Extremes Read online

  The security screen slid into his desk, as it was programmed to do when it wasn’t monitoring anything. Still, the movement of the screen startled him.

  He hit the lock on the doors, realizing that he hadn’t been paying enough attention to his surroundings as he read.

  But this was the first time he had ever read another Retrieval Artist’s notes. He’d seen a few of Paloma’s reports—she left ones that breached no confidences; mostly insurance records from Disappeareds who had died while missing—but he’d never before had a chance to look at actual notes.

  They were terse and fascinating. He was only able to follow them only because Paloma had trained him well.

  Rabinowitz had looked at a lot of the false clues Tey had left, and ignored most of them. A few he had followed to their logical limit, such as the ones with the similar Disappeareds. Those women had both been found by a Tracker named Oliviari, whose reports on those cases were also in Rabinowitz’s files.

  Oliviari had turned those Disappeareds over to Earth Alliance, and the women had been prosecuted as co-conspirators in the case of the dome deaths. They had received consecutive terms of life in prison for each death.

  There were hints in the records that Tey wouldn’t be considered for life; that she would be tried in the nearest jurisdiction with a death penalty. Apparently, the thinking was that she was too dangerous to let live—even if she were in prison.

  Flint frowned and pulled his feet off the desk. He stretched and realized he hadn’t had dinner. He and Wagner had been talking too long.

  But Flint wasn’t really hungry yet. He wanted to finish scanning Rabinowitz’s files before getting himself a meal.

  He also had to figure out what to do with the handheld. He needed to store it, because he didn’t want to risk carrying it with him.

  He continued to scroll through Rabinowitz’s notes. Rabinowitz had taken a step back from the case. He’d obviously followed enough leads to learn that anomalies told him more than common events.

  Rabinowitz thought that Frieda Tey’s father was the key. The man had changed his will a few years before he died. Up until that point, the will had put Tey’s money in trust until she reappeared or until her heirs had been located. No one was to start a search for her for one hundred years after her father’s death, probably to give her time to live out her life in relative safety.

  Then her father had abruptly changed the will. Tey would get his fortune once her name was cleared. That had happened two years before the father’s death, and Rabinowitz could see no obvious reason for the change.

  The only thing, he postulated, was that somehow Tey had gotten hold of her father, and the old man had promised to help her. They had been close once, and the old man had believed in her innocence from the very beginning.

  Flint opened the attached documents. The attachments contained copies of both wills, the notes and documents surrounding those papers, mostly drafted by Justinian Wagner, and a certification, sought by WSX, that the father had been in sound mind when he had completed the new will.

  Apparently the Wagners had thought the new will odd as well.

  Flint flicked back to the main file. As he did, his perimeter alarm went off.

  He cursed. He didn’t want the distraction now. He finally had something to keep himself occupied. Even if he didn’t go far with this case, he was learning a lot about methods, about choices, and about ways to track a Disappeared.

  The screen came up from his desk, revealing the perimeter around the office. An airlimo—looking suspiciously like Wagner’s—drove down the same street that the previous limo had driven away on. Had the driver come back to check up on Flint? Or had WSX sent someone else, perhaps to tell him to ignore anything that Ignatius Wagner had said?

  Finally the license came into view and Flint ran it. It was the same limo. He had the security system pull down the window’s tints as well. Inside the limo, Wagner was arguing heatedly with his driver.

  Interesting. Flint took the handheld into the back room, and set it inside one of the locking file cabinets. He wasn’t willing to give the handheld back, even if Wagner had changed his mind about the case. Flint wanted to study more of Rabinowitz’s methodology.

  Flint returned to the front. Wagner was already out of the airlimo and heading toward the building at a full run.

  Flint frowned. Wagner looked concerned, almost upset. He hadn’t been gone very long. Flint had no idea what could have changed.

  He quietly unlocked the system, and as Wagner stopped outside the door, raising his hand to knock, Flint had the system ease the door open.

  Wagner peered inside. “Flint?”

  “Sitting right where you left me.” He put his feet on the desk for effect.

  Wagner stepped inside, and looked startled once again. Apparently he still wasn’t used to having his links cut off.

  “I don’t suppose you hurried back because you missed me,” Flint said.

  Wagner shook his head, his expression serious, as though Flint’s joke was inappropriate.

  “I don’t suppose you heard today’s news?” Wagner asked.

  “Everything up until six o’clock.” Flint pressed the key which controlled the door. It swung shut. “What’s happened now?”

  “A woman died at the Moon Marathon.”

  Flint shrugged. That happened almost every year. He’d even had the misfortune to tag along on one of those cases during his second year in the academy. The death had been easily solved—the runner had fallen, punctured her suit, and died before anyone could reach her.

  “How does that concern me?” he asked.

  Wagner took a step deeper into the office. “I’m assuming you’re linked somehow. You just shut off my access to the news.”

  “I know,” Flint said, referring to Wagner’s second statement and ignoring his first.

