“So you can vouch for them?”
“Of course. I’ve known them for years.”
Sam laughs. “Okay, sold.”
Nadi returns the smile.
“What’re you doing later?” Sam asks.
“Going to see my boyfriend.” Nadi looks up to acknowledge a wave from another customer.
“Boyfriend?” Sam tries to feign indifference. “When did this happen?”
“Between the time you should have asked me out and now,” she says. “I’ve gotta go.”
As she’s walking away, Sam thinks to compliment her performance in Kashmir Tiger. But he can’t find the words.
Back at home, Sam sifts through more of the data he’s collected. He runs eleven hours of video surveillance from the wall-eye watching Kenneth Wren’s antique store through a facial recognition routine, instructing the program to isolate and identify only those people entering or exiting the shop. He routes the output through the paparazzi database maintained by Celebrity News Network, which is more complete than the criminal database run by the San Francisco Police Franchise Association. The downside is that CNN gets broadcast rights to the source video in exchange for access, but chances are there won’t be anyone with enough star power in Sam’s material to merit interest.
Estimated time to completion: fifteen minutes. The network is slow tonight. While video gets sliced and diced and images compared, Sam checks his messages. There’s a brief note from Shannon Vole at Zvista.
“Mr. Crane, I’m afraid I can’t assist you further in your inquiry. Please contact our public relations office if you have any questions.”
Odd. She seemed so eager to help earlier. It occurs to him that perhaps someone got to her. He leans back in his desk chair and stares at the light coil in the ceiling.
Sam logs into Zvista’s site to check on Fiona. Her vital signs are the same as always. In the video window, she looks peaceful. Or immobile. Or dead. He prays that Lucidan does something. Anything.
Ten minutes into the search, Marilyn announces a voice call from Tony on a secure channel—meaning no one but the government will be listening. Sam accepts the charges, which pay for some call center worker, under contract from the FBI, to conduct a threat analysis of the call.
“Tony? How’s the weather up there?”
“It’s raining,” Tony complains.
Anxious, Sam stands. “Did you hook up with Dmitri?”
“Yes, I just left. I’m in an air taxi.”
Sam can hear the whir of the engines despite the high-pass filter on the audio.
“It turns out you were right,” Tony continues. “The data in those fields isn’t random, at least once he unscrambled it. It’s the same in both of the files you gave me, the one from GeneTrak and the three guys at the podium.”
“Did he say what it is?”
“An array of numbers. He said they looked like APS coordinates—longitude, latitude, elevation—but there are six instead of three.”
“Two locations then?”
“He didn’t speculate.”
“You done good, Tony. Thank you.”
“Sure. Let me know how it goes. I gotta get some sleep.”
Sam laughs. “It’s barely ten.”
“I’ve been getting up at five to work on my toys.”
“Are you selling any?”
“Every one that I can reprogram. Business is good.”
“Just a reminder: Intellectual trespass is twenty to life.”
“I know the score. Stop by and I’ll show you some cool stuff. Got a Barbie from 2020. Swears like a sailor, but smart as a whip.”
“That I’d like to see.”
“Ciao.”
Marilyn says, “Secure connection terminated.”
Sam has a mouthful of toothpaste when Marilyn informs him that his facial recognition search is complete. Awaiting him onscreen is a dossier containing details about the fifteen people who visited Kenneth Wren that day. He doesn’t recognize any of them. Before turning in, he sets up another query, this one to identify anyone who has appeared in a published picture with any of the fifteen.
Marilyn dutifully executes Sam’s commands while he sleeps.
CHAPTER Five
Outside the Pure Café on Church Street, a youthful crowd waits, Sam among them. He’s dressed more nicely than usual; looking like a biker is a liability when questioning certain kinds of people.
It’s a perfect morning, warm and clear. The keeper of the waiting list emerges and calls a name. The chosen go to their table inside. The rest return to their distractions. Among those reading the morning news, two have splurged on actual newsprint.
