Alan Dean Foster (22 page)

Sykes found himself digressing. "I didn't think the government would loan money for a project Re that. A nightclub. I thought the idea was to help

'elevate' the Newcomers' status. You get elevated in that joint, but it ain't your status that goes up."

The operator was grinning. "The government loaned money to any Newcomer they thought could learn to sup-157

port himself and create jobs for others. The only kind of elevation the Bureau is after involves full employment and getting everybody off welfare."

The detective shrugged. "Hey, somebody's showing some sense, anyway."

Francisco gestured to the screen. "Enough about Mr. Strader. Now I think we should inquire about the gentleman who first provoked our curiosity.

Could you please research a store owner named Cecil Porter, please."

She entered the name and once more the information materialized almost instantly.

"Released December first," she drawled. "Married, unlike your first two.

Took a more roundabout route finding his way to L.A., too. He and his wife first went to Modesto, but they got themselves caught up in the Hmong race riots there and had to get out. Went to Coalinga next, wherever the hell that is. "

"Up on the west side of the Central Valley," Francisco informed her softly, "near nothing else."

She grunted a response. "Settled in L.A. in April. Field of expertise is organic chemical engineering. Looks like he first tried to hook up with one of the big agribiz outfits in Modesto, same thing in Coalinga, and finally gave up and moved down here to Newcomer country. Took out a loan to buy the store. He and his wife have one son." She smiled back at Francisco. But then, Sykes reminded himself, she has to work with Newcomers and their problems every day.

"You folks tend to have children later in life."

The Newcomer didn't bat an eye. "Our women reach the equivalent of menopause at a later stage in their physical development. "

" I don't know whether to envy them or feel sorry for them. " She chuckled, turned her attention back to the computer. "You want details on the boy?"

"Naw, we already met him," Sykes said conversationally. "Wonderful kid.

Close personal friend of George's here."

"Hey, I know it's none of my business, but why the interest in these three?" She swiveled in her chair. "I can't imagine three more different personalities. Are they sup-158

posed to have something in common that involves homicide? They in some kind of trouble?"

"Yeah, you could say that." Sykes was looking past her, past the giant wall photo of the fairy-tale castle that dominated the back wall of her cubicle. An idea was forming, slow as the first life to emerge on land, crawling painfully up from the oleaginous depths of his brain. It was what he was best at, why Warner overlooked his many other faults. Somehow Sykes had the ability to pull seemingly unrelated bits of matter together from the vast reservoir of garbage that drifted loosely in his skull, to turn nonsense into logic and nothingness into reality.

It wasn't much of an idea. Not something any of his colleagues would have considered. He stood there silently mulling it over, his expression that of a man who'd just swallowed something sour. It took another minute to assirailate it all.

If he hadn't been working with George it might never have occurred to him, but he was doing a lot of thinking about Newcomers lately, learning a great deal about them. Things you didn't get in the supplementary alien classes everyone was required to take.

Or as the Porter kid had said to him, "Didn't they teach you anything about us?" They did, but some stuff you didn't pick up in class, and a lot of what went through your mind at the time never crossed it again.

Well, Sykes found himself wondering about some of that now, thinking long and hard.

His eyes widened suddenly. "Holy shit." He looked sharply at Francisco.

"Look what we're staring at. No wonder we're not getting anywhere. Three Newcomers with nothing in common, right? Or so it appears. What if it's just one other guy who's killed these three?" He was so excited he didn't realize that for the first time since they'd taken on the case he wasn't thinking about Bill Tuggle.

Francisco eyed him uncomprehendingly. "I do not see where you are going with this line of thought, Matthew."

"Gimme a minute. You will. Think about it, George. Three dead. Tluee and one make four. Four Newcomers,

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three dead, one still alive somewhere who's responsible for the deaths of the other three. All four from 'totally different' backgrounds. "

His partner shook his head doubtfully. "I still fail to recognize a useful connection."

