Spider Play Read online

  Then her anger returned. “You seriously believe Fontana is behind the smuggling and murder?”

  “He’s in charge of the station. He knows what goes on there . . . or ought to.”

  He opened his slate and after a few taps and swipes, handed it to her.

  She dropped on the couch, skimming through the bio on the screen. Leonard Michael Fontana, 50, born Waco, Texas. Parents both pilots, sending him to space camps and flight camps every summer along with an older brother and younger sister. He earned his own pilot’s license for light planes at fourteen and for small and mid-sized private jets at eighteen. Attended Baylor University for two years in Aerospace Studies, then transferred to the University of Arizona’s College of Agriculture and Life Sciences at Yuma, studying hydroponics and xericulture.

  “That’s growing plants with a reduced need for water,” Mama said.

  She bared her teeth at him. “Thank you, I know that.”

  He worked on the Lanour Farms in the summer and went to work full time for them on graduation in‘65. Married Dr. Mercedes Altamira in ‘66 (PhD in Nutrition) and became a foreman on the Farm’s hydroponics program. Twin daughters born ‘67. In ‘76, was offered the position of greenhouse manager on the Lanour-Tenning station. Went from that to assistant station director in ‘80 and director in ‘81.

  Mama said, “He’s bound to have learned enough about construction there to arrange an accident.”

  She handed back the slate. “It looks like he’s also invested a mega chunk of his life in the corporation and that station. Why would he rob it?”

  “I thought a look at him might tell me.”

  She sniffed. “And did he appreciate being called in the middle of the night?”

  “He was still in his office. I think their day runs different from ours.” He plugged a data stick into the slate spindle and turned the screen toward her. “I recorded the conversation.”

  Odds were the station had, too. Putting this call on record for the Feds or SCPD’s brass to see. Crap, crap, crap.

  The screen remained briefly blank as the connection relayed through satellites to the Lanour station, then he fast-forwarded past the station’s communications gatekeeper, a Eurasian female, to the image of a trim jon with a look of experience and authority. But almost no lines on his face and a full head of dark hair untouched by grey. Eyes as amber as a wolf’s stared from the screen above a polite smile.

  “Detective Maxwell? I’m Leonard Fontana. Am I to understand you’re with the Shawnee County PD, investigating the whereabouts of Paul Chenoweth’s body?” He spoke with a faint drawl.

  Mama’s face did not appear in the recording, just his voice . . . crisply professional. “Yes, sir. I thought you’d want to know we’ve found Mr. Chenoweth’s body.”

  The smile vanished. A hard gleam made his eyes look even more lupine. “I know. I spoke to Nafsinger’s not long ago. From here, Earth looks peaceful and beautiful. It’s difficult to believe there are people so wantonly destructive. Will it help find the gang members who did it if I ask the company to arrange a reward?”

  “We now doubt any street gang was involved.” Briefly, Mama told him about the autopsy, and the conclusions drawn from it.

  Fontana’s expression froze. “Smuggling? That’s impossible.”

  “The station is a research facility. Some of that research must be valuable.”

  “Listen to him, Bibi.”

  Smiling again, Fontana’s drawl thickened. “Oh, I reckon corporations like Astrotec, Tellodyne and Wakabaishi have a yen now and then to see what we’re doing. I can’t see them desecrating corpses for industrial espionage, though. We’re not working with military projects here. There’s some medical research but mostly consumer goods.”

  Janna frowned. Did he really expect them to believe that?

  “Can you think of anything at all that someone might be interested in stealing from you?” Mama’s voice asked.

  “I didn’t really expect him to answer,” Mama said, “but I wanted his reaction.”

  Fontana shrugged. “Who can say? Nothing springs to mind. Sorry. Even if there were something, it couldn’t be smuggled out. Nothing exits this station, not packages nor personnel alive or dead, without being scanned, and believe me, Detective, in the hands of my security chief, that’s a thoroughness that makes Fort Knox look wide open.”

  “You go to all that trouble when you have no valuable secrets?”

