Alex felt her hand cool, and withdrew before she could break contact. “It’s down to that then?”
“Don’t misunderstand me. You’re fascinating, Griffin. And sexy as hell. And a little frightening. Did you seriously come in here to put the make on me after sending my boyfriend up for ten years?”
That was that. The air clouded with frost. Oh, for a word, a clever line. It’s just the neutral scent talking, babe, don’t flatter yourself .
“I was invited,” he said, and stood up.
“Griffin,” she called up to him, her eyes impossibly wide. “There was an accomplice, wasn’t there? An inside man? Suppose Tony was set up. What if they did get away with whatever it was that they wanted? Suppose Tony was just a patsy, and while you prosecute him, the big people are all getting away?”
Alex’s expression didn’t change. “The fantasy is over, Acacia. Tony played the wrong game in the wrong place, and he’s going to have to pay for it.” Damn, you just can’t say anything without being Mr. Griffin, can you? Then the only words that mattered bobbed up in his mind like letters in a bowl of alphabet soup. “I’m just sorry we had to meet like this,” he said.
She was silent, but the air was just a shade warmer, and he knew she had believed. And then, all that could be said having been said, he left.
Griffin felt his weight settle into his mattress, a two hundred pound deadweight of human being.
The temperature in his bedroom was seventy degrees and he didn’t bother pulling the sheets up over his body.
He watched the sleep pattern dancing in the air in front of his eyes, soothing pastel freeforms that pulsed and bobbed at eighteen beats per minute.
Here, the distant gurgle of his living room aquarium and his low steady breathing were the only sounds. Here, away from the babble outside, he could listen to his body, feel the bruises and hurts, the places where he felt good, the clean spot in his mind that would fill in with work.
Here he was free to let his control go, and sleep.
And he couldn’t sleep. Not at all.
His job was done. There was nothing he could do, should want to do, about Acacia. Tomorrow he would wrap up his report with Harmony, be de-briefed, and that would pretty well end his personal involvement.
Rest. For days he had thought of nothing that would make him happier. And now, with the sleep-pattern snaking in front of his eyes, the warm air circulating around his naked body, nothing seemed further away.
Murder in Dream Park. God, what a nightmare. Could it have been an accident, despite what Novotney said? Doctors weren’t omniscient . . . Could Tony be a consummate liar, despite everything Griffin thought he had seen in him? The Griffin wasn’t omniscient either . . . Or had he been set up?
Suppose, just suppose, Rice was the inside man? What a grim joke that would be. Rice was in a good position to commit the burglary. Suppose Rice handed the notes and neutral scent to Tony, then allowed Tony to tie him up . . . both following instructions . . . wrap him up like a Christmas present so that a third accomplice, unsuspected by either, could shut Rice’s mouth by pinching his nose shut . . .
Griffin shook his head. It was the kind of thought you could only have about a man you disliked. It irked him to admit that he had never warmed to Rice. But then, Rice had never given Griffin much chance to warm to him. Distant. Polite, but cold. Capable of that total indifference even toward the man to whom he owed his job.
Alex squinted in the darkness, following a disturbing train of thought. If Rice was the true thief, still, why should he be killed? If he knew too much . . . but why should he have been told any more than Tony? No, that wasn’t it.
Because Rice was in the wrong place at the wrong time, then. What did he see? What did he know . . . ?
Griffy, you’re definitely detective material.
Griffin listened to his breathing: thunder in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears; and knew that he had to call Millicent. He propped himself upright and said, “Switchboard.”
The screen formed, a pale violet rectangle of light. A voice asked, “Yes, Mr. Griffin?”
Stifling a yawn, he said, “Summers, Millicent Summers. Priority call. “
Twenty seconds later Millie rippled to life in front of him, her eyes puffy and half-crossed with bleariness. “Chief? Whaf s up?”
Gotcha! he thought; but it didn’t seem to matter. “I need your help, Hon. You did the research—”
Even as he spoke she was coming alert, her eyes focussing, mouth hardening. By God, he thought to himself, maybe I never will learn her secret.