Sykes was so excited now he was all but hopping up and down. "C'mon, man!

You're the one who gave me the glue to put it all together."

"Me?" Francisco looked honestly surprised.

"Yeah, you. What you told me earlier. You and the store owner's son, that damn punker."

"But we had already decided he had nothing to do with these murders. "

"He doesn't, damnit! You and him, two Newcomers also of utterly different backgrounds, but you still had something in common. One thing. Remember what it was?"

"No, there was nothing, besides the fact that we are both of the same. . ."

The detective straightened. "Quarantine."

Sykes nodded vigorously, turned back to the operator. "Can you dig up quarantine records on this thing?"

"For the three guys we just reviewed?" Sykes nodded again. "Sure, just a minute." She turned back to her console. "I'll have to run a cross-reference layout so you can see all three sets of records simultaneously. What were those first two names again?"

"Warren Hubley. Joshua Strader," Sykes reminded her impatiently.

She ran the crossref and scrolled old man Porter to the top of the screen.

"Your market owner was in Lodge Seven Seven Two. I'll make a run with that."

It took a little longer for the computer to process the request. Quarantine information was sensitive and access to it restricted. A moment later the info flashed on the screen.

OCCUPANTS, QUARANTINE LODGE 772: HUBLEY, WARREN-STRADER, JOSHUA-Sykes and

Francisco looked anxiously at the screen-PORTER, CECIL ...

The fourth name now. The answer to all their questions, asked and not yet thought of-if Sykes was right, and the

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names appearing on the screen offered incontrovertible proof of that.

It took forever for the machine to print it out.

-HARCOURT, WILLIAM-

Man and Newcomer exchanged a last look. Words were unnecessary.

Irl JU

Nobody had a chance to open the door for Harcourt this time. He was in a hurry as he stepped out of the limo.

The Encounters sign illuminated the entrance to the club, but the rest of the garish exterior lighting was turned off. The place was closed tonight, the parking lot out front was deserted, the driveway empty except for the limo and the van parked in front of it. The rear bumper of the van was badly scratched and rife with small dents as if metal had been pulled violently and repeatedly across its otherwise shiny surface.

Harcourt took a moment to study the entrance to the club. Then the noise of the van doors opening turned him in that direction. Kipling was just exiting the passenger side and Quint the driver's seat.

His assistant slid open the van's side door. Reaching inside, he extracted a large black suitcase, then turned to confront his boss.

Harcourt nodded once. Together they strolled into the club. Quint trailed a respectful distance behind, hands jammed in his pockets. He would have whistled except that he'd learned early on many Newcomer's didn't like that. Something to do with the frequencies humans sometimes hit.

Personally he didn't see how it could bother them since they didn't have any ears anyway. Just those dumb openings in the sides of their heads.

Not that it was any of his business, he reflected.

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The chairs had been stacked neatly atop the tables. The lights in the booths were dark. Feeble illumination turned the bottles of liquor ranked behind the bar to crystalline teeth, imparting to the labels and shapes a magical softness they didn't deserve. Harcourt led his men toward the back, then up the stairs to the second floor.

Cassandra was waiting for them. She produced a weak, strained smile by way of greeting. Her eyes never left Harcourt. The dress she wore was too modest for a performance, too extreme for a church. She was doing her best to be friendly, but it wasn't easy. Harcourt made her very uncomfortable.

Kipling and Quint walked right past her, heading for the door to the main office and conference room. Harcourt slowed, stopped to smile back at the female. One hand rose and the fingers drifted easily over the neckline of her dress, slid possessively down into the depths of the cleavage displayed there.. Cassandra shivered but didn't pull away. She'd already learned that much about Harcourt.

"Quite lovely," he whispered. "What was your name again?"

She fought to keep from flinching. "Cassandra."

Harcourt smiled, and it was neither the smile he reserved for his adoring public nor the one he'd bestowed on the absent Watson. In its fashion it was more chilling than either.

"I am sorry not to have remembered that. I will not forget again."