  The grin faded, leaving the lupine gleam of his eyes more striking. “Better safe, isn’t that right?” He glanced at something or someone out of screen range, then focused back on the screen. “I need to go. Let me know when you catch the bastards who did that to Mr. Chenoweth, though.”

  Mama turned the blanked screen back toward himself. “Well? What do you think?”

  “He knows more than he’s saying. Of course in a call that’s on record on both ends and might be hacked, he wouldn’t admit to any possible leaks.”

  “Especially with a stockholder meeting and proxy fight coming up.” Mama drummed his fingers on the slate spindle, expression going thoughtful. “Let’s see what that’s about.” Humming tunelessly, he tapped and swiped on the slate . . . frowned . . . stopped humming . . . tapped and swiped some more.

  Janna closed her eyes. She thought sexual heat and the chill between the Lion’s Den and here had sobered her, but something of the Defroster must still linger. Lassitude crept through her. Rather than fight it, she sank back against the couch and closed her eyes.

  “I’m impressed!”

  Mama’s exclamation jolted her alert. She pushed upright, scrubbing her eyes with her palms. “Impressed by what?”

  “Lanour-Tenning. Crispin Lanour founded it in ‘41 as a family-owned company, Lanour Farms. Growing Euphorbia plants in New Mexico and Arizona to exploit the esters in the sap for the manufacture of plastics and fuel. He was very successful because euphorbias grow well in arid areas, and using his dual degrees in biology and organic chemistry, he modified the plant sap to produce designer esters. In ‘48 the company bought up Tenning Plastics, which gave them—”

  “Very interesting, I’m sure.” Janna yawned. “Can we fast-forward to the proxy fight?”

  He frowned at her. “It is very interesting, and knowing the history helps understand what’s happening now. However . . .” He sighed. “. . . giving you the short version . . . the proxy vote, according to market analysts around the world, will decide whether Crispin remains president and CEO. Positions he’s held since the beginning.”

  “Since ‘41? Now I’m impressed. How old is he?”

  “Eighty-one.”

  With decades yet to look forward to. “Is his position shaky?”

  “That’s the big question. In ‘70, when they needed financing to build their space station, they made forty-nine percent of their stock a public offering. Fifty-one percent remains privately held by Lanour family members, and Crispin tied those shares up so they can’t be sold. But . . . he can’t control how those shareholders vote. Now his leadership is being challenged. A faction led by his daughter Cylla Lanour Pembroke opposes continuing construction on the space station, claiming it’s unneeded and the current size already makes it expensive to maintain. That faction also wants the research focused on products for which there is a clear market — the Thomas Edison, the-money’s-what’s-important, philosophy — rather than continue the present policy of developing products and making happy discoveries, then finding a market for them.” Mama paused. “Personally, considering where he’s brought the company to date, I’d trust him.”

  “If he is ousted, it’ll materially affect the station.”

  “Like the situation on Borkentek’s station last year.” His lips thinned and his voice sharpened. “To redirect the funds into, quote, more cost-effective projects, they discontinued development of several drugs, including, it’s said, one binding calcium to bones. Considering how many people work in low-gee these days, isn’t that something we need?�
�

  Both the information and anger surprised her. “You actually keep track of things like that?”

  His eyes narrowed. “It’s our world. It’s important to know what’s going on outside the SCPD.”

  Well of course she knew that. She watched the news. When she had time.

  She stifled another yawn. “But inside the SCPD tomorrow, we’re likely to be burned for that call to Fontana, so is there anything more tonight I need to know about?”

  A flash in his eyes let her hope he might leave in annoyance. Instead, it gave way to a sly smile. “I drove out to Heartland and let myself into the Markakis shed to collect that cam in the van.”

  What! “Why? Roos said SI didn’t find prints or trace in the van . . . which should include the cam.”

  “Not in situ, but maybe going over it in the lab. So I took it there.”

  “Again . . . why?”

  “I kept thinking about the receivers risking discovery of the hearse by letting the van sit there all those hours.”

