Authors: Nyx Smith
Kirkland grunts.
The only thing he hates more than unanswered questions is the prospect of unanswered questions leading to still more questions. He should’ve become an auto mechanic like his father.
The aisle crossing the rear of the room is flanked by a carpeted space where sit the bureau’s five civilian data aides. Passing quickly through them, Kirkland is through the door of his office before any of them can even look up at him. He flips on the kaf maker, sits down at his desk, snuffs his cig, and immediately lights a new one. Taking a deep drag, he flips on the telecom. The unit has a monitor screen, integral computer, and the city phone directory in its memory.
He presses a few sensor keys. The Unit Calling screen of the local telecommunications grid appears on the monitor. Two bleeps and an attractive blonde appears. “Good afternoon, KFK Plaza, my name is Melissa,” she says melodically. “May I help you, sir?”
“Mister Torakido, please.”
“Who may I say is calling?”
Kirkland holds his shield case up to the telecom’s visual pickup, showing his badge and ID card. “Lieutenant Kirkland, Homicide.”
“One moment sir. I’ll connect you.”
The blonde is replaced on the screen by an aerial view of the KFK headquarters building, situated on an expansive, rolling patch of green-turfed land that the voice-over informs him is located somewhere just outside Tokyo. The vid, accompanied by orchestral music, goes on to tell about the humanitarian philosophy of KFK International. The vid doesn’t run long enough for Kirkland to hear about the organization’s many contributions to improving the quality of life of all humanity, which is what usually comes next in promos like this.
Instead the screen blanks. The brunette who next appears is attractive enough to have been the recipient of a small fortune’s worth of cosmetic surgery. Kirkland looks very closely but doesn’t spot even the tiniest flaw in her deep blue eyes and tawny complexion.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” she says in a dulcet, British-accented voice. “I’m Theona MacFarlane, Mister Torakido’s confidential assistant. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to talk to your boss,” Kirkland says.
“Mister Torakido is out of his office at present. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
The words and tone of voice give nothing away, but the woman’s expression is pointedly interested, like she’s been sitting around all day waiting for him to call. Kirkland wonders what’s going on. Corporations are usually big on talk and short on action where police investigations are concerned.
“Okay, it goes like this,” he says, deciding to take the offer of help where he finds it. “I’m investigating the deaths of Robert Neiman—”
And that’s as far as he gets. Before Kirkland can get another word out of his mouth, MacFarlane says, “Yes, Lieutenant. I know.”
She’s clued in. Kirkland isn’t sure whether that implies that MacFarlane is anything other than well-informed. He wonders about it, though. “Then maybe you’re aware that I’ve requested certain info from the president of Exotech, a Mister Bernard Ohara. Things like employment files, data on the Special Projects Section, information that could be critical to my investigation.” Without waiting for MacFarlane to respond, he adds, “So far I’m not getting much cooperation.”
MacFarlane’s expression becomes one of subdued surprise. “You made these requests to Mister Ohara personally?”
“Yeah. Face-to-face.”
Another very subdued look of surprise; then, again, the pointed look of interest. “Tell me exactly what information you would like. Lieutenant.”
The look and the request together convince Kirkland that something is definitely going on behind the scenes at KFK International. What it is, he can only guess. His primary interest is the Special Projects Section: who worked there? when? what were they doing? He also wants personnel files on all the dead executives and their associates, living and deceased. He runs down the list.
MacFarlane says, “I must tell you, Lieutenant, that Kono-Furata-Ko prides itself on being a responsible corporate citizen, and that it has always been the policy of the corporation to cooperate with the official investigations of any legitimate public authority, such as the police.”
Kirkland nods, he’s heard speeches like this before.
“Give me one hour,” MacFarlane says.
