Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 (26 page)

Jennings strode down the hallway connecting the south wing to the main body of the house. Rain pelted the roof, creating a steady thrumming noise. He was ready for an early night, but then he’d received notification from the house’s electronic control system that it had lost power to the south wing, and his wife, Diane, insisted he investigate. The kids were in bed; otherwise he might have ordered them to make sure it was nothing more.

They only used the south wing for formal parties and guests staying over. It was self-contained with a full kitchen, a stocked bar, and a spacious entertainment room. Nearby, guests had a choice of three ample bedrooms.

The entire complex had four wings—Jennings, his wife, and two teenage children lived in one, the hired help lived in another, and the third catered for casual entertainment—pool parties, kids games room, and outdoor amusement. He rarely went into the south wing, though the cleaners and house manager were everywhere on a daily basis.

Jennings scanned through the sliding glass door entrance and entered the central foyer which provided access to the entertainment and guest rooms.

Jennings spoke a command for the lights. The darkness grinned back at him, a mouth of blackness beyond the foyer.

He shuffled to the wall and felt for the backup switch. His fingers found it, and he flicked the knob back and forth. Nothing. Why hadn’t the damn solar backup worked? He’d have to check the control area on the other side of the wing.

Using his watch, Jennings cast a broad arc of blue light through the foyer. He pulled open the sliding doors to the entertainment room and strode across the wooden floor, poking the light into the shadowy corners. Somewhere in the distance, a loud crack sounded, and he jumped. Just thunder. But it made him think of the perimeter fencing, and whether the lack of power in the south wing would have compromised it.

Jennings had outfitted the entire property with an expensive and sophisticated security system that the manufacturer had assured him was not able to be compromised. Despite the lack of power, it had dual battery backup, and should still be working.

He reached the other side of the room and stood before a door that led to a tiny control room. He placed his palm on the sensor, and the lock disengaged with a click. He reached out and as he pushed on the door, Jennings heard a noise from behind.

Rough hands grabbed the neck of his shirt and yanked him forward. A fist collided with the side of his head, sending a bolt of pain from one ear to the other. He let out a cry and stumbled, thinking he would fall, when the same hands dragged him upright.

“Stand.” Was that a Russian accent? Jennings let himself fall again. “If you don’t stand on your own, I will put you out for good.”

It was Russian. He found his footing and stood straight, preparing for another blow that didn’t come. The shadowy figure of a second man moved beyond the arc of his watch light; these were Chekov's men, and he should keep his mouth shut.

“We have heard there has been an information breach from your office.” Jennings said nothing. The man shoved him against the wall. “We’re here to tell you, before he finds out, that Mr. Chekov will not like to hear that.”

“We’re working on it.” A thick fist struck him in the center of the stomach. The air rushed from his lungs and sharp pain spread through his torso. He doubled over and fell to his knees. It took ten seconds before he found his breath again.

The second man entered the perimeter of his watch light. His large, bald head and wide shoulders looked familiar. LaGuardia? The Teleport Station. One of Chekov’s minders.

“Working on it is not good enough,” the man said, taking Jennings by the throat with one huge hand. He squeezed, and Jennings' Adam’s apple bulged. “Fixing it is all Mr. Chekov wants.”

He didn’t bother fighting back. These men would squash him in seconds. They wouldn’t kill him—he still had some value to Chekov, but they might hurt him badly. He let himself go limp and the bald man released his throat.

“We don’t use poisons or pills. We use our hands, and sometimes, electrician’s tools.” He held up a pair of thick forceps. “Remember Mr. Jennings, we can get to you anywhere.”

The man holding Jennings against the wall let go and he crumpled to the floor gasping for air, lying in the shadow of his watch light. Footsteps sounded as they left.

After a time, he climbed to his feet then checked all the doors, and found them locked. He stood looking through the glass, vowing to repay them one day. The power return and the lights saw him back to the main wing of the house, his body aching and his mind working on ways to get the damn drive back.

