Tek Power (15 page)

The darksuited robot touched gloved fingers briefly to his lips. “Allow me, if I may, to correct a possible misunderstanding, sir,” he said. “Your wife, the late Eve Scanlon Bascom—a lovely name, I might mention—your wife, sir, is not actually in Mourning Room 3.”

“Where the hell is she, then?”

Bowing his silvery head, the mechanism replied, “We've found, during years of faithful service, that it's much better to do the actual cremating
before
any of the mourners arrive for the service. Some people react very—”

“What are you talking about? You mean her body has already been—”

“At seven-thirty AM this morning, sir.”

Richard grabbed hold of the robot's arm. “Damn it, nobody told me about that.”

“Allow me to point out that you're not actually paying for this service.” He pulled free. “Mrs. Bascom's last rites are covered by the Larson-Dunn Employees Insurance & Burial Plan.”

“I still should've been told. Now I'll never see her again or—”

“Not in this world, no. Yet many believe that—”

“Never mind. What room did you say?”

“Mourning Room 3,” answered the robot. “At the end of the corridor on your left, sir. You'll find quite a crowd has already gathered.”

“A crowd?”

“At least a half dozen of your wife's friends and colleagues, plus the standard fifteen android mourners, provided at no extra cost, by us.”

“When does the service start?”

“In exactly seven minutes, sir.”

Nodding, Richard walked stiffly along the hall and into the indicated room.

There was a small dais at the front of the small dim room. Resting on a low pedestal was a pewter urn, illuminated by a small overhead spot.

Sitting up in the front row were Andre Larson and a plump blonde woman Richard thought might be one of Rosco Dunn's private secretaries.

“Good morning, Mr. Bascom.” Detective Busino, wearing a dark suit, was standing just inside the door.

“Why are you here?”

“Nothing official. I just like to attend the funerals of victims in my cases.”

“Are the police still investigating my wife's death?”

“No, we've written the whole thing off as an accident, sir, and shut the file up tight,” answered the detective. “It would be a good idea if you do the same, if you ask me.”

“Is that a warning?”

Shaking his head, Busino said, “Only a friendly suggestion.”

“We aren't
friends
, so keep your—”

“Don't get upset, Mr. Bascom. At a time like this, when things look at their worst, you don't want to add to your anxiety,” the detective advised. “It takes time for a wound like this to heal, but—”

“Sure, yeah. Thanks.” He went over and sat in a rear seat.

“Richard, may I have a word?” Harold Allen, dean of the Lit Department, was standing in the aisle, leaning sympathetically in his direction.

“I didn't notice you were here.”

Dean Allen was a tall, thin man. He settled into the seat next to him and put a hand on Richard's shoulder. “All of us in the Lit Department and most everyone at Campus Twenty of the TriState EdSystem want you to know how deeply saddened we are by this.”

“I appreciate that.”

The dean lowered his voice. “There is, however, something I must convey to you, Dick,” he said. “The feeling is that the notoriety of a full-scale investigation into Eve's unfortunate accident would cause a great deal of problems.”

“For whom?”

“Well, for the college in general
and
for certain important people who have an interest in our financial situation.”

“Is somebody putting pressure on you, Harold?”

“Not at all,” the dean told him. “But I want you to understand that if you keep this up, using a detective agency and all that, you'll be annoying factions that shouldn't be annoyed.”

“So you want me to call the investigation off?”

“I don't personally, yet I want you to understand how important it is that you go no further with it.”

“I don't see what business—”

“There's one other thing, Richard. Unless you comply, I may not be able to guarantee you a job at Campus Twenty.”

“Drop it or I'm fired?”

The dean nodded slowly. “I'm afraid that's the situation.”

“Well, you
and
all my friends and colleagues can go screw yourselves.” Standing, he grabbed Dean Allen by the front of his coat and shoved.

Making a surprised sputtering sound, Allen went stumbling across the aisle.

“That goes for you, too,” Richard told Detective Busino as he went striding out of the room.

