“His mother?”
“SWAT checked out the apartment. They found her tied to a chair with her favourite soaps playing on the holo. Mild shock and dehydration but otherwise she’s fine.”
I could sic Janet on the kid. Her particular form of mesmerism would probably unearth a description of the hostage taker but how much would that tell me? I already knew who it was. Took care of this himself. Couldn’t resist a personal fuck-you. Probably considers it a practical joke between friends.
“You OK, boss?”
I realised my hand was white on the coffee cup, the porcelain in danger of cracking under the strain. I opened my hand and reclined in the chair, arm aching from shoulder to wrist. “You ran background on the kid and his mother?”
“Yeah. Some petty offences for the kid, nothing for his ma. You want him charged? I mean, technically he’s guilty of aiding and abetting a homicide.”
I shook my head. “Kick him loose. No charges.”
She nodded, lingering.
“Something else?”
“The Rybak case. I saw your Pol-net alert. Wondering if you needed any help.”
I saw Janet approaching through the squad room, a determined smile on her lips. “I’ve got it,” I told Leyla. “For now. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“Inspector,” Janet said, offering Leyla a smile as she came through the door, an excited glint in her eye.
“Doctor,” Leyla said, mouth barely twitching as she stood aside.
Janet placed her smart on my desk and called up a holo of the statue from Mr Mac’s office. “Remember Rodin’s Jean d’Aire Second Maquette?”
“I’m fine, by the way,” I said.
Janet waved an impatient hand. “You’re always fine.” She hit some icons and the display switched to a company net-page: Kensington and Naylor, Specialist Fine Arts Couriers. “I ran a check on deliveries to Oksana Lenova’s apartment. Each time her birthday rolls around she gets a package from this company.”
“The Mackintosh watercolours.”
“Right. Kensington and Naylor are the company for moving art around. Very expensive, but also very trustworthy. It made me think. I mean we know Mr Mac likes his art, he’s an inveterate collector. Who better to use when he buys something new?”
“He wouldn’t use the same company for his own collection,” I said. “He’s way too careful for that.”
“Maybe not, but what about for someone else? What if there’s someone besides his sister who also appreciates antiques? So I ran a check for all Upside deliveries by Kensington and Naylor in the past three years.” She called up a fresh image, a smiling young woman holding a violin. It was clearly a publicity shot taken at a concert. The violinist’s smile was a little uncertain, conveying a sense of fragility enhanced by delicate beauty.
“Her name’s Li Mei Bao,” Janet said. “Up-and-coming star on the classical music circuit. She lives on New Shen and has received no less than six deliveries in the last twelve months courtesy of Kensington and Naylor. Way more than any other private individual in orbit.”
“Seems tenuous,” I said. “A lady like her is bound to have admirers, and get a lot of corporate gifts.”
“A fair point, sir.” Janet’s voice held a triumphant note as she called up another publicity shot of Li Mei Bao, this time perched on a couch in a long white dress, violin in hand. “Taken at her home during an interview she did for Upside Vogue three months ago. The background is the interesting part. I had to run it through some filters, but it’s pretty clear.” The image shifted, zooming in on the slightly out of focus background before morphing into a figure. A bronze figure sitting on a shelf. It was different to the one I’d seen on Mr Mac’s desk, a floppy haired man in archaic clothing holding what appeared to be a plate.
“Looks like a waiter at a Medieval banquet,” Leyla said.
“He’s a painter,” Janet said. “Holding a palette. It’s a study for the monument to the artist Claude Lorrain, completed by Auguste Rodin in 1889. Formerly part of the Cantor Collection and stolen from the Brooklyn Museum, along with the Jean d’Aire Second Maquette, some fifty years ago. I guess Mr Mac’s been tracking these down over the years.”
I looked up from the image, meeting her gaze. “New Shen City is an hour’s shuttle ride away.”
“I believe so.”
“Leyla, tell Joe to run a profile on shuttle traffic between the Slab and New Shen. Cross ref with all known sightings of Mr Mac. Then get everyone back here. Briefing in thirty minutes.”
