Page 28 of Origin in Death

  She took a bite. "It could be worse."

  "I've got a 'link conference shortly, and there's a list of messages on your desk."

  "Messages?"

  "Three from Nadine, with increasing impatience. She demands you contact her regarding confirmation of information she had on Icove- plural-his connection with Brookhollow, and a further connection to Evelyn Samuels's murder in New Hampshire."

  "She's right on schedule."

  "There's another from Feeney. He's back from New Hampshire and has a report for you. He was circumspect, as I assume your Code Blue demands."

  "Good."

  "Commander Whitney wants your report, oral and written, by noon."

  "You in the market to make admin?"

  He smiled, rose. "Some of Ireland will be arriving around two, which, I'm annoyed to admit, makes me nervous. If you're delayed, I'll explain."

  She ate, she dressed. Then she picked up her badge and got to work.

  She met with Feeney first. In her office, with the door shut. She filled him in on everything, excluding her meeting with Nadine. Should she get busted for that, she'd go down alone.

  "Three of them. Doesn't even seem that weird anymore." Feeney munched nuts. "Plays right in with what we found at the schools. Got the records."

  He tapped the discs he'd already dumped on Eve's desk. "They ran two systems. One neat and tidy for your audits and checks. Had it fronting the second. Every student given a code number, and the code labeling the testing, the adjustments-"

  "Adjustments? Such as?"

  "Surgeries. Sculpting. They did some of that crap on eight-year-olds. Sons of bitches. Your basic eye fixes, hearing checks, disease con­trol, that's all on the front, but you got the other on the coded. 'Enhanced intelligence training,' they called some of it. Subliminal in­struction, visual and audio. Students earmarked for LC status or what they called 'partnerships' got their advanced sex education. And here's a kicker."

  He paused to slurp down coffee. "Deena isn't the only one who ran."

  "There are others who got out, the ones who dropped off the data screens?"

  "Yeah. Files on their rogues. Got more than a dozen who poofed, af­ter graduation, after 'placement' She's the only one who got out of the school, but she's not the only one they lost track of. They started im­planting the new ones, at birth, with an internal homer. That's after Deena slipped the knot. They've implanted all the current students, too. That was Samuels's brainstorm, and from her notes and records, it was an addition she didn't share with the Icoves."

  "Why?"

  "She figured they were too close-having one in the family, allow­ing her too much freedom. They'd lost their objective distance to the project, and to its mission statement. Which was to create a race of Superiors-their term-taking the next logical evolutionary leap through technology: eliminate imperfections and genetic flaws, and eventually mortality. Natural conception, with its inherent risks and questionable success rate, could, and should, be replaced by Quiet Birth."

  "Just cut out the middleman, or -woman, so to speak. Then you do made-to-order in a lab. But to pull it off, you need more than technol­ogy, you need political punch. You'd have to get laws changed, bans overturned. You have to seed legislatures, state rooms."

  "They're working on it. They've got some graduates in key govern­ment positions already. In the medical field, in research, in the media."

  "That blond bitch on Straight Scoop'? I bet, I just bet she's one of them. She's got those teeth, you know what I'm saying? Those really big, really white teeth." She caught herself at Feeney's bland stare. "Anyway."

  "The estimate was another fifteen years, outside, to have the bans rescinded internationally. Another century to implement others that would ban natural conception."

  "They wanted to outlaw sex?"

  "No, just conception outside 'controlled environments.' Natural conception means natural flaws. Quiet Birth, they never refer to it as artificial, or cloning-"

  "Already got a spin started."

  "You got that." He took another hit of coffee. "Quiet Birth ensures human perfection, eliminates defects. It also ensures those who are deemed acceptable parents-"

  "Yeah, acceptable. Had to go there."

  "Right. Acceptable parents are guaranteed the child will meet their specific requirements."

  Eve pursed her lips. "How long does the warranty hold up? What's the return policy?"

