"The Transgenic Falcon"

We’d ridden in an express elevator, one with three unlabeled buttons and a thumbprint scanner to activate even those. It whisked us up an unknown but high number of floors and let out onto stark white cube of a waiting room. Directly across from the elevator doors was a white plastic desk, with a very fit young man sitting behind it.

He wore a phone head-set and a nice off-the-rack suit, but the flat look in his eyes told me the whole story. Only folks who’ve long since grown comfortable with the idea of doing violence to their fellow man have those kinds of eyes; breaking a few bones or ending a life wouldn’t make those eyes blink. Not even once.

It seemed that Mr. Johnson was more than a little concerned with his personal safety, even with owning the police inside Gen-Tech. I put my best dumb smile on, no sense in letting this boyo know I had his number.

“Mr. Johnson said for you and your party to go right in” is what the young man said. What it sounded like was “Miste Joanson sayd for you and your pawty to go wight in”. It was as pure a Boston Southie accent as you are likely to hear outside a movie.

“Southie, eh?” I asked with a big grin.

“You know Boston?”

I gave a shrug, “Sure, I spent some time in Cambridge.”

“Up the Yard, huh?” he grunted, unimpressed, “I never had much time for the rich kids, too busy with real work.”

“Long way from the Charles river to here. What brings you?” I pressed, curious.

“Work, like always. Mr. Johnson hired me and this is where the job is.”

Before I could follow up, Belinda cleared her throat. “Mr. Johnson did say come right in,” she told me, her face pinched. It took a moment for me to realize her expression was carefully hidden fear. The Angel was afraid, and it was of the man on the other side of those doors. I hadn’t even met the man, but I already didn’t like him.

I gave her a nod, and watched bemused, as both she and Round tugged their already perfect clothes into minimally better order. Of course, that just made me slouch more.

We walked into the inner sanctum. Wealth impresses a lot of people. They figure the folks who have so much money must know something beyond the rest of us. Displaying wealth conspicuously is one way to overawe people. Too bad I know wealth doesn’t convey wisdom, taste, or even common sense.

Which is not to say the office was not impressive; it was. Dove gray carpet, thick and soft, covered the floor to all the walls, including the floor to ceiling window looking out on to downtown Houston. In front of the window was large desk made of antique mahogany. It had to be antique, the harvesting of the tropical hardwood had been banned world-wide since I was a kid. More of the rare wood paneled the lower part of the three walls, and was even made into the door to what was probably Johnson’s private bathroom. On the walls were bookshelves interspersed with modern art originals. Money, money, money, it all screamed.

Behind the desk, his back to us was the man himself; Otho Johnson, the fourth to bare that singular name. The Johnsons were old money, now. Back in the first Otho’s generation they were working class, but Johnson’s great-granddad had made the leap from rough-neck worker to rig owner and driller, lifting the family into comfortable middle class status. Otho II had cashed in that business and moved the family from energy production to energy trading, more than tripling their net worth.

The third Otho moved out of fossil fuels all together and went long on renewable energy, once again in the production side. The timing had been perfect, and again the Johnson family rode to a higher level of wealth.

This Otho had both followed the family path and left it. He liquidated his fathers solar and wind empire and put it all in genetic engineering. I was standing in the fruits of that labor, both in this office and entire acrology that housed it.

I wondered idly if there was an Otho V with a nascent plan to become God-Emperor. It’s about the only level left for him, if he wants to follow the family footsteps. Or maybe he’d chuck it all and become a part-time dog groomer. If you have no chance at winning in family competition, it’s really better to not play at all.

Johnson was built wide, broad-shouldered, with a neck that was once powerful but now getting soft with age and easy living. He wore a suit that easily cost as much as six months rent on my office. He wore it like it was one of many, and of no real concern. His thick salt and pepper hair was cut in a slightly long brush, flat as the prairie. Probably no hair would dare to stick up above the rest for fear of risking Otho’s displeasure.

The great man finally deigned to acknowledge us and turned around. The glass behind him was tinted enough that I could see his face, even with the light of mid-day behind him.

His eyes were a bright but pale blue. They were a little bulbous, but glittered with hard intelligence. I’m an observant guy, it’s what I do. Still I don’t often have instant insight into people. But I sure did this time.