Gutterson had spent most of the weekend since Tabitha’s call wondering how he could kick start the investigation. His best chance to get inside Janefield was lost, and at this late stage, making contact with another employee and risking the wrath of Captain Martinez wasn't motivating. Smyth and Harding had questioned everybody else with a connection to Charlie but had added nothing to the investigation. There was nobody else besides Tabitha.

The problem was her lack of knowledge about the company’s inner machinations, along with the lack of access to records and critical information.

Early Sunday afternoon, Gutterson sat at the kitchen table with his daughter, Emilie, helping with her fifth-grade project. But his mind was distant. She kept repeating her questions, and his answers lacked substance. In the end, she grew bored and disappeared to play virtual reality games.

Gutterson moped for the remainder of the afternoon until—finally accepting the idea of making the kids dinner—his implant beeped and jerked him out of thought. Camilleri’s husky voice greeted him.

“I just wanted to give you a heads up,” she said, getting right into the conversation.

“Oh?” he said, with a familiar feeling of worry. “About what?”

“Apparently Martinez is going to shut us down—this case, anyway. Needs the resources elsewhere.”

Gutterson slid the kitchen chair back out and sat. “Really? Who says?”

“Smyth and Harding.”

“You trust those guys?”

“Do I trust those guys? Yeah, sure. You don’t?”

“After the approval delays… I’m not sure. About Harding, anyway. Either he or Newell wasn't telling the truth. I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“Well, both Harding and Smyth told me about this. Independently.”

“What do you think it means?”

“You’d better get some fresh evidence fast, or we’re finished.”

Gutterson fell back in the seat. He had known it was coming. “Thanks for the information.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll keep you posted.”

Gutterson paced the kitchen, turning the options over in his mind. What did he have to stop the captain from shutting him down? Not much. He thought of sitting in the dull, cramped room upstairs processing crime statistics. Perhaps that was his destiny. Maybe that’s what Fate had been trying to tell him all along, and he’d just been fighting the inevitable.

Emilie appeared from the living room again. “Dad, what’s for dinner?”

“I don’t know yet, baby. Still thinking.” She turned away, arms slung by her side, a look of utter disbelief on her face.

He remembered that same look of disappointment on Carolyn’s face last time. He never found time for anything besides the case. And look where that had gotten him. But this time was different. He knew there was more to it now; a secret behind the curtain. People had died, and at least one of them in a different manner to what the authorities were saying. He had to keep fighting, even if his best chance of uncovering the truth was dead. One hope remained: Tabitha. She was on the inside, and she had a vendetta.

Gutterson located her number and spoke a message into his watch phone, asking her to contact him urgently.

She messaged back in under a minute, explaining that she was at dinner with a friend and she would contact him the following day. But he couldn’t wait. He dialed her, but the call when straight to her message service. “Shit.” He needed to explain the situation face to face and beg for her help. She needed to see his desperation. If he left it until tomorrow, it might be too late. Martinez might shut him down before then and after that, nothing would matter. He had to locate her.

He considered asking for her location but didn't want to risk her saying no and damaging the relationship. A surprise was his best chance and he knew someone who might know where she was eating.

“Janice,” he said, after dialing Camilleri’s number. “I’m going to send you a phone number. I need a location on it, please.”

Camilleri spoke with a mouthful of food. “A location? Is that covered in our approvals?”

“Uh-huh. I’m not using it for anything other than to find out where the person is so we can have a face-to-face conversation.”

“Send it through.”

“You’re a gem.”

The address came through two minutes later, a restaurant in midtown called Bortolotto’s.

Gutterson put the kids into the police cruiser Martinez had issued him in light of his role change and drove to his mother’s place. He unloaded them and told her he’d be back in an hour. She said nothing, but the crooked wrinkles on her expression told him she wasn’t pleased. Emilie begged him not to leave, but he picked her up, kissed her on the cheek then held her tight, and didn't look back.