Kirkland is surprised enough about the time frame that he hesitates, and then it’s too late to respond. She disconnects. The screen blanks. He takes a long, slow drag on his cig. Then the door to his office swings open and in walks Captain Henriquez, Commanding Officer, Homicide Bureau, Central Division. Henriquez’ office is two doors over. Kirkland lights a cig on the embers of the last one and sits back in his chair.
“How’d it go in Germantown?” Henriquez says.
“It looks like things’ll get worse before they get better.”
“Better? You and I’ll be back in Traffic Division before that ever happens.” Henriquez drops into one of the two plastic-molded chairs facing Kirkland’s desk. “Where do we stand?”
Kirkland suppresses the first reply that comes to mind, and says, simply, “I’m just about to call the troops in for a meet.”
“Oh, yeah? In that case, I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Right.”
Five minutes later, Kirkland’s little cube of an office is packed wall-to-wall and halfway around both sides of his desk with half the homicide specialist-detectives of the Central Division. About thirty-eight people in all. It doesn’t seem like much against a metroplex of some three million, and that’s just the official population.
“Who’s got what?” Kirkland says.
Three or four start talking at once, then settle down to taking turns like good boys and girls. They’ve been running down the myriad leads and possibilities and tenuous ghosts of clues that might resolve the string of Exotech exec murders. So far, they’ve managed to eliminate as suspects most of the freelance kick-artists based in Philadelphia, along with most of the known yakuza, mafia, and Seoulpa gang assassins. They’ve also eliminated most of the blood relations, friends, and associates of the victims. That’s a good start, but not the kind of thing Captain Henriquez or anyone else can shoot at the mayor for a pat on the back.
Detective-Sergeant Lisa Wu runs down the current data on out-of-town killers. Striper’s name comes up, but that’s no coincidence. The name is on the list.
“We’ve got nothing much on her activities so far,” Wu reports. “A.T.F. spotted her in Chinatown about six weeks ago. A few squeals have seen her around since then, but she’s not making any waves. Not that we know of. That’s kinda weird in itself. Heavy muscle doesn’t usually sit idle. We’ve got at least one informant who says she’s playing bodyguard for some slag…”
“What slag?”
Detective Wu shrugs.
“Nice answer. You’re fired.”
“Sorry, boss.”
Sarcasm isn’t enough to vent his irritation. Kirkland sits back in his chair, stares briefly at the ceiling, “This is somebody who gets, what? Ten-kay to muss somebody’s hair? Twice that to bust an arm? She don’t bodyguard
some slag.
Some slag she met in a bar? Christ Almighty!
Get real,
people!”
Wu briefly lifts a hand to her brow, looking mildly over-awed. Others look at the floor. The air starts getting a little muggy with sweat. That’s okay, though. Kirkland’s got half of Central Command coming down on his ass over this Exotech mess. If he has to pressure people to get paydata out of them, he will. He lights another cig, then notices the one already burning in his ashtray. He ignores it. If anyone else notices, they ignore it too.
“What else we got?”
Ramirez rattles his hardcopy.
�
Talk
dammit!” Kirkland growls.
“We got a tentative match through the F.B.I. on hair found in the elevator where Neiman bought it.”
Robert Neiman was the first Exotech exec to bite it. It happened in a parking garage. The killer was the only one in the elevator, firing into the parking garage with a fragging Vindicator minigun. Kirkland doesn’t quibble over the point. “What hairs, matching what, and how tentative?”
Ramirez nods, swallows. “The hairs found in the elevator match hairs the Seoul P.D. found at a crime scene of a killing tentatively ascribed to Striper a couple years back.”
“F.B.I. is sharing data with Seoul? When the hell did that happen?”
“Well, actually the rumor is that some Company hacker—”
Kirkland waves a hand. “Forget I asked. How tentative is this match?”
“Almost exact. The problem is that nobody knows whose hair it is. Or what kinda hair it is. The F.B.I. ran some tests but didn’t pursue it. It’s not human or metahuman hair, not any known species.”
“So… what? It’s animal hair?”
