Payoff (5 page)

Cherabino’s finger settled on a spot in front of the photo, and her shoulders slumped, just a little. “This is Billy Oden. The older man.”

“You sure?” It occurred to me he was married. “An affair?” I hoped it was an affair. . . .

My eyes went back to the faintly-glowing bonsai, for something to look at.

She cleared her throat. “My gut says prostitute, Adam, and illegal one at that. Otherwise why send these? We’ll ask the forensic age specialist to give us a better view, but I’d be surprised if this girl is eighteen. If she’s not, this is—”

“A very sensitive situation,” the judge said. “Something that could destroy a man with a very notable career.”

“And Raymond sent the pictures to you,” I said.

He looked very old, and very tired. “And now he’s dead. I’d suggest you find out why, and soon. Otherwise I can—and will—reexamine my ruling in your case.”

I swallowed.

“He’s my grandson,” the judge said, voice like steel.

“I understand,” I said in a small voice. “I understand.”

* * *

Cherabino made
us walk back through the square. Her sensei said she was spending too much time at her desk, she was thinking. She needed to walk more, try to do a little better. She could feel her muscles tensing up, she thought, especially the long ones in her legs. Her sensei was probably right. The fattening lunch had nothing to do with anything.

I pulled back from her mind, fuzzily thinking I shouldn’t be listening in so much. I’d promised, but my attention was starting to go as it entered the two to three o’clock range where my brain didn’t like to work as well. That and I wanted to think about something—anything—other than the judge’s ultimatum.

We passed a block of restaurants near the old subway station; this whole area had survived the Tech Wars well, and so the original brick architecture still stood with only minor renovations. A very faded mural of what might once have been a rainbow and a burrito beneath a moonscape adorned the wall. A neon sign advertised a special at the oxygen bar across the street; the air quality was relatively good today, hardly making me cough at all even with the wind blowing directly at me, and as a result their business was probably suffering. The laser tattoo shop next door to them actually had a line, though.

We waited at a crosswalk as a flyer came in to land on the roof of the mechanic’s shop on the corner of Church Street. Then, when the signal turned green, Cherabino started across. I trotted after her.

When I caught up, I forced myself to confront the thing I feared. To think about the case, and actually try to solve it rather than running away like I wanted to.

“This is about a sex scandal with a state senator?” I asked Cherabino. “Nothing to do with the drugs?”

“It’s looking like it,” Cherabino said. “I can’t spend any more time on this today—I’m a couple hours late as it is—but I’ll have a uniform go get the senator for you to interview. If you catch him in a lie or get a confession, maybe we won’t need the forensics at all.”

“But no pressure,” I said, nervously, as we passed a few old houses with law firms inside. Even if she couldn’t work more, I had to. I knew I had to.

She stopped to look at me. “Adam, you have a judge asking a personal favor of you. And his grandson is dead. Whatever you owe him, unless you can bring him a head on a platter in the next week, you’re out of luck—you might have your future in the department blocked, and that’s assuming he doesn’t actually follow through on the threat. The pressure doesn’t get any higher than this, and if you think otherwise, you’re kidding yourself.”

I shivered a little as the wind blew out of the south.

* * *

I’d managed to grab a quick nap in the crash room—consoling myself with the idea that lunch had been work today—and was feeling a little better. I was having trouble reading, but I could force it, and I could focus if I used up a lot of energy. This would probably be my last useful interview of the day; I’d either have to switch to easier suspects (God willing, there were some in the queue), or find something else useful to do. Maybe Paulsen was right. Maybe working on cases right now wasn’t all that great of an idea. Not that I had a choice.

“Was it really necessary to have uniformed police officers drag me out of my office like a common criminal?”

“State Senator Oden,” I said, and stood. I’d missed the door opening, somehow. A uniformed officer smirked from the door, then closed it. Great. Now I’d have to spend a lot of time soothing the senator before I could do anything else useful. “Thank you so much for coming,” I said on autopilot. “Please come in.”

Billy Oden was a wiry man, all teeth, with a very good hairpiece and a pale, too-smooth face that spoke of subtle plastic surgery, a lifetime indoors, or very expensive health treatments. Something about the way he moved made me think of a tennis player,
whap
to return the ball,
whap
to hit it back at you. His cheeks were ruddy with anger.