In the hallway the music was loud again, the smell of dead flowers strong.

T
HIS WAS
D
R
. Marchitelli's day off from the Bergstrom Clinic. He was flying his skycar through the hazy sky above Miami Slum. As usual, there were several buildings afire down in the ramshackle sprawl of abandoned condos and minimalls.

His dashboard voxbox suddenly spoke. “This is a Restricted Zone.”

The short, slim psychiatrist looked out to his left to see a Miami Air Police skyvan flying parallel to him. “I do volunteer work in the Miami Slum Hospice once a week,” he said into his dashmike. “My special permit number is encoded on my tail tags.”

“Oh, yeah, we see it now. Sorry, doctor.” The police van banked and dropped away.

After landing in the small rutted lot behind the shabby two-level hospice, Marchitelli didn't go immediately inside. Instead, he stood beside his crimson car and glanced around.

Over near the lopsided security shack he spotted the bright silver skycar he'd been told to look for. Nodding, the doctor went walking over to it.

The passenger side door opened with a crisp snap. “Dr. Marchitelli, how are you?”

He bent, narrowing his eyes to look into the shadowy interior. “You're Agent Ferman from the Federal Internal Security Office?”

“Yep, that's me,” answered Frank Dockert. “Get in, if you would.”

Dr. Marchitelli eased into the seat and the door flipped shut on him. “I'm extremely upset about what I suspect is going on,” he told the heavyset black man. “That's the reason I, very carefully, contacted you and not the Office of Clandestine Operations.”

“We understand that, doctor. You only hinted at certain irregularities over the vidphone; can you give us some specifics now?” Dockert activated the engine and the car began to rise up into the hot, blurred day. “We'll fly around while we talk. Makes our little conversation more private.”

“You know about the president, about what's really going on?”

“We're aware that he's a secret patient at the Bergstrom Clinic, being treated for his Tek addiction,” answered Dockert. “This is a very serious matter and our agency may well have to issue a report—even though it may shake the confidence of the nation.”

“The problem is, Agent Ferman, I'm convinced something else is going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“It has to do with the way President Brookmeyer is being handled during his stay.” He paused to run his tongue over his upper lip. “I've been involved in this very delicate situation for quite some time. You may not know this, but I was the one who explained to the president how things would go once he was brought into the clinic. Dr. Bergstrom and I worked out all the details. I don't completely approve of keeping his addiction a secret, yet I can understand—”

“Can you be more specific about what you think is wrong, doctor?”

“In the first place, Agent Ferman, I'm nearly certain they're not actually treating Brookmeyer for his addiction,” he said. “I was taken off the case almost as soon as the president arrived. Then, when I complained to Dr. Bergstrom about what I'd been hearing was going on—he issued orders that I was not to go near the area of the clinic where the president is being held. And he is being held—in a ward usually reserved only for violent patients.”

Dockert nodded slowly. “This is very serious indeed, doctor. Do you have any idea why our president is being kept a prisoner?”

“Not yet, but I intend to find out.”

“Yes, I was afraid of that,” said Dockert. “And I suppose if you don't get any satisfaction from our agency, you'll go to another. You may even alert the media.”

“I'd have to, yes.”

“No, actually, doctor, you won't do anything like that,” said Dockert, smiling thinly. “No, unfortunately, you're going to be done in by a crazed Tek addict out for money.”

“What in the hell are you—”

“But, as most people will say, that's what you get for doing charity work in a shithole like this.” He kept smiling as he drew a small lazgun out of his coat.

Marchitelli twisted in his seat, trying to get free of the safety straps. “You can't—”

“Oh, sure, I can.” He fired the gun.

A few moments later Dockert put in a call to Vice President McCracklin. “Everything is just fine again,” he said and hung up.

23

T
HERE WAS A
high, hot wind blowing across the Malibu Sector of Greater Los Angeles. Walt Bascom was leaning back in a wingchair, his saxophone resting across his lap, watching the skycars outside dip and sway as they fought against the heavy wind. The people on the pedramps were walking at odd, slanted angles and some sort of sparkling grit was drifting and swirling through the midmorning sky.

