Insequor (21 page)

Jones ambled across the bar keeping his head down and making sure he made no eye contact; although not the international celebrity that Daniel was, his picture had been in the news and he’d had his fair share of interviews.

He’d been in L.A less than an hour and he was already scowling. It had been the easiest place to get to without a stopover that he could truly call home; and right now, that was what he really needed. But first, there was some important business to attend to so here he was in some swanky bar near the airport. Tonight, he had decided, he was going to have a drink for the first time in over ten years.

Quitting booze was a really bizarre thing to do. He tried to think how you could describe the feeling; the closest you could come was if you've ever dumped a girlfriend. A long term girlfriend, someone you loved and shared everything with, but for one reason or another you knew it was never going to work. You'd just end up hurting each other. It felt like you feel after dumping someone like that. You feel lousy, unsure if you've done the right thing, and then after a while you start remembering all the good times you had together.

The bar was about half full of young, important looking people. A crowd in one corner where all sat around the same table, but riveted to their mobile phones. In another, a young guy was trying his luck with a couple of models. Around the rest of the place there were enough people to get lost in but not too many that he’d be waiting around at the bar six bodies deep. God he hated that. Never understood why people would want to go somewhere they had to queue to get into, queue to get a drink and even queue to get into the bathroom.

With a nod of his head he got the barman’s attention and let him know he’d be starting with a beer. Just before it arrived he noticed a small leather purse being placed delicately on the bar by a hand with glossy, crimson, finger nails.

“Can I get a soda? Thanks.”

The hands were so pretty that, even though he wanted to be alone, he couldn’t help but look up to check out the rest of the arm, then the curved shoulders, thin pretty neck and…drat, she spotted him looking.

“Hey,” said the girl, “don’t I know you?”

“No,” said Jones, but he couldn’t help smiling. “You don’t.”

“Are you off TV?”

“Nope.” God, she was pretty. All he had to do was say who he was, what he did, who he knew. She could be his.

“Have I seen you on the news?”

“Nope.” He was grinning now; he couldn’t help it. All he had to do was mention the damned robot.

“Oh my God!” The penny had dropped; he turned so he could come clean but she was looking somewhere else. “Is that Marco Lowe?”

The beer froze just in front of Jones’s lips. She was looking straight past him, with her mouth open and her hand pointed, and in the mirror opposite the bar he saw him walk in.

“Excuse me,” she said, before straightening her skirt and waddling away. He turned and looked back in the mirror. Marco Lowe was walking toward him causing ripples across the room. A few people managed to get a selfie before he reached the bar, handed over a big note and indicated to the barman where he was going to be sat.

“Champagne,” he said, with a cool hiss.

The barman smiled like an infant at Christmas, “Sure, you got it.”

Lowe looked around the room and, for a moment, Jones thought he was going to speak to him. But he clearly didn’t recognise the hunched figure sat at the bar with his back to him and a beer pressed to his lips.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, staring across at Lowe; the barman didn’t notice his beer was untouched, but all the same offered him another. He shook his head. Lowe was sat down at a table and had instantly surrounded himself with three girls; one of whom was the one who had spoken to Jones at the bar. They were fluttering over him like mother hens and he could see, even at this distance, the hands lingering a little too long on his lapels as they shared a joke, the fake smiles and the eyes dancing around each other’s gaze. Marco wasn’t going home alone tonight.

He got up, keeping his back to the room, and left some money on the counter next to the beer; he’d have to start drinking some other time. In the parking lot he found his rental car with a pulse on the keyring and flashing of acknowledging lights; it didn’t stand out at the airport and he couldn’t even remember the model. Inside he sat down and closed the door before looking back over at the bar.

The neon and halogen lights shone on the façade, the brightness blackening out everything around. He waited for ten minutes, thirty, pretty soon it had been an hour. He looked at his watch; ten o’clock.

