Retiree 2.0 Page 15
As per the old adage about speaking of the ‘dark one’ causing him to appear, the situation room door opened and Chief Bennett strode in. He removed his jacket before taking the nearest available empty seat. His armpits were soaked with sweat, and the moisture had run down the side of his white, long-sleeved shirt, all the way to his belt. He loosened his tie, saying, “Continue. I’m just another effing observer.”
Alana said, “Actually, I think I’m done. Alvarez, do you or any of your team have any questions?”
“No, ma’am,” said DI Alvarez as he rallied his minions and herded them out of the room.
As Alvarez held the door for the last of his crew, Alana said, “Status report at ten AM tomorrow, this room. Your men can keep working.”
The bronze-skinned and brown-haired man, his skin pitted, probably from a severe case of either untreated or untreatable acne in his youth, nodded and pulled the door closed behind him.
Alana began, “Can I have more resources—”
Bennett cut her off, “No. You’ve got access to everything I have to give. Make do.”
“Tough day at the Press Club?”
Bennett laid his head back against the chair, “The sweat’s mostly from the klieg lights. I can handle the media. But you’d think that just one of them... Given all day yesterday and all morning, just one of them could have asked an intelligent and insightful question that didn’t merely require me reiterating my previous comment fifteen fucking times. They could have hired robots to do that.”
Alana didn’t wait to ask. She walked over to the lone female who had remained by the refreshment table once all the detectives had departed and held out her hand. The young lady knew to hand Alana a cup of water without being prompted. Alana read her nametag, “Dismissed, Officer Coleman.”
The young lady said, “Thank you, ma’am,” and exited the room, leaving Chief Bennett and Chief Inspector Graves alone with a cluttered mess of used cups, coffee stirrers, empty creamer pots, and empty sweetener packets, and a cluttered video display of photos, videos, documents, and other electronically recorded evidence.
Alana took the cup of water to Bennett, and he drained it in a flash. He held it out and Alana just brought him the half-empty water pitcher. He poured himself another drink as he said, “What would you do if you were promoted to Station Chief?”
Alana asked, flatly, “Thinking of resigning?”
Bennett gulped down his cup of water and refilled his cup again, “After acting as ringmaster for that circus, I’m likely to be your next serial murder suspect.”
Alana chuckled in the same, almost-but-not-quite-authentic manner that her body’s programming sometimes allowed, “If you wanted to kill them, imagine what I’d have done to them. The Battle of Woodbridge would have been tame by comparison.”
“Probably best that I stay on a while longer then. Update me on your current job.”
“I ran out of manpower before I ran out of urgent tasks, but I think I’ll be able to make good progress now that Detective Crabtree—”
“Inspector Crabtree!” Bennett bellowed, imitating Alana’s penchant for insisting on formal address.
Alana sat down as well, even though she didn’t need to. Her batteries were at ninety-percent and she couldn’t get tired, even from standing all day. It was a gesture of respect, placing herself at her normal height relative to the Chief, which was about two inches shorter than she was. “Thanks for promoting Brett and assigning him to the ‘Baseball Murders.’ I’d not have time to deal with everything otherwise. And thanks for putting Rhys on my team.”
“It’s temporary. Once you’ve solved this case and MacGruder’s back on his feet, Rhys will go back to being his assistant.”
Alana nodded, happy to be able to work directly with her friend regardless of the circumstances, “Have you spoken with Maggie?”
Bennett said, “Not yet. I tried to call him when I got back from the zoo, but I was only able to get hold of his hospitalist. He says they’re going to keep Maggie overnight. Either way, he’ll be using an exoskeleton to walk around for a couple weeks. You were my only choice to head this up.”
Alana said, “I’ve not been inspiring votes of confidence lately, have I.” It was a statement, not a question.
Bennett said, “I phrased that poorly. Keep the part about you being my only choice and strike the rest from the record. I would have put Maggie on your team had he not been shot.”