Chapter Thirty-One
DEPARTURES
At ten past ten that Wednesday morning, Skip O’Brien looked like the surviving gamers had looked stumbling out of the Goose. Smiling, successful, but very tired. He blinked at Griffin and Harmony and, seeing no returning smiles, lost his own. “Am I late?”
Alex felt awake and alert after ten hours of sleep. “We haven’t been here long. Coffee, Skip? You look like you need it.” He was already holding the pot.
“Good. Black, thanks. I didn’t get to bed till two this morning. Worth it, though.” Skip slid his briefcase onto the desk and took the cup Griffin handed him. Griffin refilled Harmony’s empty cup, then his own.
Harmony gulped, made a face. “Good. Well, I’m glad to be wrapping this mess up, finally. Skip? Your report, please?”
Griffin watched Skip remove three sheets from his briefcase and sort through them. Skip adjusted his glasses and skimmed down the chosen sheet.
“We recovered almost half of the neutral scent. Considering the level of impact felt by the Gaming party, I believe we can safely conclude that we’ve got it all. The formula has been recovered, and we have stress-analyzed testimony indicting no copies were made. Although we don’t have tapes to study, the report filed by security chief Griffin would seem to indicate that the drug performed at a level beyond our most optimistic expectations.” He smiled shallowly. “I think we’ve got a winner, gentlemen.” He settled the papers back in his lap.
Harmony tapped a thick finger on his desk pad. “Very good. Alex?”
“It’s not quite so neat on my end, Mr. Harmony.”
The bald man’s face remained immobile. “Explain, please.”
“I’m just not sure that we know the truth yet. There are some questions about Rice that need to be answered.”
“Wasn’t it murder?”
“The coroner says so. McWhirter says he left Rice alive and healthy, and the voice-stress test says he isn’t lying. But McWhirter’s no doctor. . . Incidentally, we picked up his accomplice at five this morning when he tried to recover the notes and the neutral scent.” Alex grinned suddenly. “Wet as a cat in the rain, he was, and not happy. McWhirter was supposed to leave the stuff behind the fake waterfall. He’s given us that much, anyway. We don’t know who the man in Sacramento was . . . yet. We will. My question is: was Rice involved? His apartment was rifled only two days before, he was taking an unscheduled break . . .”
“Exactly what are you saying?” Skip’s eyes were narrowed.
“It’s pretty thin, but thieves have been known to fall out among themselves.”
Harmony’s finger tapped more quietly. “I’m still not sure I follow.”
Griffin sighed. Here it came, and it wasn’t going to be pretty. But he could be wrong; he could still hope he was wrong.
Alex said, “Rice claimed that nothing was missing from his apartment. We think he lied. A statue was missing. The statue was known to be hollow. Two days later, Rice is dead and the neutral scent turns up missing. Skip, when exactly was the last time that the contents of that cabinet had been checked?”
“I . . . see what . . . you mean.” Skip thought a moment. “I’d have to check.”
“All right. Now, think with me. Suppose the neutral scent was already gone? Suppose Rice stole it, and the whole thing went down to divert suspicion?”
“Then . . .” Harmony’s frown deepened. “You think th
at the statue held the vial and someone stole it back? Gave it back to us? That doesn’t make sense.”
“A lot of this doesn’t make sense, Mr. Harmony. Maybe Rice got greedy and didn’t sell the drug to his friends. Maybe McWhirter is a more calculating man than any of us realize. All I know is that something’s wrong and I’m having Bobbick check Rice’s place again. What we need may be there.”
O’Brien squinted. “Haven’t you already searched Rice’s place?”
“Not thoroughly. Just photographed.”
“Well, somebody searched it.”
“True. And maybe they didn’t get what they were looking for. There are a lot of ways to hide things in a CMC apartment, that an outsider might miss.”
“A place large enough to hide a statue?”
“No, no, only enough to hide what someone thought was in it. Rice was a sculptor, you know. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to rig a fake brick for his fireplace. A holo projection of a book could cover a hole in his shelf . . . I don’t really know.” Alex glanced at the cuff of a fresh shirt. “Bobbick must be almost there by now. If there’s anything there, we’ll find it.”