A ‘gent sits under a paint-blinded lookout lens, head bowed beneath matted hair, hand out. Apparently he believes that the pool of potential donors includes some coders; only the crypto crowd clings to hard currency. Most ‘gents have merchant accounts with credit companies—which usually assess a “convenience fee” in addition to standard service and equipment charges. Next in line is the Homeless Union, which takes a cut for health benefits, overhead, and legal representation. The IRS would have its hand out too but for the union’s success in defending its members’ nonprofit status.
This particularly filthy individual is leaning against a shopping cart stacked impossibly high with refuse. The cart comes from Lab Foods Supermarket, which recently surrendered in the much-publicized “War on Theft” after a particularly brutal campaign of feces bombing. Better to lose a few carts than to lose even more customers.
Relay jockeys make a spectacle of themselves in the street with lights, signs, and noisemakers. Some wear tuxedos, formality being the fool’s gold of trust. They’re fighting for the attention of drivers, offering valet parking without the part that involves stopping the car and turning off the engine For about half the price of brunch, they’ll drive your car in circles until you’re ready to leave.
Sam stares at a picture of Amy Ibis on his tablet. She’s one of the fifteen matches from last night’s search. She’s stunning, with high cheekbones and almond eyes. And stylish—but Bohemian enough to suggest a sense of adventure; not an obsequious follower of fashion. She’s just the type who’d buy from Kenneth Wren.
The picture comes from the society section of Content Corp’s San Francisco Chronicle. (The other section is sports.) Amy is shown attending the opening of her show last January at the Bank of America Museum of Modern Art. She’s accompanied by her father, Harris Cayman, celebrated in the caption as the founder of Synthelegy, the world’s leading brand-identity firm and one of the museum’s major benefactors.
Accidents never happen in a perfect world. The sounds of the street fade as Sam’s mind races. What was it Shannon said? He knows he should remember, but the conversation eludes him.
Inserting his earpiece, he whispers, “Marilyn, search my audio log from yesterday. Find instances of the word ‘Cayman.’ Replay each utterance in chronological order.”
Shannon’s voice says in his ear, “Mr. Cayman was the one who approved the final list.”
Then Sam’s voice: “Mr. Cayman?”
Shannon again: “Harris Cayman. He’s the chairman of the board.”
It could just be a coincidence that Cayman got Fiona into the trial. It could. But Sam doesn’t believe it. Luis’ words rattle about in his head: “I know you’d do anything for your kid. It’s the same for me.” That, he remembers.
“Sam, have you ever been to the Cayman Islands?” Marilyn asks. “There are some terrific deals available this time of the year. Air West has package deal for $5299. You sound like you could use some rest.”
Teeth clenched, Sam tries to respond discreetly. “The stress you’re detecting in my voice has a lot to do with the fact that I’m investigating two murders. Because of that, I’m not planning to go on vacation any time soon. Make a note in my marketing preferences, or whatever it is that you do.”
Just then, the purposeful approach of two men in suits and ties and dark glasses catc
hes Sam’s eye. They’re halfway across Church Street, heading right toward him.
Sam stands, wondering what the two men want.
The first is wiry, about Sam’s height, with Botox-blank face. The second is slightly shorter, muscular, with a shaved head. He looks like he hails from Eastern Europe. He’s carrying a locator, in a model available only to the Feds—which explains how they found him.
A few of those waiting for tables look up.
“Sam Crane,” says the first man. It’s a declaration, not a question. “I’m Agent Gibbon. This is Agent Indri. We’d like a few words with you.”
“What about?”
“We’ll ask the questions, Mr. Crane,” says Gibbon. Indri has a sour look on his face, like he’s trying to dislodge remnants of a recent meal from his teeth.
Sam gestures at the stoop of a duplex next to the café. He takes a seat on the steps. “As long as I don’t lose my place on the waiting list.”
“Suspend your logging, please.” Gibbon removes his glasses and sits. Sam complies. Indri remains standing on the sidewalk, on watch, arms crossed, head pivoting left and right.
“You look like you’re watching a tennis match,” Sam observes.
Indri snorts. “Maybe I play tennis with your head.”
“Let’s not get off on the wrong foot,” Gibbon says diplomatically.