What am I doing?
He thought to himself.
Why am I still here?
He had always wondered what he would do if he ever met Marco Lowe again. All those years go, when Daniel had offered to set up a meeting in Hollywood, he had been initially appalled; but part of him had wanted to play the game. Take up the twisted offer to stare at the face one last time of someone who he knew had bought so much pain to so many lives.

A movement by the front door made him look up; there was Lowe, he had a girl in his arm and was waving goodbye to another one. The movie star ambled across the car park to a sports car, opened the door for his date and then hopped in. Within seconds he was already around the corner. Jones started his engine.

He tailed at a fair distance; he didn’t need to alarm Lowe and he already knew the route back to the star’s villa. Could this girl be in danger? Or was he looking to just get laid? Jones wasn’t sure if Lowe had put his killing behind him or, more likely, changed his MO but he had to find out if he was still active. Serial killers often quit or, more usually, get apprehended. It was a myth that they were desperate to be caught, playing cat and mouse games with the police leaving traces and clues. Jones had yet to meet the killer, and he’d met a few, who was just itching to be incarcerated. They got scared the same as anyone else; and when you did catch them they quite often cried for their mommies.

The line of enquiry was officially closed but Jones wasn’t a cop anymore. The instruction to keep away from Lowe didn’t apply as it wasn’t backed up with a Civil Order; it had just come down from his captain and, at the time, he had been happy to oblige and go lose himself out east.

So tonight Marco Lowe was fair game; as fair as the woman who had entered his car. They were heading out of the city now, away from the airport and the lights. Lowe pulled up in a back alley behind some warehouses. Jones drove straight past before dipping his headlights and turning back. As he got closer he switched the engine off and let the car creep up to the entrance.

The sports car was half way down, about fifty yards away. The windows were steamy and music was playing; it was deserted around here. Jones wondered if Lowe came to this spot often.

That’s when he heard the first scream. Without thinking he got out and strode towards the other car. As he got nearer he saw arms flailing at the windows, then a raised fist and another scream before it went quiet just as he got to the door and pulled it open.

Inside Lowe was on top of the girl who was silent; her head was turned sideways, a bloodied lip shining. She gasped as Lowe held her down so he could see who had opened the door.

Jones pulled out his gun, scarcely conscious, almost robotically. “Get out of the car,” he said.

The girl was crying as Lowe eased himself off her, slid his back out of the door, and stood in front of the car with his arms raised.

“Young, lady,” said Jones, “please get out of the vehicle.” Jones now noticed it was the girl who had almost recognised him. Damn. She was whimpering as she gathered her coat around her body.

“What he was about to do to you, he did to others,” he said, all the while keeping the gun pointed at Lowe and his eyes fixed. She turned and started to thank him.

“Don't look at me,” he said, making her jump. “Forget everything about me. And this. If anyone asks, he dropped you off home after you asked him.” She nodded, rubbed her lip and started to walk, quickly, down the street, her heels clacking on the pavement.

When they were alone, Lowe managed a sigh and said, “What do you want, detective?”

Jones stepped back from the car. “Get on your knees.”

The man knelt down, keeping his back straight and his arms raised. “You're going to shoot me?”

Jones blinked down at the gun. The last time he had took it out to shoot someone he’d been protecting Daniel.

“That’s right. Any last words?”

“No,” said Lowe, his eyes looking up and down at Jones. “You want me to confess? To beg for forgiveness? I won’t give you the satisfaction.”

“It was a genuine offer,” said Jones.

A greasy smile appeared on Lowe’s face. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

“Really?” said Jones, and he shot Marco Lowe in the forehead.

Lowe didn’t go flying back, like in one of his movies, and his head didn’t explode. He merely lurched to the right, his torso spiralling before tumbling to the floor.

Jones turned and walked briskly back to his car, not looking back. Inside, he hit the gas and charged back into town.

He stopped off at a deserted trashcan to dump the gun, then went straight to the hotel, showered, changed his clothes and took the ones he was wearing to another trashcan a few blocks away before sitting down and opening the mini-bar.

Jesus, what had he done?