  “The woman who died—they think she was murdered.” Wagner had reached the desk. He extended his hands, as if they could speak for him. “She—Rabinowitz visited four women before he died. They were his last interviews. She was one of them.”

  Flint put his feet down. “You think she’s connected somehow?”

  “I’m wondering if she died of the same thing he did.” Wagner rubbed his hands together. “They’re not releasing what killed her, but if she had cold symptoms before she started to run—”

  “The marathon’s system should have caught that, and kept her off the course.”

  “Unless she had a way around it,” Wagner said.

  “Around the system?”

  Wagner nodded. “She was influential in the athletic community here in Armstrong, and she was one of their main runners. They might have bent the rules for her.”

  “If that’s the case, then the marathon committee will have a lot to answer for.”

  “Don’t you see, though?” Wagner leaned on the desk, making the security screen wobble. “If she died of the same disease, we’re all in trouble.”

  “But she couldn’t have contracted it when he did,” Flint said. “She’d be dead already.”

  “What if she got it from him?” Wagner said.

  Flint felt cold. If this was a slower-moving version of the virus that killed everyone in Tey’s research colony, then Flint didn’t like the odds.

  “I’ll make a few calls,” he said, “and see what I can find out.”

  The police might not talk to him, but if he could prove that he had a connected case, they might. Or at least a few officers in the precinct might. He didn’t really want to go through official channels.

  “What was her name, so that I’m not cross-checking all this stuff myself?” Flint asked.

  “Zweig,” Wagner said, as if Flint had known the woman. “Jane Zweig.”

  Flint nodded. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not going to make any promises. Sometimes cases like this take time.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Wagner said. “I’m not sure how much time we have left.”

  T
WENTY-THREE

  AFTER SWANN LEFT, DeRicci put the image of the race back on the main wall. No one was crossing the finish line, but volunteers remained Outside, staring at the horizon. Obviously more runners were out there. DeRicci just didn’t know how to use this system to find out how many runners were left.

  The caffeine high was wearing off, leaving her lethargic. She’d asked the unis to bring her more coffee and something to eat when they brought the next runner in here. She actually hoped the food would arrive first. She needed to be as alert as possible when she spoke to the rest of the team.

  Before they came back, she contacted van der Ketting. She wanted him to figure out the time lapse between Zweig’s disappearance behind that camera and Swann’s appearance on it.

  DeRicci also wanted him to examine the Swann footage to see if he could find any suspicious movements around that rock.

  She had just finished giving instructions to van der Ketting when the door opened. One of the unis came in, carrying a pot of coffee and a tray covered with pastries.

  “Sorry,” he said as he set everything on the table. “They ran out of sandwiches already. It’s going to be a mess pretty soon.”

  DeRicci eyed the pastries. They looked like they were made with real flour and sugar. Some had a glaze, and others had real fruit centers.

  “Oh, I don’t mind not having a sandwich,” she said. A plateful of pastries would take her through the night comfortably. She grabbed one of the glazed. It was still warm.

  Heaven.

  “Where’s the mess?” she asked.

  “In that banquet hall. They had to take out the round tables that were scattered around the floor, put in banquet tables, pushing them against the wall and placing the food on them. There aren’t enough chairs, so a lot of people are sitting on the floor to eat. I haven’t heard that much complaining in my entire life. I thought these people were healthy.”

  “Physically healthy,” DeRicci said. “Not mentally healthy.”

  The uni grinned at her. “Or at least we’d like to think that to justify all our pastries.”

  She grinned back. She would have to learn his name. The problem was that she’d been talking to him all afternoon, and hadn’t let on that she didn’t know. Now she’d have to do the socially awkward thing and admit that she had no idea who he was.

  “I have the next interview outside,” he said. “He’s a bit testy. He’s eaten and everything, but I guess he was looking forward to something else this evening—maybe some kind of press recognition or a big party or something. He’s not real cooperative.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” DeRicci said.

  The uni grinned. “Yeah, I bet you will.”

  He grabbed a pastry with too much frosting, and carried it toward the door. As he did, DeRicci’s private link pinged.

  She held up a hand.

  “Hold on,” she said. “Don’t go yet.”

  She might need him, especially if this message was coming from Gumiela.

  The link pinged again, and then a message scrolled across her eye, something that startled her. She thought she had that function shut off.

  Noelle:

  Contact me immediately.

  Ethan Broduer

  Coroner, Armstrong City Division

  DeRicci looked at the uni. He was frowning at her.

  “Keep the next interview out there for a few minutes,” she said. “Offer him a donut.”

  The uni came back to the table and grabbed a napkin. “Mind if I take a few for the guys working the front?”

  “Go ahead.” The message scrolled across her eye again, only this time the words were flashing red.

  Ethan, that irritating son of a bitch. Why did her case get assigned to him, anyway?

  The uni took five pastries and carried them before him as if they were made of glass. He had trouble opening the door, but he managed.

  DeRicci took a bite of her pastry, knowing she probably wouldn’t get to the rest of it until much later. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee.

