Tek Kill (15 page)

“Shit,” said Rowland, “she's heading for the San Peligro Island setup.”

“I'll look into that possibility.”

Rowland rubbed at his arm again. “Send a memo to Reisberson in Research & Development. Tell that dimwit that the happiness drug in our new MoodGun doesn't work for sour apples,” he instructed. “Then tell them to get my tan skyvan ready. I'll be leaving for the Caribbean early this afternoon.”

25

DAN stepped out of the Gunmanship Seminar Room and into the gray academy corridor.

A hand grabbed his upper arm.

“Now what, Molly?” he inquired as she hurried him along the walkway.

“We have to consult with Rex/GK-30.”

“Nope,
you
have to. I have to hit the Study Lab and work on my Electronic Forensics CD-paper. Otherwise I'm going to—”

“This is more important. It's about Susan.”

“Something happen to her?”

“I think so.” Molly tugged him off along a side corridor.

“Explain, huh?”

“I phoned Susan's father this morning—to see how she was doing,” said Molly. “He wasn't there and that Mrs. Stackpoole took the call.”

“The wicked stepmother.”

“She'd like to be, yes. Anyway, Dan, she didn't admit anything outright—but she dropped a few hints.”

“And?”

“I got the impression that Susan's not there, isn't at home at all,” she told him. “They've sent her someplace else.” They'd reached the door of the Background and ID Room and Susan stopped.

“You're afraid she's back with that Dr. Stolzer she was telling us about?”

Molly nodded, tapping on the door softly. “Some terrible place like that,” she said. “Rex is going to help us find out exactly where.”

THE MORNING SUN was bright in the clear Caribbean sky. It sparkled on the silver-plated guidebot as he led the five tourists and Jake across the stone courtyard of Castle Maldito. Three ancient cannons were installed at one edge of the wide courtyard, aimed out to sea.

“From here, the pirates of old could withstand any assault,” the robot was explaining. He gestured at the slanting green hillside and the bright ocean beyond, his yellow straw hat held in his glittering metallic right hand.

“Lot of bunk,” remarked the slim teenager who was standing near Jake, shaking her blond head skeptically. “Those look like fake guns to me.”

Jake nodded, moving away from the rest of the party.

From the low wall around the stone circle one could see a good part of this side of San Peligro Island. About a half mile below, stretching out between the forest and the white beach was the NewTown Pharmaceuticals facility. It consisted of three low oval-shaped buildings made of plastiglass and neowood. A high metal strut fence circled the entire setup and there were guardbots at every entrance.

As he stood studying the place, the band of his wrist-phone started to throb, telling him someone was trying to contact him.

After glancing, casually, around, Jake crossed the sunbright courtyard and ducked inside the gray stone castle. He trotted up a short staircase and slipped into a small room. There was nothing inside except an ancient-looking chest sitting on the gray floor near one of the high, narrow windows.

Jake stationed himself by a window and activated the phone. “What?”

Karin Tanoshi's thin face materialized on the tiny rectangular screen. “You left a serious mess behind you, Cardigan,” she said, anger and disapproval in her reedy voice.

“Nobody's supposed to call me unless—”

“The SoCal Police would like very much to talk to you about that brawl you got into,” the Cosmos Detective Agency operative informed him. “It seems, Cardigan, that one of the men you stungunned suffered a serious stroke and isn't expected to—”

“Karin, I filed a report, left those louts there, and took off. I had a skyliner to catch,” he said evenly. “That's standard procedure for—”

“On top of which, the man you claim was Malcolm Summerson turns out to be a harmless gym instructor from the Oxnard Sector and—”

“When I return, if you're still with the agency, Karin, we'll straighten this out,” he said. “Meantime, don't ever call me again.” He broke the connection, unstrapped the phone, and jammed it into his jacket pocket.

Apparently Summerson had been able to pull some kind of—

“You okay?”

Jake's hand swung toward his shoulder holster. Then he recognized the figure in the doorway as the skeptical teenager who was sharing the tour with him.

“I'm in tiptop condition,” he assured her, letting his gun hand drop to his side but watching the girl closely.

