Generation 18: The Spook Squad 2 (5 page)

“Who was the attending obstetrician on the births?”

“Dr. Frank Lloyd.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Dr. Lloyd is the resident physician at the Hopeworth Military Base.”

Hopeworth was something of a black hole when it came to military bases. Little was known about its activities, and it was one of the few areas the SIU computers could not access. Officially, Hopeworth was a weapons development area. Unofficially…who knew?

But why would they want a full-time obstetrician? Were the staff so bored that the base was experiencing a population explosion?

“Dig up Harry Maxwell’s birth certificate, and see what you can find on Emma Pierce.” If Emma worked at Hopeworth, there wouldn’t be much to find. The base guarded the identity of its personnel almost as fiercely as its activities. It was surprising that they’d let the birth certificates slip out—although, perhaps because both children had been adopted, they’d been forced to do so.

“Agent Samantha Ryan has just requested a priority-one access-all search.”

“Indeed?” He smiled. So she’d finally decided to search for the eight names listed on the birth certificate he presumed Jack had given her—a certificate he knew about
only
thanks to the fact that he’d gone through her drawers a few days ago after seeing her hastily hide it one afternoon. He had begun to wonder if she’d ever take the risk. Of course, he could have told her all about
one
of the four men on that certificate—Mark Allars had been a friend of his father’s for a very long time, after all—but for the time being, he was keeping his silence. She’d undoubtedly be furious that
he
hadn’t mentioned knowing Allars, but, damn it, the old adage of leading a horse to water was correct. He could push all he wanted, could lead her to names, but in the end it wouldn’t matter unless she truly
wanted
to uncover her past. “The search is approved. Post a copy of the results to me, but otherwise continue.”

The key to who—or perhaps what—she was lay not in the present, but in a past she couldn’t remember. He was certain of that much. But it wouldn’t do him any good to do the research, because he had no idea what might or might not trigger her memory. She
had
to be the one to look, which was why he’d allowed her full computer access in the first place—something that went against all SIU rules.

The computer blinked to life again. “No current information is available on Emma Pierce.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“No purchases have been made with credit cards in the last month. No transactions within bank accounts. The utilities to her home have been cut due to nonpayment.”

“No death certificate was issued?”

“The death records have been scanned. There is no match.”

If she wasn’t dead, then what the hell was she up to? “Last known address?”

“Fourteen Errol Street, Melton.”

His frown deepened. What would someone like Emma Pierce, who’d obviously been employed by the military and should have retired with a nice, fat pension, be doing in a place like Melton? The government had bought out a good portion of the suburb some ten years back, with the aim of providing both the poor and the homeless with someplace cheap to live. Or, as the critics of the move had observed, with a dumping ground. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Was she in government or private housing?”

“Government-funded.”

“Is there a husband or living relative listed on file?”

“There is no marriage certificate on record, and no listing of immediate family available.”

“No record of parents?”

“Her parents were killed in an automobile crash sixty-two years ago. Emma Pierce was listed as their only child.”

“Do a complete background check on Emma Pierce. Post a copy of all the results to wristcom 5019.”

He finished the rest of his coffee and rose. Time to go to Melton and pay a visit to Emma Pierce.

Sam climbed out of the car and glanced skyward. Gray clouds stormed across the sky, so low it felt as if she could reach out and touch them. Electricity burned through the air, tingling across her skin and through her soul.

She took a deep breath and, for a moment, imagined the power of the storm filling her body, strengthening her. Changing her.

She frowned, wishing Finley would hurry up and return from sick leave. She really needed to talk to him. She needed to understand the changes that she sensed were happening.

Thunder rumbled. It was a sound she felt rather than heard. A sound that seemed to vibrate through every cell in her body. Fear rose in her heart, but she thrust it away. For now, there was nothing else she could do, because there was simply no one she could talk to.

She reached back and grabbed her jacket off the backseat, then climbed out
.
The car locked automatically when she slammed the door shut. She turned and studied the concrete, slab-sided building. It didn’t look like much—not in daylight, anyway. But at night, the blue-painted concrete became the perfect canvas for all sorts of computer animation. And it attracted creatures as weird and as wild as its graphics.