  Okaaay. “If they already had the data stick, did that matter?”

  “If they wanted to keep us from discovering the purpose of that incision on the shin . . . yes.”

  Fair point. “Has the lab found anything?”

  “They’ll get to it in the morning. Meanwhile, I’ve identified the cam as a Vigilant XT30 wireless with a broadcast range of three to four hundred yards.”

  So? She started to ask, but instead prompted,: “And . . .?” because she heard it in his voice.

  “It went on sale in December. According to racing news, Markakis placed second in a race at the Killarney International Raceway in Cape Town on December 8th.”

  Making it unlikely he installed the cam. And why would he, with no reason to use the van all winter.

  “You think smuggling receivers installed it.”

  “Yes.”

  Even so . . . “Is there any real chance of DNA on it belonging to one of the receivers and not just someone assembling or packaging the cam?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll have to see. Meanwhile, that broadcast range means the receivers had to monitor from somewhere close.”

  Somewhere warm, preferably. “The end apartments across the street are in range.” Assuming they had access to those . . . which a check for recent rentals should reveal.

  Mama shook his head. “I’m thinking somewhere closer.”

  Closer? Oh. “The day spa?”

  He nodded. “We’ll check their surveillance. There can’t be that many jons using it during the week. Let’s ID those bastards’ faces before the Feds take the case. You’d like that . . . right?”

  Yes must have shown on her face.

  Mama pulled out his cell. “So let’s call Ms. Olinger and ask her to meet us at—”

  “Not at this time of tonight!” Janna cut in. “This isn’t an emergency. I saw their hours on the door and they’ll be open at noon tomorrow.”

  After a long pause in which she saw Mama considering acid commentary on By-the-Book Brill, and stick up her ass, he hauled on his jacket and stocking cap and stalked out.

  From her doorway, Janna coded the front door behind him, then coded her own door and shot the top and bottom bolts. Physical barriers foiled even the best code readers.

  She picked up her discarded clothing, and after holstering the Starke, secured it in the closet lock box along with the harness and her badge. As she started to hang up her jacket, voices rose upstairs.

  One yelled, “Whore!” Something shattered in a loud crash.

  “Bitch!”

  Another crash followed, then another . . . followed by a scream of fury . . . or pain.

  By which time Janna had dropped the jacket, unlocked the door, and bolted up the stairs.

  She knew little about a pair of fems who moved in two years ago. Not even their names beyond the M. Lemmon and A. Pine label on their mailbox. She rarely even saw them, though Sid had gone up to a couple of their occasional loud Saturday-night parties . . . and come back advising her not to attend. Since he carried with him a faint whiff of Sonic mixed with Khiz, she agreed. Ignore them, as long as they went no farther into illegals than good old Sonic . . . which these days had become almost respectable.

  Ignore screaming and possible physical assault, though . . . no. Dangerous as intervention in domestic disputes could be.

  She pounded on their door. “Ms. Lemmon, Ms. Pine! Is there a problem?”

  The apartment went silent.

  She knocked again. “Is everyone all right?”

  Someone moved close to the door. A husky voice snarled, “Mind your own business! We’re fine!”

  Too bad she left her badge downstairs, or she would have held it toward the minicam above the door with the warning: “Make sure it doesn’t become my business.”

  On the way back down the stairs, her cell beeped in a cargo pocket.

  She grabbed for it. “Brill.”

  The screen showed its default image. Quicksilver calling, she hoped.

  Yes. “Country Grill, half an hour.”

  Tonight? Crap. Not only another trip into the cold, but across town to the Oakland Mall. “I have to take an autocab. If I’m late, wait.”

  “Don’t be too late. They’re not very patient.”

  That caught her by surprise. Strung nerves in slighs she understood. Impatience? Something new.