Back in the cruiser, he spoke the address for the navigation system and the vehicle took off. Gutterson sat back, reviewing his notes again as he considered his approach. He read through Camilleri’s profile on Tabitha, last name Marks. She was thirty-six and unmarried. Until her mother had died when Tabitha was a child, the family had lived in an affluent suburb of New York City and taken vacations at their beachside property on Martha's Vineyard. Following Cassandra Marks' death, Ethan Marks' construction business had suffered a downturn, and a subsequent workplace injury had forced him to close the company and left him with a meager government disability allowance. Tabitha had battled on though, earning a university scholarship and a degree with honors. Gutterson couldn’t help but be impressed. Still, her current place of employment didn't correlate with her standard of education.

He parked the cruiser a block and a half from the restaurant. He hated the field. It had been a long time since he’d traipsed the streets interviewing people, searching for evidence. All those years sitting in an office had probably made him soft.

A maître d stopped him at the entrance. Gutterson flashed his badge, and the head waiter made a hand sign welcoming him. It was classy without being over the top—quiet, mostly couples, candlelight, with soft music. Gutterson was surprised to find the restaurant modeled on the early century—spacious, open seating, with a bevy of human waiters weaving between tables.

He spotted Tabitha sitting with a friend near one of the windows, their plates soiled and empty, knives and forks folded crossways. She sipped water from a tall glass, talking animatedly with her hands. Blonde hair spilt onto her shoulders, cupping her large blue eyes and lovely face.

Gutterson slipped his badge into his pocket and approached the table, fingers twitching. He didn’t want to spook the woman. She might be his last genuine chance of finding the truth about Janefield Investments.

She looked up immediately, her lips curling slightly at the edges. Her friend continued the conversation. “Hello,” she said, apparently not surprised to see him.

“Hey,” Gutterson began. He glanced at her friend, a serious looking brunette with long curly hair and a narrow face. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I need to speak with you.”

“I told you we'd speak tomorrow.” Tabitha put down her glass. “How did you find me?”

“Secret police techniques.”

“You’re a cop?” Tabitha’s dark haired friend asked.

Tabitha frowned. “Couldn’t it wait?”

Gutterson glanced around; thankful the other patrons were absorbed in their own discussions. “No, actually it couldn’t.”

The other girl said, “What’s going on here?”

Gutterson squatted beside the table. “I need a moment. It’s important.”

Tabitha glanced at her friend, whose eyebrows were arched in annoyance. “I’d make him wait until tomorrow,” the girl said.

Several tables were looking now. Gutterson didn’t want to draw attention. He had one ace left. “You’re the one who asked me to investigate, remember? If you want to find out what really happened to Charlie, then I need to talk to you. Now. Alone.”

Tabitha stared at him for a long moment. She turned to her friend and nodded.

“Are you sure?” the other woman asked. Tabitha bobbed her head again. The woman shot Gutterson a sharp look, then stood, and pushed her chair away. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

The woman disappeared behind a thick pillar at the edge of the main dining area. Gutterson slipped into her seat. Large blue eyes and a nervous expression watched him.

“Okay,” Tabitha said. “What have you found out?”

“Nothing yet,” Gutterson said.

“Nothing? What have you been doing?”

“It’s not that easy. I don’t have any links inside of Janefield. There's not much on the public record.”

“You said you would—”

“I said I couldn’t promise anything. But… I need your help to keep this investigation going.”

Stiff fingers massaged her temples. “To do what exactly?”

“I haven’t quite worked that out yet, but it will probably involve getting information.”

“Stealing it?” Gutterson shrugged. “Wow.”

“It’s the only way to find out what is happening. We need evidence. Proof. Charlie was going to help me, but…”

“Charlie was going to help you?”

He should have told the truth, but if he lost her now, he had nothing. “I’ll work something out, some way for you to help us without implicating yourself.”

Her forehead creased. “For Charlie?”

“For Charlie.”

“Let me think about it.”

“I need an answer quickly. If I can tell my boss you're willing to work with us, he might give me more time. I'm told he's ready to shut the case.”

“Okay. I understand.”

“You might be the difference between success and failure in this.” Gutterson was gone before the other woman returned.