“Old men tend to have all kinds of stuff wrong with them,” she said from the doorway. “You came in here and then, when you didn't come out and the rest of them went into another part of the old castle—well, you know, I got sort of worried. But you're all right?”

“Haven't suffered even a mild seizure, but thanks.” He stepped into the hallway. “You'd better get back to the group.”

“My name's Katrina Bellson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Katrina.”

“And you're who?”

“Simply an aging tourist.” He walked away from her.

THE SAN PELIGRO COUNTRY CLUB also overlooked the Atlantic and the NewTown complex. Its luncheon terrace was floored with simulated mosaic tiles and circled by miniature palm trees set in large crimson tubs. There were about fifty people dining out in the midday sun, all of them protected by the plaz umbrellas that floated over the circular white tables.

Jake was being escorted toward a table by a robot who'd been painted a bright green.

“Hop to it, gov,” urged the bot. “His Nibs doesn't like to be kept waiting.”

“How come you're green?”

“His Nibs is absolutely dotty over the color. Myself, I find it a bit on the vulgar side.”

At a table near the terrace edge sat a very plump man of about sixty. He was wearing a suit of red, yellow, and green flowered material and his white hair and beard were tinted a pale blue. Sharing the table with him was another robot of the exact shape and shade as the one delivering Jake.

“Delighted to see you, old chap,” said the plump man as he pointed at an empty chair. “Do sit.”

Jake sat. “You're Monte Folkestone?”

“You don't suspect I have a twin, dear boy?”

“Not bloody likely,” observed the seated robot.

“Did Sparky introduce himself?” inquired Folkestone.

“Nope. But it—”

“That's Sparky,” he said, indicating the standing green bot, “and this is Buddy. Identical twins.”

“Very whimsical.” Jake rested both elbows on the table. “Walt Bascom contacted you.”

“That he did, dear chap.” Folkestone reached over to tap Buddy's emerald chest. “Has the promised fee arrived?”

“See for yourself, gov.” The left side of the robot's chest snapped open to reveal a compscreen.

Nodding, giving a pleased little laugh, Folkestone said, “Yes, Bascom, the old dear, placed $750 in my Banx account early this morn, just, I imagine, as rosy-fingered dawn was tripping across the—”

“For that sum,” cut in Jake, “you're obliged to arrange certain things, Folkestone.”

“Do call me Monte, Jake,” suggested the plump man. “Since I'm managing your social life while you reside on this blighted island, we must strive to give the impression that we're the closest and dearest of chums, don't you think?”

“Sure, Monte. Now what have you—”

“Go have an intimate chat with our esteemed chef, Sparky, and warn him, in the severest terms, not to make the same mistake with my fish today that he made yesterday,” the plump man instructed the standing bot.

“Right you are, gov.'” The robot hurried away.

Folkestone put his hand on Jake's arm and lowered his voice. “Although I am extremely reluctant to admit it, dear boy, I earn a goodly part of my income by arranging social entrée to those who yearn to rise in San Peligro society, such as it is.” He took his hand away and stroked his bluish beard. “For you, since you were described as being most eager—the good Lord only knows why—to meet some of the topmost executives at the local NewTown works, I've arranged several introductions and invitations.”

“I'm particularly interested in encountering any of them who might be in the need of some extra money, Monte.”

“I've already been so informed, dear fellow,” said Folkestone. “Tonight you'll be attending a gala party at the mansion of Mrs. Cardwell—a very important local dowager, albeit a certified pain in the bottom. At this soirée, Jake my boy, be sure to strike up acquaintances with Hazel McCay and Theo Kleiner. Both are relatively high up in the NewTown pecking order and both, more's the pity, haven't the faintest notion of how to live anywhere close to within their means.” From the breast pocket of his flowered suit coat, he fetched a fat realpaper envelope. “An invitation to tonight's festivity you'll find within—along with a list of the other social delights I've set up for you, Jake old man.”

Jake accepted the envelope and stood up. “Much obliged, Monte.”

“Though it isn't included in the price,” Folkestone told him, “you can join me for lunch.”