“Someone’s already gotten up on the wrong side of bed,” Sam says, just loud enough to be heard.
Gibbon tries not to smile. Indri just sneers.
Sam chuckles. “By the way, you guys do the good cop/bad cop act well. As someone who’s in the business, I can appreciate that.”
“You’re not one of us, Mr. Crane. You’re a spec,” Gibbon sneers. He pulls a tablet from inside his jacket. “Have you seen this man?”
To Sam’s surprise, he has: It’s the sharply dressed man with the dark beard. He can’t pretend otherwise or their voice-stress test might get him. “Maybe. It’s hard to tell with the beard.”
Gibbon’s tone grows cold. “Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Have you seen this man?”
“Yes.”
“When? Where?”
“The corner of Church and Twenty-Sixth. Not long ago.”
Visibly shaken, Gibbon looks to Indri, who nods. No unusual voice stress; probably true. “He was here? How long ago?”
Sam makes a show of trying to remember. “Not more than a minute ago. I saw him on your tablet.”
Gibbon delivers a vicious jab to Sam’s throat, leaving him gasping for breath. “We’re not playing games, Mr. Crane. Time is running out.” He pulls a tetanife from his pocket and holds it to the base of Sam’s skull, paralyzing his muscles. “Plug him in,” he says to his partner.
Indri peels the backings off what look like foil bandages. He slaps one on Sam’s temple, the other on Sam’s wrist.
A woman waiting for a table at the Pure Café approaches cautiously. She’s wearing Birkenstocks and a Gap T-shirt with the words “Question authority. Every price is negotiable.”
“Um, what are you doing?” she asks.
“Searching this man’s mind,” Gibbon replies cheerily. “Would you like to be next?”
Blanching, the woman hesitates. “Brain rapists,” she mutters as she retreats.
Checking the display in his sunglasses for a signal, Indri nods. “Good to go.”
Gibbon holds his tablet in Sam’s face. “Clint,” he says to his agent, “begin brainprint slide show.”
Sam tries to close his eyes but can’t. Every muscle is tense. He hurts all over. With Indri monitoring the electroencephalographic response, a series of images flash before Sam’s eyes: a South Pacific beach; his mother; the sharply dressed man; the Taj McDonald’s; his father; an eye chart; aerial shots of cities—New York, Paris, Barcelona, Rio de Janeiro; a microdot drive; infamous terrorist incidents— the Atlanta hanta outbreak, the destruction of the World Trade Center, the Tet Offensive, the assassination of J.F.K., the sabotage of the Hindenburg; several unfamiliar people; and President Vaca.
“He’s seen him,” says Indri.
The tetanife withdrawn, Sam curls into a ball, quivering.
“How do you know Emil Caddis?” asks Gibbon.
A pause. Someone among those waiting up the block shouts obscenities at the Feds.
“Mr. Crane, I’m losing my patience.”
“I don’t know him,” Sam rasps.
“But you’ve seen him. He’s in your head.”
“I saw him, but I don’t know him.”
“You two were in the same location twice yesterday. Once at Aquamarine, once near the Ferry Building. Why?”
“I don’t know.” Breaths come haltingly. “Look at the damn surveillance. I don’t know the guy.”
“We have. You handed him something as you passed on the stairs. What was it?”
The air smells faintly foul. Burying his aching head in his hands, Sam answers through clenched teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gibbon looks to Indri for confirmation. His answer comes without warning: a wine bottle whacking his head. Green glass shatters, spilling blood and Beaujolais. Gibbon falls at the feet of a wild-eyed ‘gent.
Indri scrambles back crab-like, fumbling for something in his jacket. The disheveled man kicks him, screaming, “I know you! I know you!”
Indri tries to protect his head, but the blows keep coming.
Sam stumbles onto the sidewalk. He’s sure backup has already been summoned by the sensors in Gibbon’s clothing, if not by his comrades riding remote. He hesitates. He’d like to repay the favor somehow, but his savior is a dead man. He sprints toward his bike.
