the size of a baseball that could destroy an entire planet."
"According to my information, there will be several hundred of them at this facility in a few days."
Max’s eyes widened. "That's impossible. The materials needed to create those weapons are few and far between. The technology to construct the device is extremely advanced. No one outside the Federation government has been able to create one. And certainly not in that number.”
"Perhaps that may have been true in the past. But we are entering a new era of unprecedented terror."
Max processed the information.
"Chace was working on uncovering a massive arms trading network. The information he gathered, which is now stored in my data systems, implicates the highest members of regional government. I believe that is why he was killed."
“And you know who his killer is?"
“That, I believe, I can prove with a reasonable degree of certainty."
27
"Those are pretty bold allegations," Max said. “And you have the evidence to back this up?"
"The evidence I have implicates several members of the OPD, Customs Enforcement Agents, the district attorney, and implicates Mayor Thornton.”
“And you're sure about this?"
“Yes. The mayor's own shipping company, Starway Express, a subsidiary of Thornton Enterprises, is more than likely facilitating transport of the illegal arms shipments.”