Skin Game Page 17

  “Yeah?”

  “It belongs to one of the murdered officers who was skinned.”

  Max rocked back in the booth as if she’d been punched.

  Clemente bore down on her. “Any idea why they went to the school?”

  She shook her head. “None. I’m telling you, I don’t even know why they left Terminal City.” She sat forward, almost pleading. “Could you take me to them? Could I see them?”

  “No. Anyway, they’re still unconscious. They’re in a hospital—safe . . . and they’re going to be all right.”

  “You have to let me look into this,” Max pleaded.

  “No way. No way! If you can help us from inside, fine. Otherwise this is a police matter and we’ll take care of it.”

  “My guys did not kill those officers.”

  Clemente put a hand out and touched hers—a shockingly intimate move meant to reassure her. Which it did.

  “I know that,” Clemente said. “In fact, my guess is, somehow they either found . . . or stumbled into the killer. Whoever it is, he’s the dangerous one. I mean, Max—this guy got the drop on . . . and nearly killed . . . two transgenics.”

  “Which is why you should let me hit the streets and find out what is up with this!”

  “No—Max, the bottom line here is, this is a police matter. You have to go back inside and be the leader those people need right now.”

  She sighed. “Yeah. . . . Yeah, I know. People I trust keep telling me that.”

  “And I’m one of them?”

  “You’re one.”

  “Then I hope you’ll take this the right when I say . . . I’ve got more bad news to share with you.”

  Max again locked eyes with him, wondering if she could take any more.

  “Someone,” Clemente said, “has pulled some strings.”

  “What now?”

  “A clock has started ticking. We’ve got till Friday. The feds say, if we locals can’t settle this within a week, they’ll come in and take over.”

  “Ames White,” Max said.

  Nodding, Clemente said, “My best guess, too. But who pulled the strings doesn’t matter—all that matters is, if this standoff isn’t settled by Friday, the Army will move in on Terminal City—tanks’ll come rolling right through those fences.”

  Max said nothing.

  “So how do we settle this thing, you and I?” Clemente asked.

  “We find that killer.”

  “I’ll find him—but I see your point. As long as the media is filled with a transgenic Jack the Ripper, negotiating with Terminal City gets lost in the alarmist shuffle.”

  “Well put. Where are you with the investigation?”

  With a shrug, Clemente said, “We’ve searched the apartment where your friends were found. It’s been cleared out. It’s a squatter’s flat, like I said, so we have no name, and the neighbors didn’t ever remember seeing the guy. We got some skin cells from the shower drain, could be the killer, could be skin from one of the victims. We won’t know for a while.”

  “What about the DNA evidence White gave you?”

  Clemente started to say something, then seemed to change his mind. “I won’t bullshit you. How did you figure that White shared DNA evidence with us?”

  “It wasn’t exactly the Enigma code, Ramon. You guys wouldn’t have put the word out that this was a transgenic killer if you didn’t have something . . . and White would be eager to provide that, I’m sure.”

  Nodding, Clemente said, “White’s team got skin cells off this piece of top secret equipment that the killer took from his first victim.”

  “Oh, you mean the shoe salesman?”

  Clemente took the bait. “Yeah—the shoe salesman . . . who really worked for the NSA, only I never told you that.”

  So, Logan had been right: the first victim was one of White’s people.

  Max asked, “Why didn’t White give you this key piece of evidence immediately?”

  Clemente gazed at her with respect. “You’d have made a good cop, Max. That was my first question too.”

  “And the answer?”

  The cop shrugged. “White said the killer stole the piece of equipment, and it had only been retrieved recently.”

  “Retrieved?”

  “White was a little vague on that part,” Clemente admitted.

  “You believe him?”

  “Don’t really have a choice. Anyway, under a press-blackout restriction, he did give me possession of that gizmo for twenty-four hours. It was smashed up, and covered in blood—the victim’s blood—and it matched up perfectly. The lab also found more skin cells from the killer, and we ran our own DNA tests and the killer is definitely transgenic.”

  “According to evidence provided by Ames White,” she said.

  He shook his head. “If this evidence is faked, it’s head and shoulders above anything I’ve ever come across. I’ve seen the government try to cover shit up before and they suck at it. Your little community across the street comes to mind as an example.”

  “Point taken,” she said. “What about fingerprints?”

  “None anywhere. Not at the scenes of the crimes, none on that piece of equipment, none on the stun rods, and none in the apartment.”

  Frowning, she asked, “How is that even possible?”

  Clemente sat back in the booth. “I have no idea.”

  Max decided that the best way to show her sincerity would be to level with Clemente. “Suppose I told you I already knew that the first victim worked for White?”

  “How?”

  “By putting the pieces together from what you told me, and the computer work of a friend. And I also know that our dead NSA ‘shoe salesman’ had a young partner who left the agency at the same time—with full disability.”

  Clemente was sitting forward, scribbling this in a small notebook. “What’s the partner’s name?”

  “You’re not going to find him. He’s gone to ground.”

  “Tell me anyway, Max. I have my sources, my ways to find people. This guy’s a material witness in a homicide.”

