Spider Play

by Lee Killough

  Janna had to laugh, too. “We do. Now prithee, make us merry and point us toward the manager.”

  The pointed teeth gleamed again. “Forthwith, mistress.” He spoke into a paw dangling over his shoulder. “SCPD detectives to see Mister Soliz.” Then bowing, he waved them past.

  Into the blast of sound and wave of animal heat generated by a Saturday night crowd escaping the cold and weather with warm bodies, alcohol, and bar drugs.

  The decor replicated a cavern: faux stone walls and floor, glowing “stalactites” providing such light as there was, and “stalagmites” supporting bar stools and tables. It appeared the drink orders arrived at the tables by coming up through those same stalagmites. Slim male and female wait staff in filmy garb — Ariels? — slipped through the crowd to collect empty glasses and bottles. Instead of a holo band, music boomed from hidden speakers. Beyond the bar, stairs led up to a second level, presumably the gaming rooms, since Janna saw no joyeurs in the crowd to indicate Prospero’s had a brothel license.

  A female Ariel stepped in front of them and beckoned. They followed her through the crowd past a large alcove of arcade games and a length of wall whose “stone”, on closer examination, formed the doors of privacy booths. At the end of the row, another door opened on an elevator. The Ariel motioned them in with a smile and waved goodbye.

  The closing door chopped off the noise so suddenly Janna felt as if she had gone deaf. “We should remember to bring ear plugs to these places.”

  The control panel had a single light. Shrugging, Mama waved a hand past it and the car started up. “I guess with two floors, if it’s on one, it knows to go to the other.”

  They had just time to shed their jackets when the door at the rear of the car opened on a tiled hallway and a stocky, thirty-something male in a tunic suit diagonally striped in black and silver.

  Taking in Mama’s sweater, his brows rose. “Detectives Maxwell and Brill? I’m Rudi Soliz, the night manager.”

  Mama’s lifted brows in return. “Your door doesn’t just scan for J-scibs?”

  Soliz smiled. “We can choose to read adult ones as well. Although you were scanned in the elevator. Catering to mostly modest income patrons is no excuse for economy tech. How may I help you?”

  “We hope your tech can,” Janna said. “We’re trying to identify two jons of interest in a homicide. How long do you save your door cam images?”

  “A hundred twenty hours.”

  Five days. So they no longer had Monday’s. “Then we need to see the door images for Thursday late afternoon and evening.”

  “This way.” Soliz led them down the corridor to the security office.

  Two females and two males in comfortable sweaters and cargos rather than uniforms sat in chairs with keyboard arms, monitoring the screen wall. Screens on the ends surveilled the parking area, front and rear entrances, and bar . . . though the latter’s dim lighting left the images useful mostly for detecting disturbances. The central screens and monitors’ chief attention, of course, focused on the gaming tables. Janna noted the usual blackjack, poker, roulette, craps, and slot machines. Plus rooms for mahjong, bridge, and a currently unoccupied table with — surprisingly — a digital chess board.

  Mama pointed at it. “That’s unusual.”

  Soliz shrugged. “A few of our corporate poobahs have a chess bob. They put a table in all their clubs. Players have the choice of a live opponent or the computer.”

  “Does it see much play?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed, except when one of the poobahs visits.”

  Over her shoulder, a female monitor said, “Afternoons I’ve worked, I’ve seen players . . . older jons, usually, and a few fems. More when it’s freezing like this or hot out, but those put a cover on the table and play with an actual board and pieces.”

  Soliz’s brows went up. “Interesting. Door surveillance Thursday evening, you said?”

  “Yes, please,” Janna said.

  “I need the virtual secondary.”

  Without taking his eyes from the screens, a male monitor on the far end touched a control on his chair arm. A keyboard image projected from the abutting wall at standing height.

  As Soliz’s hands played over it, a screen appeared on the wall. “Starting when?”

  Lou had been waiting when Viper arrived. “Let’s run it from five o’clock, at double time.”