“He was speared more than he was shot. Shrapnel from the warehouse exploding. You get hit by any of that yet?”
Bennett finished his third cup of water, and then placed both the cup and the pitcher on a nearby seat, “Not yet. Could happen though. If I am sacked, I’m going to nominate you to take my slot. Like it or not.”
“Worry about that when it happens. In the meantime, we’ve got something more important to worry about.”
Bennett said, clearly not wanting to hear what was to come, “Go on.”
“According to available evidence, the Chinese could be behind the chop shop caper.”
“The Triad? Or a lesser Tong?”
Alana said, “No. China. As in, China. I’ve got Rhys digging into it before I stir up a nest of Asian hornets, but we’ve got physical evidence linking the chop shop to the Chinese consulate.”
Bennett closed his eyes, “Holy shit. That explains why SD’s got their fingers up our ass.”
Alana nodded, “My thoughts exactly. Probably would have been my exact words too. You taking Alana lessons?”
“God, I hope not. How solid is your evidence?”
Alana waggled her hand, “It’s a bit short of damning, but it’s downright darning.”
Bennett yawned, then stood, “I’m going to my office to take a short nap. If I can. Don’t start World War Three without at least sending me an email.”
Alana said, “If I’m not here, I’ll be in my office,” as she picked up Bennett’s coat and tossed it to him. He somehow managed to catch it before it hit the floor. The door hit him as he staggered on his way out.
Having delegated away many of her tasks, Alana was still faced with a mountain of questions to ascend that would give Sisyphus pause and Edmund Hillary performance anxiety. She approached the wall display and began sifting once again through the knowns, making notes about the unknowns as she went.
The open question of how the suspects were able to kidnap the vast number of retirees they did and move them to the docks undetected was nagging at her. She concentrated on that problem first. Rhys had already compiled a report of all the identified victims’ transponder trails. Alana pulled up a regional map and enlarged it to fill the screen. Then she started looking at the movement of the blips, trying to isolate a pattern. Her first reviews were unsuccessful, but then she noticed that most of them were moving just over or under a hundred kilometers per hour when their motion was discernible on the large-scale display. She nodded, certain that she had found a common element, “Ground transport. No one flew to LA.”
That opened the question of what happened to all the vehicles. If they drove to Los Angeles and were chopped up after they got here, were their cars also chopped up and sold on the black market?
“Vira, link all of the known victims to their private transport registrations. Have any of those vehicles been listed as stolen or recovered?”
“Please wait...” Alana’s Vira took longer than it usually did to answer comparable questions, but a few seconds later it said, “No.”
Alana refined her query, “Vira, have any of those vehicles appeared in law enforcement records since 1 June 2090?”
“Please wait... Yes. One match was listed as being towed from a parking deck in San Diego on 10 June 2090.”
“One? Is that all?”
“Affirmative, Chief Inspector.”
Did that mean that someone picked them up and carried them to Los Angeles? All of them? Did the suspect’s network number in the dozens or even hundreds? Alana spent several minutes trying to in
struct her Vira to display traffic transponder data overlapping with the cyborg transponders, but she was not able to get the results she wanted. The Vira language processor was phenomenally accurate when translating human speech into functional data queries, but when things became complicated or esoteric, they were not always intuitive enough to figure out what their human masters wanted.
Alana moved in front of the display’s camera, activated the keypad, and dialed the number for the Cyberforensics Department. A video window opened, and Alana found herself looking at Srinivas, the department head. He sighed, “Chief Inspector Graves. How nice to hear from you again. What pressing task can we drop in order to serve you immediately?”
Alana ignored Srinu’s snark, “I need a hand overlapping some data records. Anyone free at the moment?”
“How complicated is it?”
“Complicated enough that I don’t know what query to ask my Vira.”