“I'll pass. My social life is too rich and full already.” Grinning, he left the plump man and the green robot.

26

THE air in the long plazwalled corridor smelled convincingly of horses and cattle. Ahead of Gomez, three androids dressed in authentic nineteenth-century cowboy garb were ambling along. One carried a neoleather saddle on his shoulder, while the other carried a lariat in his left hand.

As they neared a door marked ROBOTIC RODEO/MECHANICAL PERSONNEL, the three Stetsoned andies slowed. They stopped, let the seceye scan them, and then entered as soon as the metallic door slid open for them.

Gomez, whistling softly, continued on his way.

A door on his right—ROBOTIC RODEO/HUMAN PERFORMERS—whispered open.

“Well, for darn sakes, if this ain't a coincidence an' a half!” exclaimed the blond young woman who'd emerged and was now smiling at him.

Smiling back, the detective said, “Marney! What causes our paths to cross,
bonita?
”

“It must be, I reckon, fate.” Pistol Packin' Marney put both arms around him, gave him an enthusiastic hug, and then kissed him. “Well, sir, that an' my brand-new agent. He booked me to do my act at this here Robotic Rodeo pavillion in the heart of Sweetwater.”

“Which act,
chiquita?
”

“Oh, just the trick shootin',” she replied. I quit sheddin' my clothes ages ago.”

“
Bueno
. That's a step up the ladder of success.”

“A whole lot of steps, Gomez darlin'.” Marney stepped back and surveyed him. “I kind of like that cute little potbelly you're developin'. Makes you look even more like a fuzzy teddy bear.”

“I have never,” he corrected, “remotely resembled a teddy bear or any other sort of stuffed toy. The cut of my jacket gives the illusion that I have a slight paunch.”

“What in the heck brings you to Texas?”

“Business. In fact,
cara
, I'd best be moving on. I have to meet somebody in the bowels of this establishment in just—”

“You still with the Cosmos Detective Agency?”

A nearby door, labeled ROBOTIC RODEO/NATIVE AMERICAN ANDROIDS, came sliding open on the left, and two mechanical men in authentic Indian outfits stepped into the corridor.

Gomez waited until they'd moved several yards away before continuing the conversation. “I am,
sí
. And now—”

“Heck almighty, why don't I tag along?” she suggested. “I don't go on for near to two hours yet. I'll stick with you an' then we can grab a bite to—”

“This is a somewhat confidential matter, Marney.”

“Darn sakes, Gomez, don't you trust me?” She assumed a hurt and surprised look. “Back in Greater Los Angeles, when you were still a SoCal cop, I helped you out on more than one occasion. Never once did you doubt that I—”

“Okay, all right. You can come along,” he conceded. “But you'll have to wait outside while I talk to this
hombre.
”

“I don't mind coolin' my heels.”

When Gomez resumed moving along, she took hold of his arm.

He asked, “How long have you had this agent?”

“Oh, not awful long.”

A moment later they reached the door marked R
OBOTIC
R
ODEO
/S
IMULATION
C
ONTROL
. Gomez halted, faced the seceye, and held up the fake pass Zodiac O'Rian had sent him a short while ago.

The door produced a faint rattling buzz, then slid aside to admit him and the young woman.

“Are you sure now, callin' on Al Lavinsky?” Marney asked.

“
Sí
, but don't ask me any questions concerning—”

“He's very fond of pinchin' the personnel on the fanny,” she mentioned. “But after I gave him a demonstration of my shootin' abilities, he lost all interest in my particular backside.”

“Guns are a powerful deterrent,” observed Gomez. “In fact, it—
momentito!
” He stopped and held out his arm to block her way.

The door to Simulation Control was open, and pale yellowish light was spilling out onto the ramp.

“Wait here,
cara.
” Gomez, sliding out his stungun, eased nearer to the open doorway.

A silver-plated robot sat at a control panel chair, tilted far to the right. The top of his silver skull wasn't there, and a thin spiral of sooty smoke was rising up from within.

Tumbled down on the floor in a twisted sprawl was a fat balding man.

They'd used a lazgun on him and there wasn't much left of his upper back.