“We don’t know.”
“What else is there?”
“Nobody knows.”
“The F.B.I.
doesn’t know?”
“They said try a zoologist. Preferably one with a background in paranormal species.”
On another day, Kirkland might have smiled, if just briefly, to hear that God’s gift to humanity, the all-knowing F.B.I., didn’t have all the answers. It reaffirms his sometimes shaky confidence in mere police departments. As for zoologists he’s heard of lately, he waves his cig around, but that doesn’t help jog his memory. Too many names, too many datum.
“Who’s the woman working on the ghoul thing? The one from the Science Center.”
Detective Kyowa speaks up. “Liss. Doctor Marion Liss. I think she’s a parazoologist.”
“Make the call, Ramirez.”
“Right, boss.”
“What else? Shackleford.”
Detective Chris Shackleford is by far the shortest member of the unit, barely more than a meter tall. Minuteman Security doesn’t hold that against her, that or being dwarf, and neither does Kirkland. Shackleford’s got strong skills in computers and statistics, and, more important, what seems like an agile brain. She’s always coming up with ideas. Now, though, she shakes her head. “It isn’t Striper.”
Kirkland exhales heavily and looks at the ceiling.
“Striper’s target profile runs to drug lords and crime kings. She’ll muscle anybody, but she doesn’t ace corporates unless they’re pushing into the underground.”
“Is that your psych evaluation, Shackleford?”
Detective Shackleford clenches her lips, briefly looking as irritated as Kirkland feels. The only psych profile they’ve got on Striper is too half-assed to be worth anything. That means Shackleford’s speculations fall into the realm of guesswork.
“There’s nothing wrong with profiling from target-type and method,” Shackleford says emphatically. “There was a time when that was the only kind of profiling we had!”
Nothing’s carved in stone, as far as Kirkland’s concerned. Admittedly, what Shackleford says is true. It’s also true that things change. So do people. Kirkland has known pro killers and kick-artists to suddenly change style with the specific goal of screwing up their police profiles. “So you want Striper off the list.”
“We’ve got people in town who aren’t even on the list who’d hose their own mother for taxi fare.”
“So what are you saying?”
Shackleford doesn’t get a chance to answer. The office door swings open, the crowd of detectives parts, and Deputy Chief of Detectives Nanette Lemaire steps into the void, looking quickly around, then at Kirkland. then saying, “What’s the latest on the Exotech suit killings?”
God curse all brass.
35
Sunlight dwindles.
Shadows grow long….
The time is come when her red and black-striped fur blends to perfection with twilight patches of sunlight and shadowy dark. The time is come for hunting.
Tikki rises from her leafy hiding place, a grassy ridge in the rocky face of a hill whose trees and bushes have sheltered her from the sun and the worst of the day’s heat. She steps under one of the cascades rushing down over the rocky outcrops and briefly glories in the shower of cool water gushing through her fur. It leaves her feeling fully awake, invigorated, alert.
She lifts her nose to the air.
She knows, by the strength of their smell, that sambar deer are nearby, well within her range. She has listened to their cries throughout most of the day. The season of their mating has arrived. Their husky barks and calls carry far through the still air of the forest. Their smells come to her like an invitation. If they have noticed her or her smell, they give no sign.
Tikki flicks her ears, shakes herself off, briefly paws at her neck, which is unaccountably itchy, then makes her way down to the forest floor. She does not hasten to the hunt. A cub might make that mistake, not her. She moves with a slow, deliberate stride that carries her quietly over fallen leaves and through the green branches of shrubs and trees. High up in the trees birds exclaim, but none cries out in alarm. Perhaps none has noticed her yet.
A sudden squalling erupts, sharp with tones of fear and anger. Tikki pauses to look up. The trees are alive with monkeys. Branches quiver and shake, leaves rustle. The monkeys screech and shriek, warning her to stay away, warning all within range of their sharp, annoying voices that danger has come.