  “I’ll tell you his name, Ramon, because I want to build trust. And in the days ahead we’ll need that. If we’re going to get this fixed before the tanks roll in, we have to promise to tell each other the truth from now on.”

  The detective studied her, his face serious. “You have my word.”

  “Mine too. But here’s the thing. If you do a big high-profile manhunt, then Ames White will get to your witness first, and then neither of us will ever get to talk to him.”

  “I can protect him.”

  “The police can’t protect him from White.”

  Clemente’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say the police. I said, ‘I can protect him.’ ”

  She considered that; then she took the leap of faith, of trust. “His name’s Sage Thompson.”

  She gave him the agent’s last known address as well.

  Clemente scribbled the information in his notebook. “If you’ve been inside Terminal City, how do you know he’s not home?”

  A half smile played at the corner of her mouth. “Well, I have my sources, too—including a nontransgenic friend, who visited the house and said it’s vacant and for sale.”

  “I’ll find Thompson,” Clemente said. “Now, we better get you back inside. Here’s my cell number.” He handed her a slip of paper. “You find out anything, you let me know.”

  “You’ll do the same?”

  “I’ll do the same.”

  They walked slowly back to the gate in silence. The night had turned chilly again and Max saw no stars. By tomorrow it would be raining again. Sometimes she wondered why she’d left L.A. in the first place, earthquakes or not. She was tired of being cold and wet. When this was over, she promised herself, she and Logan were going somewhere warm for a while.

  In spite of herself, she smiled.

  “What?” Clemente asked as she stepped through the gate.

  Turning back, she asked, “You ever be
en to Florida, Ramon?”

  He nodded. “In my Army days.”

  “Warm there?”

  Now he smiled too. “Most of the time.”

  “Be nice to see the sun again,” Max said, then she trotted away.

  Otto Gottlieb sat in his car and stared out at Puget Sound in the darkness.

  Discovery Park was vacant at this hour, the West Point Lighthouse poking holes in the blackness as it swept back and forth. Agent White and the detective, Clemente, were in the middle of some kind of pissing contest, which White of course was determined to win. Toward that end, White had talked Otto into being evasive with the police about how, when, and where the NSA had come back into possession of the imager.

  The deceit had gone so deep that a fed-up Otto had finally come to believe that White had gone rogue. There didn’t seem to be any other viable explanation, and Agent White’s perfidy had now broadened in scope to include Otto Gottlieb as well.

  Otto pounded the steering wheel. He’d gotten so caught up in trying to save his ass, he’d forgotten to cover it . . . and now he was about to be hung out to dry. Sooner or later the truth, whatever that was, about White’s clandestine activities would come out . . . and who was going to be there to take the blame?

  Otto.

  Shit.

  There had to be someone he could talk to, someone he could go to . . . but who? White was well insulated. Otto knew that his partner had friends in Congress, if not higher. His own predicament was simple—could he trust anyone in the NSA?

  The answer, of course, was no; not his peers, not his superiors . . . no one.

  Otto considered other agencies at the federal level, but who? The FBI? Probably not. CIA? Ditto. Though he knew people in both, he had no idea who might be tied to White. The state authorities were out of the question, as well—White had the governor in his pocket, and God knew who else.

  Only Detective Clemente had stood up to White, and Otto wondered if a local cop could accomplish anything more with White than providing a source of minor irritation. Still, it seemed like the most viable of the not wonderful options available.

  The problem was, what would he say to Clemente? What proof did he have that White had gone rogue?

  Taking a deep breath, Otto sat back, listened to the mournful cry of the foghorn, and tried to build his case. White had used that transgenic, X5-494, to chase down other transgenics. That had seemed like a bad idea to Otto to begin with, but White overruled him, and in the end they lost 494 as well.

  When that operation went south, Otto had been forced to help in its cover-up, and he had no remaining proof that White had used 494. The few other agents who’d been there, who might corroborate his story, all seemed firmly in White’s pocket.

  Of course, they probably thought the same thing about him. . . .

  White had bred both trust and distrust among his own team all along. Though the agents all appeared to be loyal, to Otto’s eye that loyalty seemed more aimed at White than at the NSA, and he didn’t feel comfortable trying to win over any of the others to his side. Odds were, even if he mentioned his suspicions to one of them, that agent would turn around and tell White.

  The fiasco at Jam Pony and the deliberate obstruction of Detective Clemente’s homicide investigation had only intensified Otto’s suspicions. And the conversation with White this evening had been the final straw.

  Otto had been driving White home at the end of the day, his boss pissed off because once again Washington had ordered White’s NSA unit not to get involved with the siege at Terminal City. When White received that word, he’d gone ballistic; but by the time he got in the car with Otto, White had simmered down to mere anger. Driving as fast as he could without looking obvious, Otto sped toward White’s house, anxious to get the man out of his car.

  “They don’t trust me, Otto,” White said, turning his gaze out the passenger window at the houses they passed.

  “I’m sure they do, sir. They just have a plan for Terminal City that doesn’t include us.”

  “The transgenics are our job,” White said, his voice rising. “We should be allowed to do our job.”

  Otto didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing; he was well-practiced at providing eloquent silences.

  “They’re going to screw it up, and she’s going to get away.”