  He grinned despite himself. "That's a kicker, isn't it? Women will no longer be subjected to the indignities of gestation or child birth."

  "Maybe they're on to something."

  "Their projections indicate sterilization laws will be in place in an­other seventy-five years."

  Enforced sterilization, Quiet Birth, humanity created and tuned in labs. It was like one of Roarke's science fiction vids. "They think ahead."

  "Yeah, but you know, time isn't a real problem for them."

  "I can see the hype." She scooped up some nuts. "Want a kid with­out the hassle? Pick from our designer selection. Meet a sudden and tragic death? Sign up now for our second chance program. We'll pre­serve your cells and get you going again. Long for a mate who'll fulfill your every fantasy? Have we got a girl for you-restricted to adults only."

  "Why be one when you can be three?" Feeney added. "Watch your­self grow up, in triplicate. Gives a whole new meaning to the term 'You're just like your mother.'"

  Eve let out a half-laugh. "But no line on the base?"

  "Lots of references to the 'nurseries,' but no location or locations given. I've got a lot to go through yet."

  "I've got to meet with Whitney, take him what we've got. The schools are secure?"

  "Droids on that. Droids guarding clones. It's a fucked-up world. We got legal guardians starting to push. We're not going to be able to keep a net over it for long."

  "Oh yeah, we are." She picked up the discs. "Holidays just bog everything up. By the time they get debogged, international law's com­ing into it. Those 'legal guardians' are in for a world of hurt."

  "You got that. Thing is, you got close to two hundred minors be­tween the two schools. So far, only six guardians have made contact. Most are going to turn out to be ghosts."

  Eve nodded, added her report disc to the carry file. "How are they going to mix in the mainstream, Feeney? Who's going to take them?"

  "That's a problem for a bigger brain than mine."

  "You got plans for tomorrow?" she asked him when he rose.

  "Whole family's heading over to my son's new house. Did I tell you he upped and moved to New Jersey?" Feeney shook his head. "What're you gonna do. You gotta let them live their lives."

  She hit Whitney's office at precisely noon. Her carefully written re­port was put into his hands, and she gave her oral rundown standing.

  "The information on the schools, and all updates pertaining to them, were just given to me by Captain Feeney and are not included in my written, to date. I have his report, sir, and copies of discs containing the data he extracted from Brookhollow's records."

  She laid those on his desk.

  "There's no progress on locating Deena?"

  "None, sir. With the records Feeney located, we'll be able to identify and locate all graduates, excluding those who've left their positions."

  "And these nurseries referred to are not, to our knowledge, located on Brookhollow's ground."

  "There was no evidence of artificial twinning areas, cell preserva­tion, or the equipment needed found in that location. Sir, by law, the implants carried inside any minor must be removed."

  He sat back, folded his hands. "Getting ahead of yourself, Lieu­tenant."

  "I don't think so, Commander." And she'd thought it through very carefully. "Internal implants are in direct violation of privacy laws. In addition, with the evidence in our hands, the law demands that any and all legal guardians or any and all students be investigated and ver­ified. We cannot, legally, turn over any minor to what evidence clearly ind
icates are individuals who are-or have participated in-falsifying identification records in order to claim false guardianship over said minor or minors."

  "You've thought this through."

  "They're entitled to protection. Brookhollow can be shut down. Ev­idence that purports violations of RICO and tax evasion gives local au­thorities this right until such time as federal authorities review. Sir, when that happens some of those involved in this are going to scatter, and some are going to circle the wagons. Those students are caught in the cross fire, particularly when the government moves into it."

  "The government is going to want this handled quietly. The stu­dents will be debriefed, and ..."

  And, Eve thought. It was the and that worried her. "Quiet may not be an option, sir. I've had multiple contacts from Nadine Furst. She's asking me to confirm or deny several aspects of this investigation, which include the connection of the school, the murder of Evelyn Samuels. To this point, I've refused, given her the standard line about compromising an ongoing investigation, but she's got her ear to the ground."