  The message scrolled past a third time, every other letter flashing neon. This thing was designed to give her a headache. When this case was over, she was going to the police links department and ask how to shut the eyescroll off permanently.

  She got up, and went to the wall screen. She shoved her right fist into it, letting the chip in her middle knuckle establish a police band link. The police band link immediately disabled the other system, knocking out any attempts to listen in—at least if the other system were not as sophisticated as the police system, which didn’t always happen.

  At this moment, she didn’t really care for the niceties. She just wanted the eyescroll to stop, and she knew from past experience that it wouldn’t until she got in direct verbal contact with the message sender.

  The message scrolled again. All of the letters flashed neon this time. And Ethan’s name bounced up and down, as if it were doing a special little dance.

  “Stop,” DeRicci muttered and linked directly to the coroner’s office.

  A visual popped up on the wall. Some flunky, hand on chin, reading something he wasn’t supposed to. He looked startled when DeRicci’s face appeared on his screen.

  “Get Broduer,” she snapped.

  The man looked at her.

  “Now!”

  He got up so fast that she heard a clang. His chair had toppled over. He scrambled away from the camera, leaving the empty room for her to look at.

  Not that there was much to see. A few light posters on the back wall, changing according to the concerts they were advertising. A sink, with all sorts of bottles around it. Some old-fashioned labels, and neatly wrapped see-through bundles of what looked like clothing.

  Then the scene wavered, and Broduer’s face covered the wall. Magnified two hundred times, he looked scary. If she wanted to, she could see inside his pores.

  “Noelle.” His baritone fondled her name, and she felt a slight shudder go through her. Most of the women on the force found him attractive. She had no idea why she didn’t.

  The message scrolled again. This time all of the letters bounced, and she swore she saw some glitter mingled in the red neon.

  “Shut off your damn message.”

  “Message…? Oh! You came through the public links.” He squinched his features together—frowns should not have been that big either—and the scrolling stopped.

  Her eye hurt. She rubbed it, sure that a headache would come now, whether she wanted it to or not.

  “Yes, I came through the public links,” she said, letting all her bad temper emerge in her voice. “I’m in the field, remember?”

  It was difficult to respond visually on private links. DeRicci actually couldn’t. She couldn’t afford the upgrade, and the First Detective Unit provided audio and text links only.

  “Sorry. I’ve had a busy day. Haven’t been able to keep up with your schedule.” He spoke lightly, as if they were having a dinner party conversation.

  “Yeah, well, I have a couple of hundred people to interview, so you want to make this quick?”

  The humor left his face. “You’re going to want to hear this, Noelle.”

  “I figured as much.” She powered down the screen, making his head life-size. There was only so much Broduer that she could take. “You got a time of death for me?”

  “I have a number of things,” he said, “all of them important, but none more important than the last.”

  Great. Cryptic talk. That was just what she needed.

  “I want you to take notes.”

  “You have the notes,” she said. “Why do I have to take them?”

  “Because you won’t remember everything.”

  “Sure I will.” She tried not to bristle more than she already had. As if she wouldn’t be able to keep track. She had been a cop longer than he had. She always kept track of things.

  “Trust me on this one. Just record or something.”

  She sighed, tapped yet another rec
ord chip, and pulled over a chair. “Okay. I’m ready to go, sir.”

  “And none of the ‘sir,’ crap, Noelle. This is serious.”

  She picked up her coffee as well. It saved her from answering him directly. “I don’t have a lot of time here, Broduer.”

  He nodded. “All right. First, cause of death: oxygen deprivation, just like you thought.”

  “No surprise there,” DeRicci said.

  “Well, there is, but I’m not going to get to that yet.”

  She hated it when he was being mysterious. Sometimes she thought he did it only to anger her, but she’d heard from her colleagues that he did it to them as well. He also did it in court, which made him a good witness, so there were trade-offs.

  “Second,” he said. “Time of death: can’t pinpoint it to the moment, but I would say thirty-six to forty-eight hours ago.”

  “What?” DeRicci asked. “I’ve got a vid of her on the course, not half an hour before the body was found.”

  He held up a hand to silence her. The movement wasn’t that effective on the smaller screen, but she shut up anyway. If he didn’t think that part was shocking, then she wasn’t sure what he thought would be.

  “Third,” he said, “she was murdered. I can tell you that for certain.”

  “Even with oxygen deprivation?” DeRicci had thought that would make murder harder to prove, no matter what else they found. Everyone knew that suits failed. She thought it would be harder to show that someone could make a suit fail on purpose.

  “Even with oxygen deprivation,” he said. “She wasn’t wearing that environmental suit when she died.”

  DeRicci felt the pastry she’d eaten turn in her stomach. “Excuse me?”

  “The suit,” he said as if he were speaking to a child. “It had been put on after death.”

  “The suit didn’t kill her?”

  “Not unless someone held it over her nose and mouth for five minutes. And even then, I doubt it, since we didn’t find any fibers in her throat and lungs.”