Skip snapped his briefcase shut. “Whew. This sounds pretty bad. I’d better go and check the dates on that cabinet. If you’ll excuse me—”
Alex thought a wordless curse.
Harmony patted the air with his hand. “That can wait, Skip. I need to know about the formula we recovered. How familiar with it are you? Enough to be sure it’s the real thing?”
“I—it’s hard to say. I, uh, I could check with Sacramento, but if the leak’s there, the real formula could be switched already. And if it isn’t, we can’t compare them over an open line.” He sat down, reluctantly, then popped up again. “Listen. I may have some notes on this in my lab. If I match them up . . . ?”
Harmony looked at Griffin, then back again. He hadn’t liked this when Griffin broached the subject earlier, when it was still hypothetical. Now he hated it, and it showed in his face. “Why don’t you just get them on the phone. Have your office check. We’ll have a courier bring it over if necessary.”
“I—we can’t, uh . . . There’s been too much trouble already. It’s too valuable.”
“You’re too valuable to us here, Skip,” Griffin said gently. He turned to Harmony. “There’s only one person in Sacramento whose name turned up in Albert Rice’s telephone book. Lady named Prentice, Sonja Prentice.”
Harmony nodded grimly.
The blood was draining from O’Brien’s cheeks. His eyes flicked from Harmony to Griffin to Harmony . . . “What the hell is this about?” He could barely speak, the breath whistling weakly in his throat.
“It’s about getting to the truth, Skip.”
O’Brien’s mouth worked wordlessly. “You can’t—”
“Yes, we can.” Griffin said. “We know about Sonja and we know about you and Rice.”
“Jesus . . .” O’Brien whispered. Then his eyes blazed and his lips set in a taut pale line. “I’m not saying a goddamned thing until I talk to my lawyer.”
Harmony spoke now, and his voice, cultured and precise, was an ugly thing to hear. “I’m not sure you appreciate our position, O’Brien, Alex and I talked this over before you arrived. We can’t have you prosecuted. Unfortunately.”
Skip’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think would happen if it was known that Cowles Industries’ chief psychiatrist, the man who has headed up our child research division for six years, is a cold-blooded murderer?”
“You did it, Skip.” Griffin said hollowly. “You were in a position to alter Rice’s computer records. You could ‘discover’ the forgery later, after Rice was dead. You were working in R & D the night he was killed.” He leaned close to Skip, whose eyes were closed now, his breathing heavy. “We just need to know the truth, Skip, all of it. Either we get it from you, or the police come in and drag it out for us; and the papers get everything.”
Again, O’Brien’s mouth worked without sound, then a long, and sigh. “It was the girl. Prentice. My god, it was so long ago . . .”
He lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. Griffin watched the smoke haze around Skip in a cloud until Harmony whisked it into the ceiling. “Rice was my student at Sulpher University. Bright. Promising. We became friends. My wife found it so damn easy to get into the swing of being a University wife. The entertaining, the parties . . . Albert could talk sense, and he . . . he listened to me. Looked up to me.”
He gestured aimlessly with the cigarette, the smoke making spirals in the air. “We had a thing. It didn’t last for that long, but it was pretty intense. More of a crush, maybe. When I tried to back off, he got crazy. Just nuts. Swore to tell the University. Said I was abandoning him, that I didn’t give a damn about him. I tried to show him that I did.”
Griffin waited for him to continue, then started to prod gently, but Skip continued by himself. “Sonja was a girl who had taken a class from me the semester before. She was lonely, I knew that, and I thought that maybe . . . maybe there was enough common ground to form a bond between them.”
“Had you had a ‘thing’ with her too?” Alex’s voice was dangerously quiet. O’Brien nodded miserably. Good old Skip. Giving his all for the youth of America.
“For a while, it worked. Maybe only to spite me, to prove he wasn’t the emotional cripple he accused me of making him, Albert and Sonja starting relating. It was during this time that she modeled for his statue. Sometimes . . . sometimes the three of us would . . . play together.” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “By damn,” he whispered, “as an officer of this municipality, Alex, you had better know that none of this is admissible in court.”
“I know.” Griffin said, flatly. “Finish it. What was supposed to be in the statue?”