  Soliz brought up the door cam. They watched the day door keeper — also costumed as Caliban, with a scowl befitting his role — admit the after-work influx of patrons. None of them in a jacket fitting Fury’s description. At six, the Caliban they met replaced the day Caliban . . . admitting patrons without the scowl and the same bow he gave them.

  “There!” Mama said. “Back up and go forward real time.”

  Soliz backscanned. At six thirty-three a jon wearing a navy blue jacket with red stripes over the shoulders passed Caliban. To Janna’s frustration, however, he looked down at his feet . . . giving them only a foreshortened view of his face.

  “He’s avoiding the cam,” Mama said.

  Janna agreed. “Maybe we’ll get a better view on the parking cams.”

  Maybe spot the Borealis, too . . . though few vehicles came more generic-looking. Probably the reason Lou and Snowy drove it.

  Checking the lot, they did see their blue-jacketed jon . . . but he walked through the lot from the direction of the street. With his head bent the entire time.

  Janna grimaced. “It looks like we’re not going to see his face.”

  He did not appear to have driven the Borealis to the club, either. Luckily they knew an intersection where they could find it.

  “Trouble in sector D-3,” the female monitor on the near end said.

  A quick check of the bar images confirmed two jons swinging at each other. The monitor obviously signaled the bar somehow because Ariels waded toward the fight. Not just pretty faces. They reached the combatants as one slammed the other into the wall, and at a touch on each, had the two sitting on the floor.

  “Your wait staff are licensed for stingers?” Mama said.

  Soliz nodded. “It’s a quick way to deal with difficult patrons. And if those are cranked enough to shake it off. . .”

  Which could happen in the adrenalin-heat of an argument. The reason for refusing demands by be-kind-to-felons groups to use the low-charge Tasers. That and the fact stingers required touching the target to deliver their charge.

  “. . .we have our Calibans.”

  On the screens, Janna saw the doorkeeper make his way to the fight while a male Ariel replaced him at the door. So smoothly done only the nearest members of the crowd noticed.

  “The Ariels say no one’s bleeding,” the monitor reported.

  “Then have Caliban escort our combatants out and wait for autocabs.” Soliz pulled out a cell and sent off a text Janna knew went to Metrans requesting Safe-rides at this address.

  A hand under one arm of each, Caliban lifted the jons to their feet and marched them to the door, followed by an Ariel with their jackets. When one of the jons lunged for the other instead of putting on his jacket, Caliban hoisted him overhead by the collar and belt and held him there . . . ignoring the jon’s thrashing while nodding goodbye to other patrons leaving more conventionally.

  Janna had to laugh. “You make them pay their own fare?”

  “Of course. We want them home safely but the club isn’t a charity.”

  Safe-rides running on auto — not giving the rider the ignition code — prevented any destination other than home . . . such as another club or bar.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Janna said, “I don’t think so. Thank you for your time.”

  Down at the door they waved at Caliban as they passed him . . . still holding the belligerent and cursing drunk over his head. “Farewell, master, mistress,” he called after them. “Farewell, farewell.”

  Janna grinned. “I could come drinking here just because of him.”


  Mama nodded absently. In his frankencab he turned on the heater and opened his slate. “Where did you say the smugglers picked up Viper?”

  “Twenty-first and Maryland, somewhere close to seven.”

  He entered his code to connect to Traffic. “I’ll start at quarter to.” He ran the intersection slowly, and found the Borealis as the frankencab began warming up. “Seven-oh-three. Tag LVD 802. There’s two in front, too muffled to really see their faces.” He handed her the slate.

  More than muffled. Between a scarf and cap, only the driver’s eyes were visible . . . and very little more of the passenger.

  She handed the slate back and pulled out her own to run the tags. Surprise, surprise. “It’s registered to Polo Markakis.”

  Mama’s brows arched. “That isn’t what I’d expect him to drive.”

