Isaac Asimov's I, Robot: To Preserve

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Jake rolled his eyes and sighed. “Susan, letters written on a tool aren’t the same as an MRI of a tumor. We’re dealing with deceitful human beings, not a straightforward attack by disease.”

  Susan did not bother to disabuse him of the notion that disease processes were consistent and reproducible. “You’re saying a few initials on the murder weapon aren’t conclusive.” He was right, of course. A lot of people labeled their tools, even cheap hammers and screwdrivers; and organizations often did so to assure that any employee who borrowed one remembered to return it, especially after a few had disappeared. The faded, amplified image Jake had sent her suggested the markered letters had been there a long time, gripped by multiple sweaty hands through the years. They were small, and she could see how the murderer might not have seen them, or even thought to look for them, before employing the labeled bar as a weapon. Or, maybe, he had not had time for careful examination. “So they’re not even questioning the SFH?”

  Jake stopped eating to fully address Susan’s question. “Of course they are, but there’s a complication.”

  Susan waited patiently for him to continue.

  “Remember I told you the Department of Defense had the desire and means to put the SFH out of business?”

  Susan could hardly forget. She had worried she would have to spend the entirety of her life dodging kidnappings and bullets, but Jake had reassured her. She remembered his words almost verbatim: “There’s not a whole lot NYPD can do about a citizens’ action group like the Society for Humanity, other than prosecuting those members directly involved in the crime. But Cadmium has their own ax to grind against the SFH now, and they have RICO.” He had gone on to describe RICO as the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, which would allow the Department of Defense to capture and try the leaders of a syndicate for crimes they ordered others to do. She encouraged him to continue by saying, “I remember.”

  Jake did so. “Not only was the SFH trying to kill a person Cadmium desperately wanted alive—”

  “Me,” Susan pointed out.

  Jake went on as if she had not interrupted. “But they also got into a firefight with Cadmium in an open street. DoD likes to keep a low profile, and they don’t appreciate people shooting at them.”

  Although he had just stuffed his mouth, Kendall had to say, “Me, either.”

  Susan agreed. “Me either, too.” She took a small bite of her own food, trying to guess where Jake was taking the point. “So you’re saying the SFH no longer exists? That Cadmium effectively destroyed it?”

  “The Society for Humanity still exists, but anyone with even a hint of a history of violence was . . . removed from it. Apparently, the DoD examined every individual affiliated with the organization down to their high school social posts and junior high yearbooks. When the guys from the Nineteenth visited the SFH, they found a group of mild-mannered accountants and concerned grandmothers, all of whom fell over one another to try to figure out if a Stanley Utility FuBar Thingy might have gone missing from an SFH toolbox.”

  Susan had taken another mouthful while he spoke and was still chewing, so Kendall asked the appropriate question. “Did one? Go missing, I mean.”

  Jake raised a shoulder, then dropped it. “Who knows? What do you learn from the absence of such a tool? Did it go walkies or did it never exist? No one currently involved in the group remembers having one, but they didn’t deny the possibility, either. And there’s always the chance that the SFH on the utility bar stands for Samuel Franklin Henderson or Society for Family Health.”

  Kendall added unhelpfully, “Saint Francis Hospital.”

  Susan finally finished the mouthful. “What about fingerprints?”

  Jake had the ready answer. “Nate’s only. Wiped clean before it fell into his hands.”

  Kendall swallowed a mouthful of strawberry fizzy water. “Now that’s an odd thing for a killer to do, isn’t it? Remove everyone else’s prints, then leave his own.”

  Jake had to nod. “A stupid criminal might do it, but I’m sure you could prove Nate smarter than any human.”

  Susan imagined herself in front of a jury requesting the answers to complicated mathematical problems and Nate supplying them effortlessly.

  Jake did not wait for a response. “The only other reason to wipe it down would be to protect a coconspirator. Most criminals would want to leave a buddy’s fingerprints intact unless and until he could wipe clean his own at the same time. It spreads the guilt and opens a lot more defensive possibilities. The DA might argue that Lawrence wiped it before giving it to Nate, except that’s countered by the fact that he jumped right in to take responsibility for any action of Nate’s at the precinct. That suggests someone other than Lawrence cleaned the weapon, again introducing reasonable doubt.”