  “‘She,’ sir?”

  “452—the one they call Max. She’s the key, Otto. They all band around her. Kill the head and the body will fall.”

  “Maybe that’s the plan.”

  “What?” White seemed surprised Otto had contributed a thought.

  “The plan—to capture her, and bring the alliance of transgenics down. If she is the leader.”

  “She’s more than the leader, Otto. And if she’s captured. . . .”

  “Sir?”

  White turned from the houses to look at Otto. Glancing over, Otto caught his boss’s gaze and recognized the fiery glow that always preceded one of White’s odd choices.

  “You should go on vacation, Otto. Take the next week off, starting tomorrow.”

  “I’ve used my vacation for the year, sir.”

  “I’ll clear it with Washington.”

  “But, sir—”

  White’s gaze turned hot. “Do what I tell you, Otto. You’re not cleared for what’s going to go down here.”

  “Like at Jam Pony, sir?” Though no overt sarcasm tinged the words, Otto instantly regretted saying them.

  Rubbing a hand over his face, White was clearly attempting to hold in his temper. When he spoke, his voice sounded icy and robotic. “Yes, like Jam Pony. Drop me off, go home, don’t come to the office for a week. Do you understand?”

  Otto looked over at his boss and saw the face of a madman. Worried that White’s next step might be a bullet to the back of his head, Otto said, “Week’s vacation sounds good, sir.”

  Five minutes later, Otto had dropped White in his driveway and sped away. He’d driven aimlessly for a couple of hours before winding up here, at Discovery Park. Now he wondered if he dared go home. And if he didn’t go home, where could he go?

  Suddenly, Otto Gottlieb realized he was a man without a country. He needed to tell someone something. He just didn’t know who to talk to or what the hell he would say that wouldn’t make him sound like a lunatic.

  Clemente suddenly seemed like too small a fish to do battle with a shark like White. Then Otto thought of the one thing that White seemed to hate as much as the transgenics: Eyes Only!

  Otto needed to get to Eyes Only. They’d tried to track the hacker down for months, and though they’d narrowly missed him once, that was the only time they’d gotten even a sniff of the guy. Now that he needed help immediately, Otto wondered how exactly one contacted an underground cyber journalist. Smoke signals, maybe?

  Maybe he should just let White do whatever it was he was going to do at Terminal City and stay out of it. They were only transgenics, after all. . . .

  Only transgenics.

  The phrase chilled Otto. He remembered seeing historical videos where one racist after another had used the same defense to cover his own stupidity and rage. “They’re only Negroes.” “They’re only Jews.” “They’re only Mexicans.”

  And now words had formed in his own brain: They’re only transgenics.

  Otto stared out at the sound and thought about his life, why he’d chosen government service in the first place, and as he made up his mind about what he would do, he heard himself saying, “With liberty and justice for all.”

  And as he thought that for the first time in his adult life, he actually knew what those words meant.

  He put the gun that had been in his lap back in its shoulder holster and drove home, with a reason to live.

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  CRASH LANDINGS

  JAM PONY, 8:02 A.M.

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 12, 2021

  Original Cindy missed Max.

  Things seemed to be slipping back into num
bing regularity at Jam Pony. Where the bike messengers were concerned, Normal was pretty much back to normal—which was to say, obnoxiously pushing them on and putting them down—and neither he nor anyone else seemed to want to talk at all about what had happened here just five days ago.

  It was as if not talking about it made the hostage crisis never have happened—though the shellshocked look in everyone’s eyes said otherwise.

  Original Cindy hadn’t spoken to Max, her best friend, her sister, since they’d parted company Saturday evening; and, though she was going through the motions at work, Cindy was on edge, worry boiling in her stomach, like an untended pot of greens on a back burner.

  Sunday had been spent curled up in the apartment, trying to withdraw into herself, seeking sleep as refuge; instead, she found herself watching mental movies of her recollections of Max.

  Everywhere she looked, something set off another flood of memories—the kitchen, the sofa, the table where they ate—even the damn bathroom triggered another torrent of emotion. It was as if she were eulogizing her friend, and she kept telling herself to stop thinking of Max in the past tense. Max wasn’t dead . . . but Cindy couldn’t keep from adding yet.

  And when Cindy did manage to drift off to sleep, Terminal City invaded her dreams, the siege turning into a pitched battle that—as the dreams became more and more nightmarish—always ended with Max lying lifeless. . . .

  Monday had come as a relief. Jam Pony held Max memories, of course—good and bad—but being around Sketchy and the others seemed better than being alone at home.

  Bullet holes still pocked the exterior, and crime scene tape sagged around the door like ghastly prom decorations still hanging the day after. Entering, Original Cindy walked past where CeCe died—the floor scrubbed too clean in that spot—and wandered back to where the messengers were gathered in the slapdash employee’s lounge. Normal stood in front of the group, a clipboard clasped in both hands like a life buoy he was clinging to.

  “Come on in, missy,” Normal said. “Just show up whenever you’re ready. It’s not like we keep regular business hours here.”

  A few messengers sat in the scattered chairs, while most stood, their eyes bouncing back and forth between Original Cindy and Normal.