Those eyes were cold and calculating. There are lots of folks with those kinds of eyes. It was what the calculation was that put them in their own creepy category. There was a hunger in them. Something that yelled at my hindbrain, telling me in no uncertain terms what was being calculated was how much every person or object might fill the hole inside this man.

Maybe it was this generation’s Otho who’d set his sights on God-Emperor. Given where I was standing; he may have very well have achieved it. It gave me a chill. For a driven person, success; complete and total success, is a very sad place. The removal of the struggle at the center of their lives leaves them lost, adrift. It is a sad place for them but a dangerous place for everyone else. Unlimited resources combined with a hole that can’t be filled leads to extreme places. Ask Michael Jackson, or Howard Hughes, or Robert Durst.

While I was looking over Johnson, he was looking me over too. He gave me a head to toe sweep, then back again. If his lips didn’t twist into a sneer it was only because Otho didn’t think sneering was productive. He turned to his two employees flanking me.

“This is the detective you wanted? Are you sure he’s qualified?”

“He’s the man that caught the Sundown Hacking ring” Round said.

“He has four doctorates,” Belinda said at nearly the same time. Its interesting to hear what people think will impress their boss. Me? I craned my head to the left a little and stared out the window.

“What are you looking at Mr. Hunt?” Johnson asked. He seemed a little miffed that I wasn’t patiently waiting for his attention.

“I think I can just see my office from here. It’s nice to see the other side of the view.” I heard Johnny draw in a hiss of breath, and could all but feel Belinda’s eyes turning skyward at my disrespect of her boss. She shouldn’t be so hasty; I hadn’t even started on that score.

Johnson on the other hand wasn’t ready to accept that I could be rude. He turned and looked speculatively out at the view. “Really?” he asked, “Maybe I should buy the building and have it torn down. Then I won’t have your eyes on me all day.”

I didn’t have a snappy reply, so I took out a stick of gum, made a show of unwrapping it and putting it my mouth. For flare I gestured at all three of them in turn with the pack, in case they wanted gum too.

“Mr. Hunt, two of my best have brought you here in a matter which could determine the very existence of this company. I know why they think you are the man for the job, but why do you think you are?” Johnson asked, taking a seat behind gleaming wood of his desk, gesturing us to sit in the three, slightly lower, chairs in a group in front of it.

Instead of sitting I went over to the painting on one wall. It was a modern art piece; a city in the making in the background, while distorted views of several men trying to restrain a rushing horse took up the foreground.

“This is a Boccioni, isn’t it?” I asked, knowing the answer. Johnson nodded but didn’t say anything. “It’s called The City Rises, one of his most famous and this is the original, of course.” I turned back to look at them. “The themes are about movement and modernization. The horse represents change that can not be resisted, but, at best, barely controlled by man. It could also be the will of one man, breaking the shackles of convention and conformity to bring the world to a new place.”

“A very nice synopsis, Mr. Hunt, but I trust you have a point?” Johnson asked.

“That’s what qualifies me to solve your murder, in your timetable. I notice things, I put them together and they tell me other things. I have a wide range of knowledge and interests to use as well.”

“And what does your knowledge tell you about me and that painting?” Johnson asked, leaning in. He was interested but there was a gleam in his eye. He thought this was a test I’d fail.

I gave an enigmatic smile (yes, I do practice it, you can’t whip one out on cue if you don’t) and nodded to the challenge.

“A person who buys something like this sees themselves as a visionary. They have strong traditions. They have been taught to uphold, but can not abide by the restraints of those very traditions,” I said. Johnson’s eyes were mocking, but I knew I was on the right path. “Which is why your father bought it, isn’t it?” It was a guess, but an informed one based on what I knew about the Johnsons. I knew I was right by the slight widening of Otho’s eyes, but I wasn’t done. No guts, no glory.

“And you keep it here for a couple of reasons; first, it is a fabulously expensive item, like the rest of the art. Anyone who walks in, even if they don’t know their Modernists, will know an original like that is expensive.”

“And the second reason?” Johnson asked, almost as if he couldn’t help it.

“You keep it in your private office to remind yourself of how like your father you are, so you can strive to accentuate the areas where you differ.”

Round and Belinda looked like they’d rather be down at the harbor working oil decontamination than between the two of us at that moment. I might have gone a little too far, say a pound and a half, but if I was bounced from this job for speaking truth to power, well, it wouldn’t even be in the mid-double digits of times it had happened.