General Stagg drummed his fingers on the desk before finally hurling the manila folder down.

“Gentlemen, I am not impressed.”

Around the room were his highest ranking officers and each one stared back like a dumb animal.

“What have you got? Nothing,” said Stagg.

Two men shared a glance whilst another stared at the floor. One older officer stared back with his jaw clenched.

“Sir,” he said, “What you ask is not within our means. This is CIA territory. Espionage and infiltration of a foreign state – “

“I don’t give a damn about the CIA! You get me that information. You find out what he’s doing. Dismissed.”

The men all walked out of the room and Stagg sat back with his hands behind his head. A few moments later his phone rang and a voice at the end told him he had a visitor.

“Rupert Brooks? Send him in.”

Stagg hated civilians in his office; but he was running out of ideas. He had to find out what that son of a bitch was up to in Abraznia or he could kiss goodbye to the money he’d invested in Tulley’s partners.

The Senator had contacted him several months ago after sounding out Loman. His spies had told him that Grey had managed to crack the secret to creating antimatter in reasonably large enough quantities that the energy companies where getting nervous; and when they got nervous Tulley got nervous. So he’d called Stagg.

The two had been friends since college where they’d been in the same fraternity after which they’d both graduated and gone their separate ways. Both followed in the same footsteps as their fathers and their fathers before them.

Over the years they’d kept in touch and always looked out for each other’s interests along with their own. Tulley helping grease the wheels of industry and commerce, making them both successful men. Stagg helping to steer defence spending and strategy, along with the occasional piece of ‘heavy’ work.

The robot had been an oddity that had both of them vexed. When it first appeared, way back when, there had been mutual suspicion about what part each of their respective arms of government knew. When it transpired neither had any knowledge, the game changed into one of understanding and making sure they recognised any opportunity if it came along.

Throughout, Stagg had assigned whatever resource Daniel and that damned Toby had wanted. Likewise, Tulley had been one of their biggest voices in the Senate; helping pass legislation and keeping the Attorney General in check whenever he had needed to. All the time waiting and watching for the right moment.

The potential discovery of a new energy source had been one such prospect. But not one to be nurtured, one to be quashed; the two friends had invested too much of their savings and pension pots into oil and gas companies. Big business had been courted, lobbying money accepted; but that was the ‘American Way.’

Now he had to find out how far Daniel’s plans had evolved. His own men had not been able to gain access to the inner secrets of the Abraznian government; but maybe this man had.

Rupert Brooks eased himself through the door and casually took up a seat opposite the general. “So good of you to see me, sir, I’ve come a long way.”

“Not at all, Mr Brooks. They tell me you’re writing a book on our friend Daniel and his robot.”

“That’s right, yes.”

“So what are you after? An interview? Plenty of other people have written books about them.”

Brooks grinned, stroked his chin and took out his notepad. “This book is going to be different. I’ve got access to all the key players.”

“Even Daniel?”

“Yes.”

“But he doesn’t give interviews anymore and I doubt he’d give one to you especially. Aren’t you the person who first revealed his identity to the world?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

Stagg leaned forward. This Brit had balls, if nothing else. “I’m going to need to see you play some cards now, son.”

Brooks straightened, nodded. “I might have access to Jones.”

Stagg raised an eyebrow, “Really?”

“Ever heard of the di Conti affair?”

“Yeah, Hollywood star. Messed up those girls but they couldn’t pin it on him. I’ve read Jones’s file; he was unlucky.”

“Well, now he’s in trouble. He had a falling out with Daniel and then headed back to LA several months ago. Lowe got shot the same weekend and now LAPD think Jones had something to do with it.”

“Son of a bitch. Why the hell didn’t I know this?”

“LAPD are keeping it quiet for now; last thing they need is another crooked cop but I have sources.”

“What sources?”

“Cleaners, janitors. Where you find workers you find people easily motivated by money. That’s why
we
work, right?”

“Not in my case,” said the general, “but go on.”