Chapter 12
New Shen City had begun as a prestige project for what had once been called the People’s Republic of China, a vast toroidal hab revolving around a fusion-powered light array. Thanks to the Sino-Japanese War, the funds ran out somewhere during the fifth year of construction and it had eventually been completed by a consortium of orbiting mining concerns. It was now home to a good portion of the CAOS elite, rich folk of all stripes choosing to live on the idyllic six mile wide strip of parkland and pagodas. Watching the landscape grow through the shuttle window, I had to concede it had a definite allure, all the greenery and shimmering water such a contrast to the Escher infused confines of the Slab.
“Wonder if their PD has any vacancies,” Timor commented, staring through his own window.
“We’re lucky they’re even letting us set foot on the place,” Leyla said. “Surprised they aren’t making us go through quarantine.”
She had a point. Getting extra-judicial authority for this jaunt hadn’t been easy, at least initially. Sherry had been stonewalled by the Shen City authorities for the better part of a day and even Mayor Arnaud’s calls were going unanswered. Then there had been a sudden change in attitudes. I hadn’t placed another call to Vargold, reasoning I’d already called in my favour, but he apparently still felt an obligation. I suspected Arnaud had called him, though I wouldn’t have put it past Vargold to be keeping track of my cases. He had the clearance after all. Either way, we now had a warrant, extradition papers and full authority to operate on Shen City territory. Also, thanks to Joe, we’d identified a passenger shuttle departing the Slab for Shen City less than thirty minutes after Fuentes’ encounter with an exploding pizza. The passenger manifest included the name of one Johnathan Campbell, a near exact match for Mr Mac’s most recently recorded biometrics. The shuttle’s internal security cams had also mysteriously malfunctioned for the duration of the flight. The sense of having the bastard almost within reach made all the delays a pretty agonising experience. Mr Mac was certain to have some mechanism in place to warn of increased interest from the local PD. Luckily they were a mostly mechanised force, basic patrols undertaken by taser-equipped bots and only a small cadre of very well paid human officers.
I would have preferred to arrive with a full SWAT team, but maintaining cover with so many Demons in tow would’ve been a difficult and probably pointless exercise. So it was just me, Joe, Janet, Leyla and Timor. I was gambling on a quick and dirty approach since Mr Mac seemed to have a gift for spotting elaborate preparations. Sherry had organised transport via a regular automated supply shuttle and we were dressed in maintenance staff uniforms, though finding one to fit Joe hadn’t been easy. Janet, by contrast, was dressed as an admin executive, all business suit and bunned-up hair. She simply hadn’t made any visual sense in overalls, resembling a model cast in a poorly thought out cleaning ad. I’d made a brief and fruitless attempt to persuade her to stay behind, mainly because I didn’t want her to see what I fully intended to do upon coming face to face with Mr Mac.
The shuttle fired its braking thrusters and began its docking manoeuvre, the pleasing vista of Shen City replaced by the blank wall of the outer torus. It took maybe five minutes before I felt the shudder of the airlock seal closing on the access hatch.
“You know what to do,” I told them all. “We’re keyed into the Shen City security system, so there should be no interference from local authorities. Proceed independently to your go-point and await my o
rder. Dr Vaughn, you’re long-stop. If he makes it out, you bring him down. He might be able to outrun the rest of us, but not you.”
“I’d be more useful in the house,” she said, eyes intent on my face. “Since we want him alive and I don’t need a gun to subdue him.”
“My op, my rules, Doctor.” A hiss as the airlock opened. “Let’s get it done.”
Li Mei Bao’s home was more modestly proportioned than its neighbours, less than a half-acre of garden and boasting only twenty rooms across its two storeys. It was still unbelievably opulent and ostentatious by Yang-side standards, but also displayed a creditable restraint that indicated its owner might enjoy the trappings of wealth, but didn’t necessarily feel the need to show them off. Shen City was a palpably misnamed hab since it didn’t have streets as such, just a series of interlinked paths tracing through the parks and skirting the various waterways. The small number of human maintenance staff were obliged to move around on little electric carts, naturally giving way to any strolling residents. I conducted only one circuit of the house, finding a guard on the front gate and two more in the rear gardens. It was likely there would be at least one more I couldn’t see but there wasn’t any time for a prolonged surveillance. Every second’s delay increased the chances of Mr Mac discovering our presence.