Helmet on head to shield his face from the cameras, he starts the engine. It sputters and grumbles. In his rearview screen, he glimpses the waiting diners logging the scene while sipping lattes. No one stops the show.
Inching down Highway 101, Sam wishes he could afford an air car. He imagines smug flyers looking down on the ground-bound trapped in gridlock. Bastards.
With the automated traffic system managing his speed, he’s left to sit back and enjoy the ride, as much as that’s possible. He tries not to look at the solid wall of billboards to either side of the freeway. Unnerved by the Feds’ interest in him, he considers asking Marilyn for background on Emil Caddis, but decides against it. His request might be used as further evidence of an association.
Instead, he asks for Nial Fox, who answers. “Sam Crane. You’re popping up on dispatch screens all over.”
“I was waiting for a table at the Pure Café and two Feds decided to rifle my head. What the hell is going on?”
“Really? All I know is you’re wanted for questioning.”
“Let me ask you one: Who’s Emil Caddis?”
“Never heard of him.”
“I don’t suppose you’d look him up for me?”
A forced laugh. “I’m not your agent, Sam,” Nial says. “Your signal shows that you’re leaving the city. I’d suggest you turn around.”
“Can you give me two hours?” asks Sam.
A pause, then Nial relents. “Whatever. I’ll tell them you’re on your way.”
“Thanks, Nial.”
“Frankly, for a $200 bounty, it’s not worth sending someone to get you.”
“That must be a typo,” Sam protests. “That’s less than you’d get for nabbing a jaywalker.”
“Count your blessings. At $500, the freelancers start taking an interest, and then someone always ends up getting hurt.”
“Well, it won’t be me.”
“Save the big talk for someone who cares.” A click.
“Call disconnected,” says Marilyn. “Based on speech analysis, the network has determined that—”
Sam dials down the volume in his helmet speakers. The billboards to the right and left are no less loud. “Global Cola: The Taste of Happiness.” He shuts his eyes. The red, white, and blue smiley-face logo remains visible for a moment, branded on his brain.
Biopt’s California office is twenty floors of titanium and diamond-fiber glass. It has a parking lot, a nice one. Bougainvilleas drape the concrete anti-truck-bomb barricades. On the roof, dishes and antennae scan for airborne micro-bombs and other flying threats. There’s even a turret with a wideband laser, just in case.
Seeing the security, Sam decides bluffing isn’t an option. At most companies, carrying a pizza opens every door. But Biopt obviously gives a damn about access.
The gate is manned by a machine, a bot from Honda. It’s beefy, built to intimidate, like a player from the Robot Wrestling League. Unlike service bots, it moves constantly, shifting its weight from foot to foot, gyros adjusting, head swiveling. It’s anatomically correct, as if to sexualize its threat.
“Dismount,” the bot growls.
Sam complies. He notices a dead sparrow on the asphalt. Wisps of smoke rise from a small black hole in its breast.
“Show your face.”
The moment Sam removes his helmet, Marilyn’s voice gets routed to the speaker in his jacket. Her complaint is in progress: “…so rude to keep ignoring me. Let me suggest that you get your hearing checked. For a limited time only—”
“Marilyn, silence.”
“How many minutes would you like to buy?”
“Fifteen.”
“Transaction processed. Talk to you soon, Sam.”
The bot approaches. It sniffs Sam for explosives—unnerving behavior in a biped. It stares right through him looking for weapons. “You are Sam Crane, of Crane and Associates. You reside in San Francisco. Confirm: true or false.”
“True.”
“State your businesses.”
“I’m here to see Dr. Xian Mako,” Sam says, hopeful his statement won’t be flagged as a lie.
“One moment,” demands the machine.
A good sign. The bot must be querying its human overseer somewhere inside.
While he waits, Sam reads the small warning panel on the bot’s chest: “Danger. Stern’s genitals are for display only.”
“Mr. Crane?” The voice coming from Stern is different, nasal and not the least bit menacing. “I’m afraid—”
“I hope this isn’t a terrible inconvenience,” Sam interrupts, trying to forestall a dismissal. “I have some news concerning Dr. Mako.”
Oversight Page 7