  She ran a check for all vehicles registered to him. “It’s one of six. Maybe for weddings and funerals. Garage companions are a Nyati Duma, Mercedes Vulcan, a . . .” She whistled. “. . . Bugatti Veloce 70X. I guess his family does have money. I can’t believe he’s gone halfway around the world, though, and left that just sitting in his garage! There’s also a Kansu Sumo — when he hates being restricted to one lane, I guess — and a Denali mountain cycle.”

  Mama swiped and tapped his screen. “LVD 802 tracks back to the Camden Addition . . . where we lose traffic monitoring. Castlerow country.”

  “Vehicle registration lists his address as Revere Loop.” Janna brought up a city map. “That’s off Camden Road.” She frowned. “I wish he were in this country so we could bring him in for a chat.”

  “Roos gave me his contact numbers. And it’s. . .” He tapped and swiped some more. “. . . eight o’clock or so in the Kalahari. Let’s call him.”

  “But he’s racing.”

  “Only during the day.” He found the numbers and showed them to her. “You call. I think he’ll respond better to a fem than me. Meanwhile, I’ll trace the Borealis forward from where they picked up Viper.”

  Janna entered the cell number. After six rings it switched to v-mail. She thought fast, considering what message might encourage him to call back. “This is Detective Janna Brill with the Shawnee County PD in Topeka, Mr. Markakis. There’s a possibility one of your vehicles here has been stolen.”

  As she started to disconnect, a face with a week’s beard and frantic dark eyes appeared on her screen. “What vehicle? Oh, my God! The Bugatti? Did someone blast through the garage wall?” Behind him lay what appeared to be a mess tent.

  “Your neighbors have reported seeing your Borealis on the street in the area.”

  Markakis blew out his breath in relief. “Then there’s a mistake. That can’t be my car.”

  “Your tag is LVD 802.”

  “Yes, but . . . if you were going to steal one of my cars, would you take the Borealis?”

  “Why do you have one?”

  “For when I need a car to loan friends or a servant for running errands.”

  “So these friends and servants would have the ignition code.”

  “Not the garage codes.” He frowned. “Look . . . I don’t have time for this now. I have to focus. My start time today is in half an hour.”

  “I’ll make this fast. Could someone you’ve previously given the codes to be using it? A former servant?”

  “No! The Grainger agency sends me staff for the house when I’m home and their personnel are bonded. Besides . . . I changed the house codes before leaving in December.”

  “Your Heartland Annex shed code, too?”

  He blinked, then frowned. “Yes. Why?”

  “You surely left the new ones with someone in case of emergencies.”

  He sighed impatiently. “Of course I did! My lawyer, Donna Fonseca. But she wouldn’t use them except in an emergency.”

  “So she’s the only individual right now who has the codes and is authorized to use them.”

  “Yes. Yes! Now, I’ve got to go! I won yesterday’s leg which puts me second overall just fifteen minutes behind Lo Chung. I might make that up today. We’ve got territory I think is more than his Zhanshu can handle.”

  “Then I wish you good luck. But . . . would you give me the garage codes so my partner and I can check on your vehicles?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  She held her badge up to the screen and activated the surface laminate.

  “Get a warrant and see my lawyer. Goodbye.”

  Mama took her cell. “I have one quick question first. Do you think working with Dr. Fosse is a factor in how well you’re doing in the race?”

  Janna stared at him.

  Markakis glared and disconnected.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  “While you were talking to him I found these.” He turned his slate toward her and paged through a number of pictures showing Markakis in restaurants, clubs, and a winner’s circle with a beautiful blonde. “I saw a picture of her, Dr. Ekaterina Fosse, with him the first time I looked him up. Just now I’ve found a news item dated Johannesburg three weeks ago showing her with him in a nightclub and a caption: Dieter Fricke celebrates his Kyalami 500 victory with Nyati teammate Polo Markakis. Which is interesting, because that was an A1 race and here Markakis is three weeks later in this Kalahari rally. They’re very different kinds of racing. Which also makes me wonder, if he’s that versatile and talented, why he has this personal racing team. As a hobby? His racing statistics are better when he’s driving for someone else than himself.”