“Albert was . . . into drugs. That was why he made the hollow statue. He had made some freebase cocaine in the lab. One night we all got incredibly high smoking it. Sonja got too high, too damn high. I don’t know why Albert kept feeding it to her, but he seemed to enjoy watching her literally lose her mind.”
“And she lost more than that.”
He nodded. “We were all zonked out, and finally I noticed that Sonja was having trouble breathing. I was stoned, and scared, and I tried to apply some kind of resuscitation. She just stopped breathing, that’s all. I couldn’t believe it. I was too scared to call the ambulance. Christ. My job, my wife . . .”
“So she died.”
Skip couldn’t face them. “She died. Honestly—please believe me—I did try to call the police, then. But Albert pleaded with me. Begged me not to. Said that we could get her back into the dormitory without getting caught. I was still high. I didn’t know what to do.”
Harmony was pitiless. “So you let him talk you into it.”
“Yes. Albert went out to dispose of the smoking kit, and the drugs in his apartment. Then, at three in the morning, we carried Sonja into her dormitory, got her into her room, and left her undressed in bed. I remember reading the papers, hearing them talk about ‘the suicide . . .’ ” He buried his face in his hands. “I stopped seeing Rice, and that was the end of it, until two years ago. He called me at home, the bastard! He said he knew I worked at Cowles Industries and he needed a job. He didn’t make any threats, but it was there, hanging. I should have gotten rid of him somehow . . . I got him the job.”
“Then the demands started, right? A better job . . . Manipulate his psych profile . . . Just a little twist of the arm, a little blackmail that grows—” Griffin left it open.
But O’Brien was shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that, really. It was do a favor for a friend. Then it was make sure you stay my friend. He kept pushing and I kept trying to draw the line. Finally he told me that he still had the smoking kit, and that all those sets of fingerprints were on it. His. Mine. Hers. If I didn’t do as he said, the police would get it. He told me I had more to lose than he did. He was right.
“So I bro
ke into his apartment and ripped it apart looking for the kit. I broke the statue open but there wasn’t anything in it. The next day he told me I had twenty-five hours to falsify his records, or he would go to the police. I did it The night that the R & D center was broken into, I went to meet him, to tell him that now he had as much to lose as I did, and that all bets were off.”
Skip seemed to have forgotten them. His eyes were dreamy, peaceful; he wasn’t seeing anything in Harmony’s office. “I found him in the break room, trussed up like a turkey. I already knew it wouldn’t work. It couldn’t. He’d keep pushing me as long as there was a reasonable doubt as to my weakness. I wanted my job, my freedom . . . my marriage. He could ruin me. And there he sat, looking at me over that big wide bandage across his mouth, waiting for me to turn him loose. He was sniffling, trying to suck in enough air.”
Skip’s voice was shot through with horrified fascination, fear and heady power. “He was sniffling. Like calling attention to his nose. Alex, it was like finding an Easter basket the day after Easter’s over. When I held his nose shut he went crazy. I had to kneel on his chest to keep him steady. It took two minutes before I could get a good grip, and another three before he finally stopped struggling . . .”
He looked at his fingernails, chose one after careful deliberation, and began to chew on it. “I never found the smoking kit. Maybe your man Bobbick will have better luck.”
Alex said, “I doubt it. Rice must have dumped it, just like he told you the first time.”
The office was deadly quiet for a while. Smoke wafted silently into the ceiling fan. Three still and silent men watched each other with calculating eyes.
Harmony said it first. “Well, what do I do? We know you did it, but probably can’t prove it. Even if we could, we couldn’t afford to turn you in. Too many innocent people would suffer. Cowles Industries would suffer.” He drummed those thick fingers on his desk. “Griffin? You’ve called the shots on this thing so far. Any ideas?”
“Yes.” Alex kept his voice cold, and refused to allow himself to look at Skip. “First, Skip resigns from Cowles Industries, effective immediately. Second, he agrees never to work with children ever, anywhere again. If he does—” Now he looked at Skip. From the way his former friend pulled back, shrinking into his chair, Alex knew that O’Brien was seeing a Griffin he had never seen before. “Then we have a talk with his employers. And his wife. Do you understand?” Skip nodded.
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