Sins of the Father (12 page)

"Would you recognise the voices if you heard them again?" Anderson asked.

"I guess. Maybe. I dunno." Hemmings shrugged. "I mean, they were just voices after all. It ain't like I got a... watjamacallit... a phonographic memory or nothing. I just watch robots clean floors for a living."

"Anything else?" Lang said, lifting an eyebrow to Anderson and Tolsen. Seeing them shake their heads, she turned back to Hemmings. "All right, Dwayne. Thank you. You've been a great help to our investigation."

"You mean I can go now?" Hemmings breathed an almost audible sigh of relief.

"I've got your details," Lang said. "We'll contact you if we need to talk again."

As Hemmings turned to walk away, the Judges were silent for a moment. Then, once the man was out of earshot, Tolsen spoke.

"Phonographic memory? You ask me the guy has raw munce where his brains ought to be."

"True," Lang's face wore a subtle smile of vindication. "But that doesn't alter the fact we now have independent corroboration a child was up here." She paused, the smile growing slightly wider. "So, it looks like the results of the psi-scan weren't so off-beam after all."

"All right, it seems we're now on the hunt for two perps," Anderson said. "A boy and a giant. Given the fact the witness described them as talking amongst themselves, it doesn't seem likely they both turned up here at the same time by accident. For now, I'd say our best bet is to assume they came to the scene together and committed the crime in tandem. As to the results of the psi-scan, maybe we can see an explanation now. Nales was being strangled, his brain cells dying through lack of oxygen. Maybe that scrambled his memories somehow, and he put the boy's face on the giant's body."

It was later, and Tolsen had left to supervise the removal of the body from the office while Anderson attempted to discuss the case with Lang in the hallway. It was hard going. After her brief show of emotion when she had unveiled Hemmings's testimony, Lang had retreated into her shell. She stood facing Anderson with her arms crossed in front of her, her features cast in a serious and unflinching expression that even a street Judge might have found reason to envy. If Lang had anything to add to Anderson's verbal theorising, she gave no sign of it.

"A boy and a giant," Anderson shook her head with a sigh. "Grud, the whole thing sounds like some kind of kid's fairytale gone bad. I mean, they climb a two-hundred storey tower to kill an old man who looks to be in his thirties. Then, they escape again, with no one any the wiser as to who they were or why they came here. The way this case is going, I wouldn't be surprised if before much longer we find ourselves knee-deep in dwarf miners, magic beanstalks, and golden egg-laying geese."

In reply, Lang said nothing. Her lips pursed in a sullen line, she gazed coolly at Anderson and made no comment.

"Okay, so I can see you're not big with the on-the-job witticisms," Anderson said to her. "But remember, we're supposed to be working this case together. If you've got any ideas or theories, now's the time to let them out."

"The way I understand it, we're not working anything together," Lang said. Her expression put Anderson in a mind of a sulky teenager. "You ask me, I was doing fine on this one on my own. But Psi Division saw it differently. They told me you were taking over, and I'd be answering to you from now on."

"That's what you were told, huh?" Anderson said. She paused, weighing her words carefully. "Listen, Lang, maybe it's better if we clear the air now before we continue. I realise the situation is hardly ideal..."

"That's putting it mildly," the other Psi-Judge spat back, a well of sudden emotion breaching the dam walls of her reserve in a flood of angry words. "You think I don't know what's going on? You think I don't realise why they sent you? They've decided I'm not up to the job and they've sent you to be the axeman. This is my last case, isn't it? After we catch the perps, you'll write up a report and say I'm not carrying my weight. And we both know what happens then, don't we? I get drummed out of Psi Division. But it's not like getting thrown out of Street Division, is it? If you don't make the grade as a Psi-Judge, they don't turn you back into a civilian. Not when you've got psychic powers. Once this case is closed and you've done your dirty work, I'll be put in the psi-cubes like all the other psychics they say are too dangerous to be allowed to walk the streets. And why? Just because I butted heads with a street Judge about the results of a psi-scan that were drokking right to begin with!"

Lang's voice had steadily risen in the course of her diatribe. Now, it broke. Tears began to streak down her face. Embarrassed, she turned away from Anderson and wiped her eyes.

Long moments passed in uncomfortable silence. Finally, Anderson extended a hand to her colleague's shoulder and tried to console her.