I took a toolkit from the cart and strolled across the grass towards a row of sprinklers twenty yards or so from the garden wall. “I count three guards,” I said into my hidden mike, crouching to inspect a sprinkler nozzle. If the planned deployment had gone smoothly they should all be in place and awaiting my call. “Expect more. I’ll breach in thirty seconds. Wait for my go.”
I rose and sauntered towards Li Mei Bao’s home, both guards quick to spot my approach, one raising a hand as I came within a dozen feet. They had the uniform square-jawed, blocky shouldered look of the professional bodyguard, meaning they were unlikely to be part of Mr Mac’s main operation. Probably thought they’d been hired to protect a famous musician from over-enthusiastic stalkers.
“Got a downed comm line,” I said, coming to a halt and pointing to the maintenance ID pinned to my overalls. “Need access to the premises.”
“Work order?” the one on the right enquired. I noticed his partner raising a finger to his ear-piece, mouth opening to report my presence.
“Sure,” I said, fishing in my left pocket for something and drawing the Colt from my right. Ear-piece guy took a taser dart to the neck and went down spasming. His partner was impressively quick, managing to draw and aim his weapon before I shot another dart into his forehead. I vaulted the wall and sprinted for the French windows looking out over the garden. They were open and I paused at the sound of music from inside. Violin with a piano accompaniment, the former markedly more accomplished than the latter.
I lowered the Colt and went inside. The room was large and featured a grand piano where a tall blond man sat playing with functional but inexpert hands whilst a beautiful young woman stood nearby and stroked heaven from a violin. The man looked up as I entered and a discordant note sounded from the piano. He kept on playing, smiling at me in welcome. But the bum note sang volumes. I wasn’t expected. I’d finally managed to surprise him.
The woman noticed me then, her bow drawing a faint squeal from the violin as she started, eyes snapping to the Colt in my hand. “Who..?” she began, eyes wide as she hurried towards the man at the piano.
“It’s alright Bao,” Mr Mac said, wisely keeping his seat and taking her hand as she came to his side. “You know you’re always welcome, Alex, but it’s polite to call before coming over.”
I said nothing, staring into his handsome face, my arm aching worse than ever.
“John?” Bao said. “You know this man?”
“Of course.” He squeezed her hand. “Someone I’ve long wanted you to meet. Bao, this is Chief Inspector Alexei McLeod of the Lorenzo City Police Department. My oldest and closest friend.”
Bao didn’t seem particularly reassured, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. “What do want here? I demand to see your credentials…”
“Shhh.” Mr Mac took hold of her hands and kissed them. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure he only wants to ask me some questions. Right, Alex?”
I said nothing. Now the moment was at hand I felt a surprising calm. No shakes, no sweats, just a sense of certainty. He saw it then, my intent, his eyes narrowing, a wry, regretful smile curving his lips. “I’m sure he needs to speak to me in private,” he said. “There’s no need for her to be here for this, is there, Alex?”
I said, “I was there for Choi,” and raised the Colt, thumbing the selector to lethal.
“Armengol, wasn’t it?”
The Colt stopped short of sighting on Mr Mac’s head as Janet strolled into the room, her words slurred slightly as her canines hadn’t fully receded. She moved to stand opposite me on the far side of the piano. I noticed a small bloodstain on her collar. “The piece you were playing,” she went on, addressing Bao. “Ternura by Mario Ruiz Armengol.”
The woman stared at her, hands tight on Mr Mac’s shoulders now. “Yes,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“Quite exquisite,” Janet said. “So rare I get to hear live music.”
“You are too kind, Dr Vaughn,” Mr Mac said. “I’m fully aware of my severe limitations, but Bao insists we practice together.”
Janet nodded, returning his smile. “Perhaps your lawyer can arrange for you to have lessons programmed into your corrective immersion. By the time you get out, if ever, you should be quite the virtuoso.”