  “Mama!” Sheesh! “Why did you ask him about this Dr. Fosse?”

  “There’s no images of her with him before the one in Johannesburg three weeks ago, but plenty since. The timing’s interesting, don’t you think? She’s a sport psychologist. They often use hypnosis to help clients build confidence and concentration.”

  “So you’re wondering if she does, too, and got Markakis’s codes with it? Assuming he isn’t part of the smuggling.”

  “What do you think? Once he got over panic about the Bugatti, he turned impatient. To me he sounded too focused on racing to lie effectively at the same time.”

  Janna had to agree. “Yeah. Lou and Snowy arrived here two weeks ago. Whoever bought the data from the station had to know the delivery location long enough before then to arrange for agents.”

  Mama drummed his fingers on his slate spindle. “I wonder whether the delivery plan started with Chenoweth or Markakis.”

  Janna eyed him. “With Markakis? Surely with Chenoweth, as the only way to smuggle the data stick.”

  “There are doubtless other possible ‘couriers’ on the station. But . . . the one chosen came down to Forbes . . . located in the home city of Markakis — currently driving for a racing team sponsored by Uwezo — who has not only a house that lets the buyer’s agents avoid the transaction trail created by staying in a hotel but a van as part of Markakis’s own racing team’s equipment.”

  “You think the buyer is Uwezo.”

  “How much coincidence can you believe in?” Mama handed her his slate and switched on the fans. “Track the Borealis from picking up Viper.”

  She asked Traffic for record of the tag from seven Friday morning to seven Saturday morning, just to be thorough, and expanded the thumbnails one by one in sequence. “It passes through Twenty-ninth and Van Buren at seven twenty-two, then back through at eight ten.”

  Mama said, “If we check Zinzer’s surveillance, I think we’ll find they sat in the car keeping warm, probably in front of the store so they had a good view of northbound vehicles, and spotted the hearse in time to hit the Walk button and stop traffic. Where did the car go from there? Somewhere near E-world?”

  “Twenty-first and Swygart. Next recorded at that intersection at two fifty-four.” She frowned at the screen. “He spent over twelve hours parked unnoticed somewhere on that stretch of Swygart.”

  “Maybe the apartment lot across the street.”

  “From there he drove to Heartland, then . . .” Sh
e opened more thumbnails. “. . . to Camden, with two riders in the car. The tags don’t register anywhere after that.” Not even when she extended the search another twenty-four hours.

  “Because they no longer needed it. They had what they came for, and the horses are long gone from the stable. But we shall see.”

  Janna looked up from the slate at him . . . and stared at the neighborhood around the car. A castlerow . . . large houses sitting in grounds protected by high, spike-topped metal fences. Searching the Borealis’s route, she had paid no attention to Mama’s.

  “Where—” she began, then spotted a street sign. To her dismay, Camden Road. Crap. “Damn it, Mama. No! We’re not going to Markakis’s place at this time of night.”

  He turned up Revere Loop. “We’re almost there already.”

  She fought down an itch to put a Thor in him and take over driving.

  As they turned in at Markakis’s address, she saw with relief that a closed gate blocked the drive — a snow-free surface indicating solar pavers. Relief dying in a wave of frigid air as Mama ran down his window and pointed his code reader at the keypad post beside the drive.

  “Mama!” She reached across him to grab his arm. “Don’t!”

  Too late. The gate had already begun rolling aside.

  Suddenly, fans screaming, the car shot backward out of the drive with whiplash speed of its racing drive, and up the street still in reverse . . . around the curve of the loop. From down at Markakis’s came the loud clang of a closing gate.

  A clang making her stomach lurch. “You set off an alarm?”

  “Yeah.” He grimaced. “The code initially looks elementary, so I just started entering. Except it ends in a number series I realized one nano too late — and most people wouldn’t at all — that’s a request for an additional sequence to disarm an alarm. Which I could have dug out if I’d taken the time to fully analyze the code in the first place.” He sighed. “Pride goeth, etcetera.”

  The gate had begun opening, though, without that disarming sequence.