Slinging her jacket over her shoulder, she walked up the half-dozen steps and opened the front door. In her ten years as a cop, she’d never known this place to be closed—even though it only had a license to operate at night.

Smoke drifted past her body, thick and somehow cloying. With it came the smell of hopelessness. Jack, her now-dead ex-partner, had often asked her to define what she meant, but it was something she found hard to explain. Even at night, when the place was full of people and noise and life, the smell was there. It was a scent of desperation, perhaps. Or maybe it was the smell of death hovering close. So many of the people who came to Maximum were on a downward spiral to oblivion.

She closed the door but didn’t move farther inside, allowing her eyes time to adjust to the darkness. The place was quieter than usual. There were only a half-dozen people in the front bar, either wearily nursing drinks or hiding in the darkness of the booths to her right. Josie, the gum-chewing, red-haired bartender, stood at one end, looking as disinterested as the rest of the patrons.

She walked across the room. “Hey, Josie, is Max around?”

Josie’s golden-brown eyes jumped into focus. “Officer Ryan. It’s been a while.”

Her pupils were large, her speech somewhat slurred. She wondered what Josie was taking these days. “That it has. I need to see Max.”

“You here to haul his ass downtown?”

Sam smiled thinly. “If I were, would I be talking to you, giving Max time to run?”

Josie sniffed. “That’s okay, then. He’s upstairs.”

“Thanks. I remember the way.”

Josie nodded vaguely and went back to polishing, a somewhat erotic smile touching her lips.
Mind’s Eye,
Sam thought, catching the candy-sweet scent as Josie moved. It was, in many ways, an aphrodisiac for the brain. Wondering which patron Josie was having mind-sex with, Sam headed through the door into the main area of the club.

The huge dance floor lay in darkness. Her footsteps echoed against the wood, the beat a tattoo that set her nerves on edge. Wishing she’d brought something more than a stun gun, she made for the rear stairs and ran up to the next floor.

Max’s office lay at the end of the long corridor. She stopped and eyed the shadows warily. With the approaching storm running liquid fire through her veins and seeming to expand her senses to new heights, she knew that no one lay in wait. And yet something felt
wrong
.

She half-raised her wristcom to call for help, but stopped. Calling Gabriel for help wasn’t the answer. He’d only berate her for coming here in the first place.

Besides, there was probably nothing more at stake than a case of nerves. This was the first time she’d come to Maximum without Jack by her side.

She took a deep breath and released it slowly. Jack might be dead, but her life was no less complicated. And in truth, she missed him. Missed having someone to talk to, to laugh with. In the darkest hours of the night, she couldn’t help thinking that even a friendship based on a lie was better than no friendship at all.

But that feeling of wrongness wasn’t going away—and she knew from long experience it was better to be safe than sorry. Frowning, she pressed the wristcom’s locator button, giving the SIU her immediate position. Then, stun gun in hand, she walked toward the door.

It opened before she got there. Max’s obese figure loomed large in the doorway, his smile flashing in the gloom.

“Officer Ryan. Pleased to see you again.”

His tent-sized Hawaiian shirt was buttoned up wrong, and he wore no shoes or socks. She held back a slight grin. Maybe she’d interrupted something. “Yeah, right. Back up, Max.”

He held up his hands and backed away from the door. She checked left and right before entering. Max was the only human in the room.

But he wasn’t alone.

She glanced up. The office ceiling was a good fifteen feet high and made entirely of glass. Vines twisted their way across a network of wires, and flowers hung in chains, dripping pink and red petals to the floor. Budgerigars flittered through the greenery, bright splashes of yellow and blue. One of them was a shapechanger, but the birds moved too fast to define which one.

“They have to be hell on the furniture,” she commented. “Why the sudden fixation on budgies?”

Max shrugged. It sent ripples running across his flesh, like waves in an ocean. “They amuse me. Besides, I have plenty of money to spend.”