Behind him was the pompous campaign manager from this morning, Mantega, in an even more expensive suit. He was a lawyer by trade, and I vaguely remembered Cherabino had found his record otherwise to be clean. She’d made some comment about his previous clients, something about defending the scum of the earth.

“I’m surprised you people didn’t drag me down in handcuffs,” Oden said. “It’s a disgrace to our system of government. I’m a state senator, for the love of God.”

I pasted on the most natural smile I could manage, relaxed my shoulders, and held out a hand. “I’m sorry for the rough treatment. The officers must have gotten a little overzealous. Please, sit. Can we get you guys some coffee?” I did my best to project hail-fellow-well-met, not because I thought I could actually manage the feeling in Mindspace, not now, but because my micro-facial expressions and body language would at least project it some. Politicians were good at reading people, and I’d have to be careful. Very careful, this late in the day, so I wouldn’t miss anything. I’d do this. I’d do it if it killed me. They sat, Mantega finding a seat very close, arranging his cuff links carefully before placing them on the table.

With as tense as they were, I’d have to softpedal it. “I’d like to ask you some questions. Namely, about your intern, a Raymond Datini? He was reported missing a few days ago.” I forced myself to focus on strategy, where I was going with this.

Oden shifted in his chair, seeming to relax. “Yes, Raymond works for us. If that’s all this was about you could have made an appointment. I would have talked to you.”

I completely ignored the implication that he wouldn’t talk otherwise, and reinforced my pleasant body language.

Just then, Bellury appeared in the doorway with two coffees in hand.
Thank you,
I mouthed at him. He frowned at me in return, probably unsure why the words hadn’t just appeared in his head, but I stood up and took the coffee to overrule the moment.

“Ah, here we go,” I said, and put the coffee in front of the two men. Mantega sniffed at it and pushed it away; Oden held it in his hands.

I pulled the chair around and sat down on the side of the table, perpendicular to Oden, as to seem more friendly. He blinked when I got into his personal space, but settled down nicely when I backed up a half-foot. Apparently we weren’t that friendly yet, but that was okay.

Bellury settled in his chair in the corner and held the files I’d asked him to bring.

“Senator Oden,” I began, and paused for him to correct me.

As expected, he put in, “Billy, please.”

“Thank you,” I smiled the expected smile. “Now, let’s start with the legal disclosures. I’m a Level Eight telepath.” I paused. It was technically true, even if I wasn’t operating right now, and the disclosure intimidated most people. “I’m required by law to tell you that skin-to-skin physical contact can increase my ability to read your mind, so for most people it’s considered wise to avoid all physical contact with telepaths. The Guild recommends that if you have something to hide from a telepath, you think about something else.” That part usually got me a flash of a secret, a flash I was sorely missing now. “Do you have any questions?”

“Am I under arrest?” Senator Oden squirmed a little in the chair.

“No,” I said soothingly. “Nothing like that. Even so you’re entitled to a lawyer if you want one. You should also know you’re being recorded. It’s just standard procedure, to make sure I’m doing my job correctly.” I smiled again, and shrugged in a self-deprecating way. “Do we need to wait for anyone for you? Are you comfortable?”

He drank a little of the coffee and made a face. Bellury had likely given him the department standard stuff, which was swill, even if most of it was actually beans, not simcoffee. It was still vile. “Yeah, enough, I guess. Let’s get this over with.”

“When was the last time you saw Raymond?”

He thought. “It must have been two weeks ago. At first I thought he was working on a special project for Rafael here, but later he told me Raymond hadn’t been into work in days. He’s the grandson of a judge, you understand. I was willing to be flexible, especially with the health issues he’d talked about, but he should have called. I haven’t seen him since. Have you heard anything?”

“Health issues?” I asked.

Oden shrugged and dared another sip of the coffee. “He’d lost a lot of weight and was looking pretty sick. He was late to work, more than usual for a college student, but he said he hadn’t been feeling well and I didn’t pry. He didn’t give me any details.”