Withdrawing his hand, he continued on to the office. Cassandra watched him go. She was shaking and angry at herself for doing so.

The refinery functioned around the clock, but with a reduced crew at night. Computers made that possible even as they kept the highly volatile products of the plant from igniting to destroy half of Torrance.

The slugmobile skidded to a stop outside the loading dock. Sykes and Francisco checked the ID numbers above the platform to assure themselves they were at the fight

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spot, then climbed out and started up the stairs. The interior of the building beyond the dock was brightly lit.

The few nightworkers didn't even took in their direction as the two detectives strode purposefully toward the back. Francisco was moving fast,,but Sykes was so up he had no trouble keeping pace.

The Newcomer detective was talking almost as fast as he was walking. "It all seems so obvious now."

"Easy once you make the connection," his partner agreed tersely.

"Yes. They had many months in quarantine with nothing else to talk about.

They must have discussed this plan early on and in great detail. With his chemistry background, Porter would supply the formula for ss'jabroka. I cannot imagine how he originally obtained it, but a resourceful person with enough drive and intelligence can accomplish seemingly impossible things. He was such an unprepossessing type. Those are the people who can slip past Security where a more forceful personality would immediately be suspected and detained.

"Hubley, with his contacts in the city, would provide the means for manufacturing. It took me a moment to imagine what Strader's contribution might be, but now it is clear that he was to establish a distribution network which would use the club as its base. It would provide a place to conduct business with privacy, a means for making contact with the human underworld and a useful way of laundering large sums of money. They had it worked out so well. And of course Harcourt. . ."

Sykes finished for him. "Harcourt was the brain who brought it all together and provided the start-up funds. Listen to me good, now, George.

If we want it all we gotta play this real smart."

"If the drug is here, we must destroy it.'

"No, George. You're missing the point. I know how you feel about this junk and how worried you are, but you can't let yourself get involved on a personal level. Tbat's bad police work. Poor procedure." The irony of his little speech escaped him.

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"The drug is evidence. We need to have evidence, ya know? Otherwise we've got nothing on these guys but your say-so. Bentner's test report won't mean squat without the real thing. You remember what they taught you about evidence, don't you?"

It was a measure of how far their friendship had advanced that Francisco didn't try to mitigate the coldness of his reply. "I was not promoted to the rank of Detective entirely for public relations purposes, Sergeant Sykes. I have some small knowledge of what sort of material prosecutors require."

"So sue me. Half the time I can't keep track of what I know and don't know. The main thing to remember is that we need something concrete, something the D.A. can hold up in court and shake at the jury. A signed deposition from you ain't gonna put anybody behind bars, you follow?"

"I follow," Francisco said evenly.

"Great. So let's not do anything stupid, no matter how much righteous anger we got flowing through us today, okay?"

The Newcomer spoke without looking at his partner. "Okay."

Since they'd first entered the complex Sykes's eyes had been working overtime, searching the floor ahead, the catwalks above, and the jungle-gym network of pipes and conduits that comprised the business end of the refinery.

"I don't see the guy."

"Nor do I,- said Francisco, "but the guard told us he had registered for duty and had clocked in tonight."

"Doesn't mean he's still here. He could've been tipped off, could've split by now."

"You are worrying unnecessarily, Matt. I do not see how he could have been contacted so quickly."

"Bad news travels fast, George. George?"

Francisco didn't reply. His attention was on the upperlevel door that led to the methane section. He pointed. Sykes glanced along the line of his partner's arm and nodded.

"Yeah, that's O'Neal."

They managed to get close before the section manager 165

recognized them. This time he didn't wait to answer questions, didn't come to meet them with his hand outstretched. Maybe it was the expression on the Newcomer's face, maybe something in Sykes's stride, or maybe he'd been warned to keep an eye out for possible trouble. Whatever the reason, as soon as he spotted the two detectives approaching he ducked through the open refrigeration door and started to pull it shut behind him.