She kicked the door shut and leaned back against it. “Then why not try weight reduction surgery? You might live longer.”

His answering smile was gentle. “They won’t operate. They say I’m too large.”

“So sue them.”

“I am.” He moved around the desk and squeezed his frame into a chair the size of a two-seater sofa. “Now, I’m presuming you did not come here to discuss my weight…”

“No. But first, where’s Morris?” Max’s ape-sized bodyguard was rarely more than two feet from his side.

“I sent him for a walk.”

Wanted a little privacy with his budgie friend, no doubt. Though from what she’d heard, he normally didn’t mind having an audience. “Tell me about Harry Maxwell.”

Max returned her gaze evenly. No surprise there, though. When he wanted to, he could act with the best of them.

“I haven’t seen him in over a week.”

“When was the last time you
did
see him, then?”

“Last Thursday.”

“And did you sell him any Jadrone?”

“No.” A bead of sweat formed on his forehead.

“If you didn’t sell him Jadrone, what did you sell him?”

The bead rolled down his cheek. Max swatted at it heavily. “I don’t—”

“Do drugs, illegal or otherwise,” she finished for him. “Yeah, I’ve heard the song before. Just tell me the truth.”

He shifted in his chair, and metal groaned in the brief silence. “I didn’t sell him anything. Honest.”

“Then his abstinence must be putting a strain on your finances. He was one of your best customers, wasn’t he?”

Max made no comment, just stared at her somewhat sullenly.

“Have you tried to find out where he is?”

Fingernails, almost lost in the envelope of flesh hanging over them, began to beat a rhythm against the desk. Nerves rather than anger.

“Yes.”

“And?”

His hand edged toward the left side of the desk. “He said he didn’t need me no more.”

She raised an eyebrow. “He had a new supplier?”

“No. He said he didn’t need the drug no more.” His hand moved again.

“We both know he was a junkie. And we both know he could never have given it up cold turkey.” She hesitated, saw a budgie dive-bombing her head and ducked. Bird shit splattered across the door just inches from her ear. “I don’t think your bird likes me, Max.”

He made no comment, but the look in his brown eyes suggested she wasn’t on his list of favorite people either. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. She’d hauled his ass downtown more than a dozen times over the years.

It was more than that, though. She crossed her arms and regarded him steadily. There was something going on here, something she couldn’t quite define. But it had something to do with the shapechanger whose presence fairly itched at her skin.

“You know Harry’s dead, don’t you?” she said, keeping her voice conversational. “He was victim number three of a serial killer.”

Max jumped, and for the first time she saw fear, true fear, leap into his eyes. He hadn’t known about Harry.

And the murder scared the shit out of him.

He knew the killer, she thought, watching the glittering beads of sweat roll down his cheeks. Or at the very least, knew who Harry was with the night he was murdered.

Dodging the dive-bombing budgie, she walked to the desk. Placing her palms on its surface, she leaned across it until her nose was only inches from his.

This close, he smelled of sweat and fear and sex.

“Tell me who Harry was with the night he died, Max.”

He licked his lips, tongue lizard-like in his agitation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you, I haven’t seen Harry in over a week.”

God, this close his breath literally reeked. He’d obviously been overdoing the garlic and onions again. “But you know someone who has seen him since then, don’t you?”

He didn’t deny it. He merely sat and sweated some more.

“I want to know who, Max.”

“I can’t.” The denial came out a strangled whisper.

She leaned back a little, more to get a dose of fresh air than anything else. “I’m not the beat police anymore, you know. I’m SIU. I don’t have to follow the rules. I can beat your fat ass to a pulp and no one would ever question me.”

He moved his hand again. She unclipped her stun gun and shoved it under his nose. “I’d really love for you to go for the weapon under your desk.”

He raised his hands and leaned back in his chair, and she frowned. Something about this felt wrong. Despite the fact that he dealt in death for a living, there was no way in hell Max would get mixed up in something like the serial killings. It just wasn’t his style.