He gave a small chuckle and turned back to me. “Perhaps. If my old friend were to offer mitigating testimony…”
“Call me your friend again,” I said, speaking in a precise rasp, “and I will blow your brains all over Miss Bao’s nice dress.”
A loud crash sounded from the front of the house as the main door gave way under something heavy. Joe appeared a few seconds later with Leyla and Timor on either side, carbines ready. “The guard outside is down,” Joe told me. “Unconscious with a busted nose. Didn’t see who did it. Thought it best to breach.”
“Leyla, Timor,” I said. “Search the rest of the house. Stay together, no Scooby Doo shit.”
“Right, boss.”
“There’s no one else here…” Mr Mac began.
“Shut it!” I sighted the Colt on his chest. “Stand up, arms raised.”
Bao tried to embrace him as he rose from the piano. Janet caught her arms and pulled her away, gentle but firm.
“Drop to your knees,” I said, Mr Mac complying with slow deliberation. “Lower yourself to the floor. Face down. Don’t move and do not… fucking… speak.”
I moved to stand over him, jamming the muzzle of the Colt against the base of his skull and pulling out my cuffs. “John McAllister. You are under arrest for murder, racketeering, money laundering and extortion. Other charges are likely to follow. You are entitled to remain silent during questioning, but are advised that a jury may infer guilt from such silence. You have a right to legal representation…”
Chapter 13
We were obliged to wait for a Fugitives Retrieval shuttle at the Shen City docks. We could have transported our prisoner back ourselves but Sherry hadn’t wanted to take any chances. I couldn’t argue with her reasoning; it was a dead cert Mr Mac would have contingencies in place in the event of his capture.
“You’re late,” I told the two FR guards when they emerged from the airlock, both clad in body-armour and carrying stubby riot guns. One was a tall woman of Nordic appearance, the other stocky and Asian, sporting a pair of Raybans.
“We got diverted,” the tall woman said. “Priority pick-up on Minerva Station. I’m Vandeman, Prisoner Security.” She nodded to her partner. “He’s Kurota, the pilot.” Her gaze shifted to Mr Mac, sandwiched between Timor and Joe with his hands cuffed behind his back. Leyla stood behind him with weapon drawn, ready to put a taser dart in his neck at the first sign of trouble. “So, you
really got him, huh?” Vandeman asked, looking Mr Mac up and down in critical appraisal. She struck me as the type who wasn’t easily impressed.
“We really did,” I said. “Just you two?”
“The other prisoner’s secured inside. Don’t worry. He’s no trouble.”
The shuttle interior consisted of a row of restraint chairs and a few benches for the guards to sit on. One chair was occupied by a spindly man in his fifties, all unkempt beard and unruly hair sprouting from a small, bird-like head.
“Jonas Blair,” Vandeman introduced the other prisoner. “Recidivist wicky-waver. Violated his terms by taking a stroll around a school-yard on Minerva Station. Unfortunately for him, Minerva’s Economics Minister sends her kids there. Pulled strings to get him sent to the Slab penn.”
Blair barely glanced up as Joe and Timor hustled Mr Mac into the opposite chair. Timor pressed a gun to his temple as Joe undid the cuffs. They stepped back as Vandeman locked the restraints in place, thick manacles closing over wrists and ankles with a satisfying clunk.
“I suppose a pillow’s out of the question?” Mr Mac asked, squirming a little.
“I can gag him if you like,” Vandeman offered.
“I’m not quite ready to inflict cruel and unusual punishment,” I said.
“Detach and burn in two minutes,” Kurota announced, making for the cockpit. “Meal-packs in the lockers if you want ‘em.” He paused at the ladder to favour Janet with an over-friendly grin. “No plasma, though. Sorry.”
“I had a big breakfast,” she replied. She stood close to the airlock, a faintly queasy look on her face.
“You OK?” I asked.
She nodded at Blair. “Can’t you smell him? It’s like he’s been eating garlic his whole life.”
“That really true?” Timor asked her. “Vamps and garlic, I mean.”
“No, I just personally can’t stand the stuff. And I forgive your racism, Inspector.”