  Susan pounced on this information. “It’s certainly what someone framing Nate for the crime would do.”

  “Definitely,” Kendall agreed.

  It seemed odd to Susan that an item that had not even come into play during their sleuthing might just prove the key to Lawrence’s release.

  They ate for several moments in silence while Susan contemplated the various discrepancies in the prosecution’s case. Surely, they were feeling smug, wholly confident in a case in which they had caught the alleged perpetrator with his bloody hands on the murder weapon standing over the corpse. It seemed unlikely they would anticipate the many flaws Susan and her team had discovered. More likely, they would expect Lawrence’s attorney to attack the connection between Lawrence and Nate or the science of the laboratory, a risky strategy at best.

  Finished with his dinner, Kendall shoved his plate aside and leaned across the table toward Susan. Before speaking, he turned toward Jake, clearly for support. Jake gave a noncommittal gesture that both of his companions apparently took to mean the ball was in Kendall’s court on whatever he intended to say.

  Kendall cleared his throat. “Susan, Jake and I have some concerns about Pal.”

  Susan could almost feel her hackles rising. “What about Pal?” She put the last bit of fish into her mouth and chewed slowly, waiting for him to continue.

  Kendall obliged. “We know you’ve known him a lot longer than we have, and that you’re a superior judge of character. It’s just . . . well . . . for example . . .” He stopped speaking, gathering his thoughts to make his speech more fluent. “When you told Jake about how the two of you met. From what Jake told me, it sounded like Pal spent a lot of time secretly pursuing you.”

  Oh. That. She and Pal had made up that particular story on the spur of the moment, and it had nothing to do with the truth.

  Kendall added carefully, as if measuring Susan’s response, “Almost to the point of . . . stalking.”

  Susan snorted.

  Kendall looked affronted. “I’m just . . . thinking of you, Susan.”

  Susan had not intended to hurt his feelings, only to disabuse him of a silly notion. “Pal exaggerated the story a bit. You know how people do when they’re trying to make a bland love story sound more romantic. Our meeting twice in a short period of time really was a happy coincidence. If we hadn’t had a mutual attraction, we simply wouldn’t have remembered the first encounter.”

  Kendall either accepted that explanation or assumed Susan considered that particular point covered and closed. “Also, there’s the matter of Net silence.”

  Susan pushed her own plate aside, finished, trying to guess Kendall’s point. “You mean there’s nothing on the global Net about a special operations force soldier.” She made an exaggerated motion of shock, resorting to sarcasm. “Quelle surprise.”

  Jake finally assisted Kendall. “Yeah, all right. Men in MARSOC aren’t going to have lots of time for play, and he’s probably under orders not to be chatting. But I can’t find any sign that Pal Buffoni existed before he enlisted. No high school yearbook picture. No teenage crushes. No too
thless grin in some elementary school sports team picture. He’s got an address, a Vox number, a motorcycle registration, and a license to carry. That’s it.”

  Susan rolled her eyes. “Which is probably more than you’d find on me. I’ve got a Vox number, but my address probably hasn’t caught up with me yet. I’ve never owned a vehicle. I spent too much time studying to create a Net presence. Look me up; I’ll bet I’m Net silent, too.”

  Kendall sighed.

  Susan tried to understand. “Look, Kendall. I know it’s weird. You don’t see me for several months, then I show up with a lover you, my best and understandably very protective friends, have never met. But believe me; I know how to read people. Pal is a good man all the way, a hero and a patriot. He loves me, and I love him.”

  Kendall stiffened, revealing that Susan had hit close to home. “But it’s just so soon . . . ,” he practically whined.

  Susan could hardly deny it. It was quicker, even, than she could let them know. “That’s apparently how love works for me. Remy . . .” It surprised her how easily she spoke his name. The pain that used to arise when she did lay deeply buried. “Remy and I fell in love after our third date. We had known each other less than two weeks.” She glared at the men, daring either of them to say a single negative word about Remington Hawthorn.