Srinivas smiled. It annoyed him to no end that Alana was always asking him or his staff to do overtime to help solve her cases. However, when Alana required his assistance, depended on it even, it always seemed to brighten his day. “Situation Room One? I’ll be right down.”
After he arrived, huffing and puffing as if Alana was interrupting something important, which was how Srinivas always acted when anyone needed anything, it took less than five minutes for him to hand-code a custom query to allow Alana to access and compare the data she wanted. She reactivated the display. Alongside those red, cyborg transponder blips that were moving at highway speed, larger, green blips appeared underneath. Alana said, “To confirm, the green blips are vehicles that are sharing the same space at the same time as the passenger.”
Srinivas double-checked the data before replying, “Yes.”
“Meaning that the cyborg is riding in that vehicle?”
Srinivas said, “Yes. Well, within two meters of the vehicle’s transponder. They could be riding on the vehicle.”
Alana continued, “And each—”
Srinivas interrupted, “Or under it.”
“Each of these green blips can be traced to a unique traffic transponder, so I can identify the vehicle as well?”
Srinivas nodded forcefully, so as to avoid any confusion, “Yes. Any further interruptions for me this morning?”
Alana said, “No,” turning back to the display board and beginning to manipulate the information displayed thereupon or stored within its local memory. Srinivas did not move for several moments, and eventually crossed his arms. Several moments later, he cleared his throat. Alana stopped, and then realized what Srinivas wanted. She said, “Thank you, Srinu.”
Srinivas nodded, “You owe me another one,” and then left the room.
No sooner than the door had closed did Alana’s Vira ping with an incoming call. Rhys’ voice was easily recognizable, “Alana, I’m on my way to the consulate to talk with one of their officials about their car.”
Alana asked, “Was the face-to-face your idea or theirs?”
Rhys said, “Mine. I figure they’re phones are probably tapped by SD now, if they weren’t already.”
“Meaning you didn’t broach the subject on an open line? Is this an FYI call or is there more?”
Rhys said, “Yes, I didn’t broach the subject, and yes, it’s just FYI for now. Based on my car’s ETA at their office, I’m thinking I’ll be back in two or three hours, hopefully with some answers.”
Alana found herself reflexively ending the call with, “Be careful, Ben.” The last time she sent Rhys off alone to get information from inside a building, he was killed. If it happened again, he could be resurrected again, just like any full cyborg with a spotless criminal record and paid-up insurance, but he would still be losing memories of things that had happened since his last save. It wasn’t something she wanted to inflict upon him. Her thoughts crossed the line to feelings for a few minutes as she stood silently before the whiteboard, wondering exactly what kind of relationship she and Ben could have had. He was born the year she died. Even though her body was frozen at age thirty-five, her mind was still seventy. Even if she could have afforded to get a realistic gender package for her chassis, she would not have been truly able to enjoy any kind of physical relationship. Every review she had read stated unequivocally that the mechanical substitutes just could not duplicate the real tactile and sensory experience.
Alana’s eyes focused on the map and the many blips-in-motion, when an idea snapped her out of her reverie. She rolled the simulation back to the earliest day that the kidnappings were known to be happening. Then she manually counted the number of transponders in rapid motion at any given time. There were never more than eight traveling at a speed higher than five kilometers per hour, a quick walking pace. There was also never more than one cyborg transponder inside a single vehicle. But what did that mean? Were there eight teams of kidnappers taking one victim at a time?
Alana randomly selected one of the fast-moving green blips, “Vira, to whom is this vehicle registered?”
Her Vira replied, “That vehicle is registered to the Flash-Drive Taxi Company.”
Alana snapped at thin air, “What? A taxi? That can’t be correct. Double-check that.”
“That vehicle is registered to the Flash-Drive Taxi Company.”
“Display the full registration certificate on the whiteboard.”
A document opened in a window on the whiteboard. Alana read it carefully from top to bottom. A photograph of the vehicle from when it left the factory, painted plain white with no logos, was attached to the file. If the information was accurate, the car was indeed a taxicab. It was almost new, with the registration being logged to the taxi company on 12 May 2090, earlier in the spring, and less than a month before the kidnappings were thought to have begun.