Johnson stared at me with those calculating eyes then he smiled slowly. I say smiled because people don’t show their teeth in dominance displays like dogs do.

“Well done, Mr. Hunt, very well done.”

“So I passed the audition, then?”

“Yes, quite well.” He invited me to sit with the wave of a flat hand. It was actually an invitation, not a command. As such I could sit, and did.

Johnson leaned back in his tall, dark leather chair and looked at the ceiling for a moment. “Mr. Hunt, you know the basics of the case, do you really think you can find the criminal by our Friday deadline?” he asked when he looked down.

Well there it was, crux time. Up to this point I could back out, take my ten grand and call it a nice week. I’d had a chance to see the inside of one of the biggest buildings in the world, caught up a little with an old flame and an old contact, but up until now I was not really committed. If I told Otho Johnson I could solve this case, then that is what he’d expect, nothing less.

I should have bailed. It was the right call. This was a mess, and given all the odd vibes and flags I’d had from walking in here, it was not going to get better. There was no win in being the PI who helped Gen-Tech cover up a murder the HPD then had to solve. All my good will with the force, such as it was, would be flushed right into the shipping channel. But there was a challenge in Johnson’s cold eyes. The man might be missing something, maybe something important as far as being a decent human was concerned, but he was also very smart and knew when he was face to face with the same. More than for the good of his company, he was daring me to take up a job he was sure he couldn’t handle.

And then there was Belinda, gods lesser and greater help me, but helping her, maybe redeeming myself in her opinion, it was too much to resist. I did just say I was smart right? Considering my last thought, I think it’s possible that’s a lie.

It says in the Fifteen Steps of a Private Investigation that when in doubt, raise the stakes, change the state of play. So that’s what I did.

“I can, Mr. Johnson, but there are some ground rules and they are not negotiable. If you can’t or won’t abide by them, I’ll just take a lift back to my office.” I told him.

“Let’s hear them,” Johnson shot back, not surprised.

“I get full access, everywhere. No exceptions. I can interview anyone I want, alone if I feel the need, and unrecorded unless I choose to do so. I don’t know right now what will put me on the trail, so I can’t have artificial walls. And,” I turned to my left to face Johnny, “No offence, but you can’t be over my shoulder all the time. We’re severely short on time. I think its best if we run parallel investigations.” Johnny gave me a sour look, but he also nodded.

“Finally, I am not here to investigate anything other than this murder. If I turn up other crimes, short of killings, I don’t care about them. That’s your problem as a city, my problem is this investigation. Can you abide by those terms?”

Johnson didn’t answer right away. I could see him thinking through what I’d just said and looking at it from different angles. It was a trait I’d noticed in other successful businessmen, they didn’t feel the need to respond instantly.

Johnson nodded, “I can live with those terms, Hunt, but I have some conditions of my own. You can have your access, but you will have to have one of my people with you at all times when you are in the building.” It was annoying but reasonable, so I nodded.

“Belinda should be adequate in that role, she is one of my top aides and will be able to smooth the way with anyone who is unclear as to what full cooperation means. Secondly, if and when you solve the case, all materials, including any notes or recordings will be turned over to Chief Round. He will present them to the HPD as the result of his department’s work. And finally, you will sign a non-disclosure form. Nothing you learn here about the murder or Gen-Tech is to be disclosed, under significant monetary penalty. So, Hunt, can you accept those conditions?”

I thought for a second. I’d just told him that I would do the job and it was none of his business how I did it. He’d agreed, but made it clear that what I did for him and Gen-Tech was nobody else’ business. Oddly, it was the most normal part of taking a private investigation.

“I can live with that, Mr. Johnson.”

He showed me his teeth again, and offered that slab of a hand. I took it and gave a firm shake. There was none of the testing like with Johnny, we might be guys, but we were not friends.

“Excellent. Then I won’t keep you from your work, Mr. Hunt.” Johnson said, dismissing us. All three of us stood.

“I don’t have any questions for you right now, Mr. Johnson, but I probably will. I know you’re busy but can we schedule some time this evening, maybe thirty minutes or so?”

“I’ll mention it to Leonard; he’ll let Ms. Morris know when I’ll be available.” With that we left.