  Whitney kept his eyes level on hers. "How much does she have?"

  "Sir, she's already looked hard at the school, from what I can ascer­tain. She's accessed student records. She's putting it together. Previously, she had done extensive research on Wilfred Icove, Sr., as part of her as­signment to cover his death and memorial. At that time she made the connection to Jonah Wilson and Eva Samuels. In fact, sir, she made it before I did. She has resources, and she's got her teeth into this."

  He steepled his fingers, tapped them together. "We know that cir­cumspectly leaking information to media sources can and does aid an investigation, preserve public relations, and has its rewards."

  "Yes, sir. But Code Blue expressly forbids any and all such leaks."

  "Yes, it does. And if any member of this department should violate Code Blue status, for any reason, I would have to assume this individ­ual would be smart enough to cover his or her ass."

  "I couldn't say, sir."

  "Best you don't. I note, Lieutenant, you did not elect to rescind De­tective Peabody's holiday leave."

  "No, sir, I did not. Nor did Captain Feeney elect to rescind Detective McNab's. We have Avril Icove on house restriction. The trail is cur­rently cold as pertains to Deena Flavia. Brookhollow is secured, and this investigation is on the point of being passed to federal jurisdiction. It may not be feasible to make that pass comprehensively before Monday. What can be done from this point to that, sir, I can handle myself. It seemed unnecessary and unfair to cancel Peabody's leave."

  She waited a moment, but he didn't speak. "Do you want me to have her and McNab called in, Commander?"

  "No. As you point out, the government's damn near shut down for the holiday already. We're moving to a skeleton staff administratively this afternoon at Central. You've identified the perpetrators of the homicides under your investigation, and have ascertained the method and the motive. The PA has chosen not to charge one of these perpe­trators. And in all likelihood will choose the same if and when Deena Flavia is apprehended. Essentially, Lieutenant, your case is closed."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I suggest you go home, enjoy the holiday."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Dallas," he said as she started out. "If you had to take a wild guess, off the record, just a guess, when would you say Nadine Furst is going to break the story?"

  "If I had to guess, sir, off the record, I'd say that Channel 75's going to have a hotter story than the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade."

  "That would be my guess, too. Dismissed."

  THE TRAFFIC WAS MEAN AS A CONSTIPATED LION.

  New Yorkers, sprung from work early, were out to battle their way home to prepare for the holiday, where they'd give thanks for not having to battle their way to work. Tourists foolish enough to come to the city to see the parade-when, Eve thought, they should stay the hell home and watch it on-screen- thronged the streets, sidewalks, and air.

  Street thieves were rolling in the easy pickings.

  Tour blimps were doing extra duty, blasting out the highlights and landmarks as they lumbered along, bloating the sky and blocking the commuter trams. And thereby, Eve thought, stalling and inconve­niencing the people who actually lived here who wanted to get home to prepare for the holiday, and blah blah.

  Billboards flashed and sparkled and sang brightly of the sales that would lure the certifiably insane into the hell-world of the city stores and outlying malls before their turkey dinners had been fully digested.

  Crosswalks, people glides, sidewalks, and maxibuses were so mobbed she wondered if there was anyone left outside the borough.

  The number of kids on airskates, airboards, zip bikes, and city scoots told her school was out, too.

  There ought to be a law.

  The street hawkers were doing brisk business selling their designer knockoff everything, their gray-market electronics, their wrist units that would keep time just long enough for the hawker to complete the sale, change location, and melt into the city fabric.

  Let the buyer damn well beware, Eve thought.

  She was stopped at a red when a Rapid Cab in the next lane at­tempted a maneuver and clipped the rental sedan behind Eve.

  She let out a sigh, pulled out her communicator to inform Traffic. Her intention to let her involvement end there was quashed when the sedan's driver leaped out, began to screech and pound her fists on the cab's hood.

  That brought the cabbie out, and just her luck, another woman. That had the pushy-shovey starting immediately.