  Neither of them did.

  Kendall seemed frustrated by his inability to influence Susan to his viewpoint. She believed he had saved his most significant argument for last, though he seemed loath to use it. His dark eyes assumed an odd glimmer that Susan could not yet place. “Men like Pal . . . I mean, he’s a hero and he’s so . . . good-looking.”

  Susan could not allow him to continue. “As opposed to me, who’s a cowardly troll.”

  “No!” Kendall shook his head. “Susan, that’s not what I mean—” He turned a pleading look to Jake, clearly seeking help, but Jake’s expression suggested he had warned Kendall not to try this particular argument and he would not assist. That seemed to fluster Kendall all the more.

  Susan defended herself. “Pal and I have discussed this. He thinks I’m beautiful. By the way, Remy did, too. His mother’s a genius, and he wants a woman with a brain. Is that really so difficult for men to comprehend?”

  Kendall struggled to salvage his point. “Susan, I don’t mean that as an insult to you. It’s just that men like Pal don’t have any trouble finding beauty queens with whatever additional features they might want, including a brilliant mind. I’m not saying you’re unattractive. . . .”

  Susan had tired of the subject and wished to end it. She understood Kendall’s point. “I note you didn’t kick me out of your bed.”

  Kendall’s cheeks turned a brilliant shade of scarlet. “Well that was before . . . I mean I . . .” He rolled an eye toward Jake but clearly could not plant his gaze on the policeman. “I didn’t understand my sexual desires. . . .”

  Susan dodged the guilt she should have felt for placing Kendall in this position. She knew he had a serious crush on Jake, who seemed completely unaware of it, and that Kendall still struggled with full acceptance of his homosexuality. Suddenly identifying the gleam she had seen in Kendall’s eyes, she ended the conversation with a declarative statement. “Oh my God! You’re both lusting after my man. You can’t understand what he sees in me because you can’t imagine anyone wanting me as a sexual partner.”

  It was not wholly fair, and Susan knew it. Kendall had not only imagined it but had attempted it. The fact that it had not gone well was not entirely his fault. Still, it accomplished what she wanted, and it ended the discussion in its tracks. She glanced at her Vox, which read 7:15 p.m. There were two messages waiting, both from Pal. She brought them up. The first read: “Enjoying chicken cacciatore at Mom’s but missing you. She wants to meet you sometime. When will you be home? Love, Pal.” The second read: “Leaving Mom’s, then grabbing a few things from my place. Be home by 7:30. You?”

  Susan responded with a quick text: “Done eating. Abt 2 lv A’s. Home soon.” Her Vox fixed all the misspellings, and she checked to make sure all the words were as she intended before sending. “I’m going to wash up in the ladies’. Then, if you’re done insulting me and my partner, I’d like to go home.” All the talk of Pal’s attractiveness was awakening cravings and memories of their lovemaking.

  To her surprise, Jake did not try to prolong the outing. “That’s a great idea. Kendall and I have work in the morning, and you should get to the Nineteenth by about eight a.m.”

  Susan had no idea to what Jake was referring. “I should? Why?”

  Jake’s brows rose. “I just assumed you’d want to talk to Lawrence’s attorney before the bail hearing.”

  “The bail hearing,” Susan repeated dully. She had never attended one and had little idea what to expect. No one had previously mentioned it to her. “How come you’re the first to tell me about it?”

  Jake shrugged. “There’s not a whole lot to it, and you can’t influence the outcome. It’s unlikely the judge will even allow you in the courtroom. But if it were my friend, I know I’d want to take the opportunity to see him and get to know his lawyer.”

  Susan got up from her chair, and the men rose with her. She had expected them to wait at the table for her, so she asked sardonically, “Are you joining me in the ladies’?”

  “I am,” Jake said, without a hint of humor.

  Surprised, Susan could only mimic, “You are?”