“Informant on Holostage 2,” announced the voxbox over on his desk.

“Pertaining to what?” asked Bascom.

“The death of Eve Bascom.”

Standing, the chief of the Cosmos agency set his sax across the chair. “Who is it?”

“Harry the Tipster.”

Bascom frowned and rubbed at his close-cropped hair. “Allright, connect him.”

Harry, smiling broadly with his goldplated teeth, materialized on the hologram platform across the big office. He was short, thin and dapper. His suit was made of a plastifabric that glowed an electric blue, the carnation in his lapel was made of polished chrome. “How they hanging, Wally?”

“‘How they hanging, Mr. Bascom, sir,' if you please, Harry. What sort of shabby con are you attempting on me this time?”

Holding up his small left hand, on which glittered four large neon rings, Harry the Tipster made a bepatient gesture. “Easy now, Mr. B, easy. In this instance I'm merely the bearer of an important message,” he explained. “I have no info for sale whatsoever. If, however, you'd like to telefax a small honorarium in my direction, I wouldn't—”

“What's the message, Harry?”

“Your presence is requested at seven this very evening,” said the dapper informant, “at Shinzoo's Lighthouse. That's an intimate bistro specializing in antique jazz and located in—”

“It's a pesthole in the Venice Sector of GLA,” cut in Bascom. “Who's trying to lure me there?”

“Nix, nix,” said Harry, looking offended. “You know I'd never be a party to your being led up the garden path, Walter. I'm passing along word from someone who's most anxious and eager to get together with you.”

Bascom asked, “Who is it and why can't they come here to the Cosmos building?”

“Too risky,” answered Harry. “This particular frill is lying low, as it were, in fear of her life.”

“The Lighthouse is a lousy place to look for security and safety.”

“Shinzoo happens to be a client of hers,” the informant explained. “He has excellent facilities for hiding folks out until they can arrange to relocate elsewhere in gentler climes and—”

“Is this particular lady an attorney?”

“That's correct, you got it, Wally.”

“We're talking about Kay Norwood, then, Alicia Bower's friend?”

“I'm not at liberty to divulge her identity,” said the Tipster. “If I were, though, I'd be nodding my noggin in the affirmative about now.”

“What does she know about the death of my son's wife?”

“Enough apparently to make certain parties eager to snip her lifeline.”

“What exactly?”

“Alls I know, Mr. B, is that the quiff's got important info she thinks you ought to pass on to Jake Cardigan,” answered Harry the Tipster. “Oh, and if you happen to be chinning with Jake, give him a friendly howdy from me and mention that he still owes me two hundred clams for some confidential news I passed along to him way last—”

“Okay, I'll keep the appointment, Harry.” Bascom scowled at the projection of the dapper little man. “Keep in mind that if anything gets futzed up, Harry, I'll know how to find you.”

“I surely hope you know where I am. Otherwise you wouldn't be able to send me a little bonus.” Chuckling, Harry faded away.

T
HE ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT
took place in the huge domed lobby of the Managua Plaza Hotel. Jake and Gomez had just stepped in out of the rainy twilight, following the turquoise-enameled bellbot who was carrying their suitcases.

There were nearly a hundred people in the wide oval lobby, sitting, wandering, coming and going. Real potted palms, an even two dozen of them, ringed the area and at its center was a broad and impressive holographic pond with glittering goldfish flashing in it. Out beyond the rainsplashed plastiglass windows you could see Lake Managua spreading out a quarter of a mile downhill.

“Very ritzy,” observed Gomez, glancing around as they followed in the wake of their decorative robot. “And note the very interesting local
señorita
reclining on yonder sofa.”

“You haven't got time for fraternizing,” Jake reminded him.

“I've always got time for ogling,” said Gomez. “Besides, she's obviously—
Ay!
” Halting suddenly, he held out a restraining arm to halt his partner.