  Horns blasted, shouts raged, and a number of sidewalk onlookers began to cheer and choose sides.

  She actually saw a glide-cart operator start making book. What a town.

  "Hold it, hold it, hold it!"

  Both women swung around at Eve's shout, and the driver of the sedan grabbed what Eve identified as a panic button, worn on an orna­mental chain around her neck.

  "Wait!" Eve snapped, but was blasted by the ear-splitting scream.

  "I know what this is, I know what you're doing!" The woman blasted the button again and had Eve's eyes watering. "I know the kind of scams you run in this godforsaken city. You think because we're from Minnesota we don't know what's what? Police! Police!"

  "I am the-"

  She carried a handbag the size of her home state and swung it like a batter aiming for the fences. It caught Eve full in the face, and consid­ering the stars that exploded in her head, must have been filled with rocks from her home state.

  "Jesus Christ!"

  The woman used her momentum to spin a full circle and swung at the cabbie. Forewarned, the cabbie nimbly leaped out of range.

  "Police! Police! I'm being mugged right on the street in broad day­light. Where are the damn police!"

  "You're going to be unconscious on the street in broad daylight," Eve warned, and ducked the next swing as she dug out her badge. "I am the damn police in this godforsaken city, and what the hell are you doing in my world?"

  "That's a fake! You think I don't know a fake badge just because I'm from Minnesota?"

  When she hefted her purse for another swing, Eve drew her weapon. "You want to bet this is fake, you Minnesota moron?"

  The woman, a good one-seventy, stared. Then her eyes rolled back. On the way down, she toppled over on the cabbie, who might have weighed in at one-twenty, fully dressed.

  Beside her, as Eve glared down at the tangle of limbs at her feet, the sedan's window opened.

  "My mom! She killed my mom!"

  She glanced in, saw the sedan was packed with kids. She didn't care to count the number. They were all screaming or crying at a decibel that put the panic button in the shade.

  "Oh, bloody, buggering hell." It was one of Roarke's favorites, and seemed most appropriate. "I didn't kill anybody. She fainted. I'm the police. Look." She held her badge to the window.

  Inside the weeping and wailing continued unabated. On the ground, the cabbie
, obviously dazed, struggled to pull herself from un­der her opponent.

  "I barely tapped her." New York was so thick in her voice an air-jack wouldn't have dented it. Eve felt immediate kinship. "And you saw, you saw, she started beating on my ride. And she shoved me first. You saw."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

  "She clocked you good. You're coming up a bruise there. Damn tourists. Hey, you kids, button it. Your old lady's fine. Slam the lie down, now!"

  The screams subsided to wet whimpers.

  "Nice job," Eve commented.

  "Got two of my own." The cabbie rubbed her bruised ass, shrugged "You just gotta know how to handle them."

  They stood a moment, studying the now moaning woman, as the hysteria of horns and voices raged around them. Two uniforms hot­footed it through people, through vehicles. Eve held up her badge.

  "Fender bump. Cab against rental. No visible vehicular damage."

  "What's with her?" one of the uniforms asked, nodding toward the woman who attempted to sit up.

  "Got herself worked up, took a swing at me, passed out."

  "You want we should take her in for assaulting an officer?"

  "Hell, no. Just haul her up, load her in, and get her the hell out of here. She makes any noises about the bump, or pressing charges, then you tell her she pushes it, she's going to spend Thanksgiving in a cage. Assault with a damn purse."

  She crouched down, shoved her badge in the woman's face again. "You hear any of that? You take any of that in? Do us all a favor. Get in that heap you rented and keep driving." Eve rose. "Welcome to gee-forsaken New York."

  She glanced at the cabbie. "You sustain any injuries in the fall?"

  "Shit, ain't the first time my ass hit the street. She lets it go, I let it g: I got better things to do."

  "Good. Officers, it's your party now."

  She got back in her car, checked her face in the mirror as she waiter out the next red. The bruise was blooming from the tip of her nose right up her cheekbone to the corner of her eye.