  “Of course I am. I’m your bodyguard tonight, and I can’t think of a better place for a killer to hide than in the ladies’. He’s going to expect me to let you go there alone. If so, he’s sadly mistaken.”

  Susan did a mental check of her bladder and decided she could wait until she got home to urinate. “Let’s not cause that kind of trouble.” She dipped a napkin into her water glass, then used it to dab at her face and thoroughly clean her hands. “There, I’m clean. We can go now.”

  Jake shrugged. “Are you sure, Susan? We can handle it discreetly. I don’t want your kidneys exploding or anything.”

  “Bladder,” Susan corrected. “The kidneys just make the urine; the bladder holds it. And I’m fine if we go now. Are we all settled up?”

  “Yup,” Jake said.

  “Thank you,” Susan said. “I enjoyed the food very much and appreciate your treating.”

  Kendall cut in. “Well, don’t cover me, Jake. I’ve got it, and I’m happy to take over half of Susan’s, too.”

  “Forget it,” Jake said. “I got it all.”

  Kendall swiftly stated, “All right, but I get the next one.”

  Susan recognized the tactic, which would assure they had another meal together. Susan felt certain it was Jake whom Kendall wanted, not her, but she did not allow herself a smile. They headed for the door.

  Chapter 14

  Susan, Jake, and Kendall stepped into the twilit parking lot, the weather warm and muggy for early September. Susan pinned her long dark hair behind her ears, trying to remember where Jake had parked the Sapphire. The little car sat at the end of a row, an open grassy expanse on the passenger side and a boxy Korean import parked crookedly on the driver’s. As they approached the car, Kendall veered close to Susan, speaking barely above a whisper, “Would you mind if I took shotgun?”

  On the trip to Alphonse’s, there had been only Susan and Jake; Kendall had met them at the restaurant. Susan had naturally sat in the passenger seat. Last year, when the three of them had traveled in the Subaru, Susan had sat beside Jake because she had known him longer than Kendall had.

  Kendall added, “I’ve got longer legs.” His effort to sound casual backfired. Susan knew exactly why he wanted to sit beside the object of his crush. The conversation flowed more naturally and easily between the front passengers, which suited Susan just fine. She could use some time to think about all the day’s discoveries and the upcoming meeting with Lawrence’s attorney. S
he did not want to argue about whether she was pretty enough to keep her lover. “That’s fine.”

  Kendall stumbled. Something fell from his hand, pinging against concrete and rolling under the Subaru. Susan dropped to a crouch to retrieve the object, which she assumed was a ring, though she had never noticed him wearing one. Spotting a glimmer of silver, she reached beneath the car, face pressed to the cool metal while she groped blindly in the right general direction. Gravel grated against her fingertips; then she scooped up something round and thin—a coin, she presumed.

  Abruptly, Kendall fell against her with a force that slammed her face and knees to the macadam. Pain seared her cheek and knees, and the ragged pavement nearly tore her khakis. Susan twisted to confront him, and her movement caused him to land fully on top of her. Neatly pinned, she looked into his familiar dark eyes, now filled with shock, glazed and sightless. Blood ran from his nose. “Kendall!” Susan scrambled to a sitting position, Kendall’s limp form flopping onto her lap. Gore clotted in his orange hair.

  Screams pierced Susan’s hearing, and it took inordinately long to realize they came from her own throat. In all the years she had managed medical emergencies, she had never fallen prey to panic. Her training had always risen to the occasion, allowing her to work mechanically, endowed with memory and understanding. In a crisis, the world seemed to move in slowed motion. Now she suffered a terror she had known only in the past two years, one that scrambled her senses and made her want to run until her muscles spasmed and her lungs collapsed.

  In an instant, Jake was there, tossing Kendall off Susan, grasping her arms, and shoving her, reeling, toward the passenger seat. “In!” he shouted, ducking around the Subaru and tearing open the driver’s door.

  “No!” Susan could not leave Kendall. She lunged toward him. Already off balance, she tumbled from the car. Small objects drummed across the roof. Pain shot through Susan’s right shoulder. “I’ve been shot!” she realized aloud.