"Listen to me, Lang. You're upset. I understand that. No one likes to be second-guessed in the field, especially when it turns out they were right all along. But I didn't come here to play executioner. My only brief is to work the case." Hating herself for it, Anderson lied. "Nobody said you weren't up to the job. I was assigned to the investigation because you're a rookie, and this case shows every early sign of becoming a monster. We have a giant, a child murderer, a thirty-eight year-old victim whose true age is closer to eighty, conflicting sets of physical and psychic evidence. And that's not counting the message carved into the victim's chest. 'Your sins will find you out'. Grud knows what that means. The whole thing has 'serial killer case' written all over it. If we don't catch the killer - or killers - quickly, there's going to be more victims. I'm sure of it. And, believe me, when you're working a serial case, you take every bit of extra help that's going - even if it means having to swallow another Judge being assigned to work the case with you. I'm not here to grab control of your investigation, Lang. That's not my style. We've got a murder to solve - between the two of us. Let's forget everything that's gone on already, and work this case together. Now, if you want to take a minute to gather your thoughts, I can-"

"I'm fine." Shrugging away Anderson's hand, Lang turned to face her once more. Her tears had dried, and in place of her earlier passions she wore an expression of glacial composure. "You'll have to forgive my outburst. I was tired and it's been a long night, that's all. I'm fully capable of doing my duties. You said it yourself: we've a murder to solve. Let's get to work."

"Okay, then." Wrong-footed by the unexpected change in Lang's demeanour, for a second Anderson found she was uncertain how best to proceed. "So, nothing about this crime suggests the choice of victim was random. You don't climb ten storeys inside an elevator shaft to kill someone without having a reason to want them dead. Probably our best way forward is to concentrate on the background of James Nales and see whether we can find a moti-"

"Anderson! Lang!" Abruptly, Tolsen emerged from inside the office and jogged towards them in a state of euphoria. "I just heard back from MAC. You're not going to believe it!"

"What have got for us?" Anderson said.

"Two things," Tolsen seemed breathless with excitement. "First off, I played a hunch. The Justice Department maintains a database of the criminal aliases of perps who have yet to be identified. Sometimes, an informant will tell a Judge that 'Perp X' was responsible for a given crime - but they only know 'Perp X' by a street name or alias. Without a real name to help track the perp down, often the Judge working the case has to chalk it off as an unsolved. But the aliases themselves are recorded, so I asked MAC to check the name 'James Nales' against the file and see what it could come up with. MAC found a hit. Over the last six months, three different perps arrested on charges ranging from Organ Legging to Possession Of Controlled Substances With Intent To Distribute have admitted under interrogation that they worked for someone with the street name 'Jimmy Nayles'. 'Nayles' spelt N-A-Y-L-E-S, like the things you hit with a hammer. In each case, the name turned out to be a dead end. It was like Jimmy Nayles was a ghost: the perps in question had never met him, and couldn't say what his real name was or what he looked like. He was a complete mystery man, so his name went into the alias file and that was that."

"And you think our victim James Nales may be this mystery mobster Jimmy Nayles?" Anderson asked him. "I know we've already established he doesn't seem the typical businessman, but are you sure you're not reaching here?"

"I admit it sounds like a stretch," Tolsen smiled in satisfaction. "Except, I've received other evidence that supports it. You remember I said I sent Nales's DNA to MAC? To compare it against the Justice Department's genetic database? I just got the results back. You know, there's a lot of ways a perp can try to conceal his identity. He can change his face, use nanosurgery to alter his fingerprints, even undergo a retinal transplant. But you can't beat DNA. MAC found a match in the database that confirms James Nales wasn't who he claimed to be. As who he really was..."

Tolsen paused for effect, the smile on his face broadening to such an extent that Anderson was immediately put to mind of a cat having been at the synthi-cream.

"Tell me," Tolsen said, "has either of you ever heard of a perp named Konrad Gruschenko?"

SEVEN

THE SECRETS OF JIMMY NAYLES

Dead of night, and the city is quiet. The choking logjams and gridlock of traffic by day have eased, giving way to gentle streams. The bars and nightspots are closed, or mostly empty. The pedways are all but deserted. In housing blocks and hotels, in con-apts and crockblocks, in displaced person camps and the cardboard cities of the homeless, millions of citizens lie slumbering in their beds. For the Judges out on patrol, working the end of the graveyard shift, the calls from Control are becoming less frequent. Dawn is still two hours away, but the worst of the night-time peak in the crime rate has passed. The city is sleeping. Its lights have dimmed. Its pulse slows and becomes torpid.