  * * *

  The group waiting at the café also looked new for slighs. Expression troubled for the first time in her memory, Quicksilver met her at the door and led her under faux lantern light fixtures to a quartet at a red-checkered table in an isolated corner. To the casual observer they might be taken for typical gangers. Three males — one very good-looking — one female . . . none over twenty and the Hispanic-looking male and female maybe not eighteen. All whippy lean, with bone white hair swept up into wings like Lazaro Wu’s and black jackets — more expensive than slighs could afford — hanging on the back of their pseudo-wicker chairs. They gave her the same hard stare as the sligh in Celestial Bistro’s kitchen . . . and lounged in their chairs trying very hard for the ganger Your badge doesn’t impress me, leo posture. But in the staring contest, they broke contact first.

  Still, it made her believe the Wraiths existed . . . even if limited to these four.

  Quicksilver stepped between Janna and them. “No bovi.”

  Since she had recorded them while approaching the table, she nodded and folded the visor away in a cargo pocket. Ignoring their role in the jacking did not mean keeping no record of them. Just in case . . . for the future.

  “You’ve assured me you’re here only to talk, isn’t that correct?”

  “Correct.”

  Quicksilver moved aside and waved toward them. “Detective Brill, these are Viper, Titan, Havoc, and Fury.”

  Not indicating which name belonged to which individual. The good-looking male had to be Viper, though. He matched the “total” cheekbones and “killer blue eyes” Beta Nafsinger waxed lyrical about in describing the jon who pulled her from the hearse. Mythology made Fury likely to be the female.

  Disquiet rippled through Janna at slighs using names like these. What kind of death spiral were those jackass politicians creating? It never occurred to them that the more they pushed for mandatory identation, the harder the slighs would resist? Nor had it occurred to the slighs that a threatening manner only made the jackasses more determined?

  “Now I will leave you with them.” Softly, Quicksilver added, “Remember your promise.” Then he left as though dematerializing . . . there one moment, gone the next.

  The table had only four chairs. The Wraiths smirked as it forced her to bring a chair from another table to sit at the end.

  “We’re just here because Quicksilver said you can be trusted,” Viper said.

  Now it remained to decide who played “Pluto”. The male beside Viper with pale red eyebrows and lashes? Or the Hispanic male across from the red-head, whose features matched those of the fem
ale beside him so closely the two had to be siblings. Until they corrected her, she decided to call the red-head Titan, and the Hispanic male Havoc.

  She smiled. “I appreciate you coming.”

  Viper grunted.

  She kept smiling. “Let’s order something hot to drink and warm up. Coffee? Tea?”

  Fury’s eyes lighted. “Chocolate?”

  “You owe us something to eat, too, for meeting you!” Viper said.

  For that tone, she felt like feeding him a backhand. Instead she gave him a brief sample of what Wim called her “cold steel stare” before saying, “Food will warm us up even better, at that.”

  Besides, the smells of coffee, toast, and frying had begun reminding her she last ate at noon. It must have been temper, then lust, that kept the Defroster from knocking her flat.

  Viper pushed the call button on the wall.

  Above it, a picture of a haystack and youth in overalls napping against it became a screen showing the head and shoulders of an apple-cheeked fem with a perky smile. “May I have your order please?”

  “There will be five orders, one charge,” Janna said, and led off with her choices: hot chocolate and a country breakfast. “The rest of you have anything you want.”

  They copied her order, except Viper, who substituted a steak for the breakfast’s bacon and sausage. Making a hefty debit from her account . . . but how often did they have the chance to indulge themselves? With luck, it would pay in information.

  The haystack image returned. A waitron glided over . . . a four-foot pillar, red-checkered like the tabletop. A scanner extended from the column. “Please scan,” the waitron said in the same chipper voice that took their order. After reading Janna’s scib and retina, the scanner retracted. The waitron hummed for a moment, then said, “Thank you. Your order will be ready shortly.” and glided away.

  Another waitron appeared minutes later, this one with a tray top holding mugs of chocolate topped with whipped cream and a big carafe for refills. Janna slid aside to let the column front fold forward and lower the tray to the table.

  Once they removed the mugs and carafe, the tray retracted. Chirping: “Enjoy your order.” the waitron left.