Huh. The judge hadn’t mentioned health issues, and with the roommate’s and Kubrick’s information, I was leaning toward the beginning of a serious drug habit. Or, I supposed, trying to be generous, it could just have been the overbooked hours the roommate said he was keeping. Those could make your body complain after a while.

Back to the interview. Um, okay, standard alibi type question.

“Where were you on Friday morning between the hours of eight and eleven at night?” I asked. The medical examiner’s report had finally come back, and that’s when she estimated Raymond had been killed. As I’d thought, execution-style shot at close range from a .38, one of the most common guns on the street.

“At home, with my wife and children,” Oden said.

I looked at him, trying to get a read off body language since I couldn’t do it with telepathy. He was nervous, twitchy, but I couldn’t tell why, and the alibi wasn’t much of one. Better than being alone, but barely. Spouses lied for each other all the time. I tried to picture Oden killing Raymond over pictures, and couldn’t. Maybe it was Mantega; he looked slimy enough to manage anything.

“Why do you ask?” Oden said, into the silence I’d let sit too long.

I reached over as Bellury handed me the files he’d brought. From the top one I placed three pictures in front of Oden—the first, of Raymond alive, and the next two of the murder scene—the third with a very explicit close-up shot.

Oden scooted back suddenly, the metal feet of the chair scraping against the floor. The shock on his face seemed real to me, but without my telepathy I felt deaf and dumb. It didn’t matter, I told myself. Most people want to tell the truth; they’re just looking for an excuse.

Mantega’s reaction was less extreme, but he still seemed surprised, even a few seconds later. Either I’d missed something or . . .

I kept my voice soft and matter-of-fact. “Raymond Datini was found dead on his college campus yesterday.” Then I placed the three pictures we’d gotten from the judge on top of those pictures. The senator on top of of a very, very young woman. “These photos were sent to Raymond’s grandfather—the judge—just before Raymond was murdered.”

I kept leaning forward, interested, and watched their reactions again.

Oden’s face fell, something like shame coming over it before being replaced by panic. Mantega looked angry and resigned.

Mantega leaned forward. “The girl in those photos is nineteen, and licensed for those activities in the state of Georgia. The senator has paid all proper taxes.”

I took a breath, and pushed at the fracture point. “That’s a good try. It is. But I have a college student, an intern of yours, who was murdered just days after he put these pictures in the mail to a judge.” I paused. “My only question is whether the senator did it himself or got you to do it. I’m betting he got you to do it. You seem like the type.”

“Raymond was blackmailing the senator,” Mantega hissed.

Here we went. “And you killed him for it,” I said.

A look passed between them, and Mantega frowned. Oden looked resigned. He turned back to me.

“No,” he said. “No, we didn’t. All I wanted was for us to get someone to follow the guy. Figure out what he really needed all that money for. He was a judge’s grandson. Whatever was going on had to be bigger.”

“But it wasn’t. That piece of shit was involved in the drug trade,” Mantega said. “I saw him meet with some dealers. They were screaming about money. The stupid kid stole money from them. Their money. He had another two days to pay up, they said.”

“So I gave him the money,” Oden put in. “I gave him the money and I told him to burn the pictures, and not to step foot back in the office. That was the last time I saw him. That was Wednesday night. When I didn’t see the pictures the next day in the paper, I figured he’d done exactly that. I guess it wasn’t enough.”

I sat there for a long moment, trying to tell if they were telling the truth. They seemed open enough, honest enough, but I hadn’t really put in all that much pressure. The missing telepathy was changing everything about how I had to interact with these guys, especially since they weren’t getting as squirmy as most suspects did about me being a telepath. So, back up. Take another tactic. I had all the time in the world to figure this out. “Why would he send the pictures to the judge?” I asked. “I’ll need to verify your alibi, you realize that.”

“Provided these pictures don’t end up in the public record for a morals scandal,” Oden said, “I have nothing to hide. She really is nineteen, and she really was paid very well for her services. Legally.”

I led the senator and his man on a merry chase of question and answer for maybe another half hour. Their stories stayed consistent, and they didn’t add extraneous details. I was beginning to hate Mantega, but I was no closer to any lies than I had been at the beginning.