Yet still, even in this time of peace, there is room for unease among those who refuse to be ruled by Law.

"Jimmy Nayles is dead."

It begins with a whisper. A message spoken and passed by word-of-mouth in hushed tones of almost-reverence. It begins with four words, spread like wildfire across shadowed streets by any who have reason to fear them. The words are not broadcast on the news. They do not make it into the pages of the news-zines, or onto the Megaweb. They are not discussed, dissected, or commentated upon by learned voices. The Judges do not hear them; they are not meant for the ears of those who enforce the regime of Justice. The message follows its own pathway through the city's labyrinth. It is sent and received in shuggy halls and illegal coffee-houses, passed on through the ranks of sugar dealers, stookie glanders, slabwalkers, body sharkers, bust-out artists, and the practitioners of a dozen other illicit professions. Its effect is like a stone striking the clear waters of a lake. Its ripples expand and push outwards, spurring action. Unnoticed by the Judges, a shudder moves through the underworld.

At the sound of four words, while the rest of the city sleeps unawares, the course of thousands of lives are abruptly altered. There is fear and panic. Decisions are made. Plans are changed.

Four words. To those that hear them and know their meaning, they hiss like a burning fuse. Four words, bringing uncertainty and the threat of discovery in their wake. Four words, like portents of danger. In the underworld, a silent storm gathers and is given flight.

Four words.

"Jimmy Nayles is dead."

For Peter Arkady, the news came at 4.07. Jarred from sleep by a persistent ringing sound, he awoke and turned on his bedside lamp. Then, reaching out to retrieve a palm-sized audio-only communicator from the nightstand next to his bed, he flipped it open and pressed it to his ear.

"Wait a moment," he said, answering the call.

He turned in his bed to look at the young woman lying naked and half-asleep beside him.

"Go make some coffee," he told her.

"Coffee?" Her eyelids fluttered in bleary petulance. "It's the middle of the night..."

"Make some coffee," he repeated the order. The tone of his voice did not invite dissent. "Now. And close the bedroom door behind you."

Chastened, the woman grabbed a flimsy robe to cover herself and scurried away. Waiting until she had left the room, Arkady turned back to the communicator, checking the encryption software was engaged before he resumed his conversation.

"This is Number Two," he said, switching from English to his native Russian. "I am alone now. Speak."

"This is Three here, Two," the voice answered on the other end of the line. "I have sad news. Number One is no longer with us."

"Arrested?"

"No. Killed. Strangled, in fact. It could be the work of our competitors, but it seems unlikely. I am told the manner of the killing was most... unprofessional."

"Hnn. You think it resulted from a personal matter?" Arkady asked.

"It could be," the other replied. "We all have our entanglements in that regard. Then again, it could have been random, or even a hit disguised to look like the work of a maniac. Either way, it will likely result in unwanted attention. I am told the Judges are already at his office. Number One was a careful man, but who knows what they might find there. I suggest we follow protocol in his matter."

"Agreed." Arkady checked the display of the clock on his nightstand. "Initiate Evasion Pattern Beta. I want a car ready to pick me up at Extraction Point Three in exactly one hour. Until then, you know what to do."

Terminating the call, Arkady hurried to his wardrobe and quickly dressed. Moving to an ornate mirror mounted on the wall of the en-suite bathroom, he activated a hidden catch and pulled the mirror to one side to reveal the wall safe concealed beneath it. Typing his combination into the keypad, he opened the safe. Inside, a briefcase sat waiting alongside his electronic passport, personal comp-unit and other effects. Removing the briefcase, he checked its contents: laspistol, gauss grenade, the key to a rented storage locker, twenty thousand credits in digital chits and cash, three communicator SIM cards, plus driver's licence and a citizen ID in the name of an alternate identity. Completing a mental inventory, Arkady prised open the back of his communicator and replaced the SIM card inside it with one of the new cards from the briefcase. Next, tossing the used SIM into the safe, he took the gauss grenade, primed it, then placed the grenade in the safe and closed the door behind it. After a few seconds a muffled pop came from the other side of the door as the grenade detonated, unleashing a burst of electromagnetic radiation powerful enough to erase the electronic memory of everything inside it. Satisfied, Arkady picked up his briefcase and made ready to leave the apartment.