Alana pointed to another green transponder blip, “Vira, identify this vehicle. Who is it registered to?”
“That vehicle is registered to the Flash-Drive Taxi Company.”
“Display the registration certificate.” It was nigh-identical to the other one, with the registration number being numbered only three higher than the previous car’s.
Alana barked, “Freeze simulation.” She selected the remaining six green blips that were currently active and said, “Tile display the registration certificates for all of the selected vehicles.”
The top half of the whiteboard was covered by the eight documents. Alana scrutinized them all. Only the endings of their registration numbers were out of sequence. One was a 19. The others ran in order, from 11 to 17. All were registered to the same taxi company at the same time. All were ordered directly from the factory at the same time, with a fully automated control package designed for taxis. The listed business address for the Flash-Drive Taxi Company was in Glendale, California.
Alana said, without showing a hint of emotion, “Vira, call Chief Bennett. Wake his ass up if needed.”
Monday, 10 July, 11:00
Brett staggered into his and Alana’s shared office at eleven o’clock Monday morning to find it unoccupied. He was running very late, having spent a long evening with his newly christened fiancée, Wen Jing. He settled into his chair, leaving the door open to the corridor outside. No one was around to chastise him for tardiness. He was now in charge of both his investigation and his schedule. He could not help but think that he could easily grow accustomed to that extra degree of flexibility he did not have while working under the direction of others.
He activated his desktop and logged into the network. There were four messages awaiting his perusal. The first was the notice of his as yet unaccepted promotion to Detective Inspector. He left that one alone again. When Wen Jing surprised him by popping the question the previous evening, it further muddied his thoughts about his desires for his career. He now had something he had always wanted, a relationship with someone who truly caused his internal organs to feel as if they were rearranging themselves whenever she was near. He did not want to lose that. On the other hand, the pr
omotion would likely place him in a position where he would have less exposure to the constant dangers of police work. As a full DI, he would be assigned an assistant, whose life would be in Brett’s hands—just as his was with Alana’s—just as Rhys’ was with Alana’s...
The second message was from Alana, telling him that she would be indisposed for most of the time going forward, and that if he needed further help with his first case as DI, to leave her a message, and she would reply as soon as she could. She suggested that Brett not ignore the possible role of the reporter, Edward Jenkins, as she had not completely eliminated him from her inquiry. She ended the letter with a quickly typed, ‘--DCI AG.’ She added a postscript, “Just one more thing... Accept the promotion, Inspector Crabtree.”
The third message was a reply from Maurice Blankowicz, the Commissioner of Baseball, regarding the inquiries Brett had sent him the previous day. It consisted of a cover letter, the returned affidavit, and a list of the questions with the Commissioner’s answers. Brett opened the documents and quickly read them. The answers were deliberately phrased in such a way as to avoid making absolute statements, likely on the advice of his council, the affidavit was properly signed and dated, making the information admissible as evidence if it was necessary.
Brett’s first question, ‘Did the All Star Game officials correctly administer the pre-game tests to ensure that none of the players were cheating?’
Commissioner Blankowicz answered, ‘I personally called the person responsible, a Mister Blake Chapman, and he told me that the tests were not administered. The reason given was that it was an exhibition game, and no one bothered to go to the added trouble and expense given that many of the players were arriving close to the start of the game. I expect his resignation letter this afternoon.’
Brett probed behind his left canine tooth with his tongue, trying to dislodge a small fragment of apple peel that had remained after his breakfast-on-the-run. He finally opened his mouth and dug with the fingernail on his pinky until he had finally removed the cause of the irritation. He opened his investigation log and added the text of the Commissioner’s reply to his entry about the batting software app. The possibility that Veedock deliberately killed Robertson was now demonstrably eminent.