"The Transgenic Falcon"

We were back in the G-T morgue. Round hadn’t just come by to admit to losing Mick Taylor; Doctor Simpson had some results for us. He had led us into a holo-imaging suite instead of the cold room where autopsies were performed, the better to show his handiwork I suppose.

Before we could begin there was a bit of scrum. Simone Ferguson showed up, uninvited, insisting that she be part of the discussion. Round was in no mood for anyone to push him around, especially the abrasive Dr. Ferguson, but I overrode him and let her stay.

Why? Well, if we were really going to find a different suspect, I needed expert knowledge, and it gave me an opportunity to watch her interact with other folks. Maybe it was just my distaste for G-T or maybe it was an actual hunch, but something seemed false about dear Simone. With as few hard pieces of evidence as I had, I was willing to indulge my hunch, as long as there was another reason for doing so. I’ll tell you again boys and girls, never take action with only one purpose in mind, it’s inefficient.

Round accepted my choice, but he wasn’t happy about it. I wondered if he’d have suggested me for this gig if he had known how he’d feel about after only a few hours. I guess I’m an acquired taste. Yeah, that’s it.

“If Dr. Ferguson is staying, can I start?” Doc Simpson asked the room in general. Everyone pulled in their talons and gave him their attention. He punched in some commands on his handheld and a ghostly image of a nude Dr. Cho, at one third scale, hovered over the conference table.

“The actual cause of death for Dr. Cho is massive blood loss.” Simpson began. “The eyes, heart, and testicles all show signs of massive cellular destruction.” Red light highlighted the areas. Glowing blue lines spread out to three boxes, showing microscopic views of tissue samples from each area. They clearly showed cell fragments, with very few whole cells. “When these organs failed catastrophically, the surrounding blood vessels were opened and he bled out in seconds.”

“This all happened at the same time?” I interrupted.

Simpson nodded, “As far as we can tell, yes. The level of cellular decay is the almost the same for effected organs and ones that were left whole.”

“So whatever killed them was fast acting,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

“Or triggered, yes,” Simpson added helpfully. “We still do not know what caused this, but the end result looks most like rapid freezing and thawing. As you can see most of the cells are shattered as if jagged ice crystals had formed. But we’ve ruled that out, there is no evidence of it in the surrounding tissues. At the very least there would be some damage to his chest around the heart if this was done by exterior cooling.”

I was tempted to push the Doc to get to the point, but sometimes you have to let experts build up to what they want to say. The holographic presentation suggested he or his staff had put in more than a bit of time; pissing him off by making him cut to the chase would probably just make things take longer.

“Now, looking at the Eolin-I, we found something interesting.” Simpson said, banishing the image of Cho and replacing it with three glowing furred shapes. “They also all died of blood loss, but the damage was far more widely spread.” Two of the images disappeared and the one remaining grew to life size, the fur and skin vanishing, to reveal the internal organs.

The eyes were mush, same as Dr. Cho’s, but now through the transparent skull I could see the brain was a pile of goo as well. There were close-up boxes for the testicles and heart. Unlike the image of Cho, there were red-lines and signs of bleeding around bones, between groups of organs, at major muscle groups.

“That can’t be right,” Ferguson said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, look at where the damage is. It’s at the junction of every major body system. Like the modules were targeted.”

Simpson, instead of being upset at being interrupted beamed, “Exactly what we think!” He called up a pointer and used his finger on the handheld to move it around the body. “See, how the muscles have let go of the bones? And how capillaries to the lungs are nearly all severed? Same with the digestive and endocrine systems. Whatever hit the Eolin-I, it all but caused them to self-destruct. Module failure is the most likely explanation.”

“I get the break up here, but what are modules?” I asked.

Simpson looked over at Ferguson who nodded; she’d be the one get the special needs kid, namely me, up to speed.

“Modules are part of the design philosophy for created organisms. As you can see, a living creature is stupendously complex. Attempting to code it piece by piece would be nearly impossible, so each of the major body systems is treated as a module. Teams work on circulation, or digestion or skeleton.” She paused to see if I was following, and I nodded that I was. Maybe I’m not as slow as she thought.

“Once each system is ready, genetic instructions are inserted to tell the system how to connect and work with the others. That particular bit of coding is one of the reasons Gen-Tech is so far ahead of its rivals. We developed and standardized it years ago.”

“So, it looks like the whatis that killed Cho not only hit the same areas on the Eolin-I, but also did something that made the modules separate. Does anyone know how that might happen?”

Again Simpson deferred to Simone, though this time she was less happy. Her lips were pursed like she had just taken a big bite of a lemon. “There are several agents that can cause module separation. It has been a problem in the development of the Eolin-I and some of the other more complex products. Certain types of sulfides, infections and even trauma have been known to cause it. The Eolin-I are not like an evolved species, they don’t have millions of years of testing by environmental conditions behind them,” she said, then shrugged. It was an uncomfortable gesture from someone as controlled as she was. “But we were careful to fix all those issues before going to a full prototype nest.”

“Well, it looks as though who ever killed Cho has found another item you’ll have to address,” I told her, then turned back to Simpson, “I assume you’ve tested for the known causes in Cho and the ’lin-I?”

“Yeah, and no joy, none of them present in any of the bodies.”

Everyone mulled that over for a moment. “Let me see if I have the gist of this.” I said, “Whatever killed Cho could also affect the Eolin-I, but even more so. It wasn’t any of the known ah, er, modular cutters, but it acted like that.”

“That’s about it,” Simpson agreed.

“But we still don’t know how it was administered, what it was, or even when it was administered, yes?”

Simpson nodded glumly, “I wish I could be more help, Mr. Hunt, but it really is something completely new.”

“Its okay, Doc. If it were easy none of us would be working on it. You have a report on everything you’ve done and found?” Getting a nod I said, “Good, if you’d shoot it to my quantitative guys, I’ll have them slice and dice it. Maybe something will fall out of the data that will give us other avenues to explore.”

It was obvious the meeting was over, so everyone stood up. Belinda’s com unit chimed and she stepped aside to take the call. Round left without saying anything. I’m sure he was frustrated at loosing the time when he could be hounding down Taylor. I stepped over to Simone as she gathered up her handheld.

“Your team would know better than any how the modules fell apart. I assume you’re going to be looking into it?”

“Damned straight we will!” she all but spit.

“All right then, I’ll need you to keep me and Simpson in the loop as to what you find. Knowing exactly what killed Cho will help us narrow down the people who were able to make it happen.” Simone didn’t reply, just gave me a nod and left the room at speed. Even with the death of Cho and the Eolin-I, it was the first time I’d seen the woman upset.

I nodded to Belinda as she came up to where I was standing, “Ready to go? I think our best bet is to head back to the office for a while.”

“Actually, Mr. Johnson is ready to see you. He’s invited you to his apartment for cocktails,” Belinda said, her face giving no clue as to how she felt about it. That in itself was more than a little disconcerting. What the hell had Johnson said in a three minute phone call? Well, there was only one way to find out, and it was not like I really had a whole lot of choice.

“Lead on MacDuff,” I told her.

It was another long hike through the acrology to even get to the elevators that led to Johnson’s private pleasure palace. I’d noticed that everyone at Gen-Tech seemed quite fit. After a day of running around the place I thought I knew why, there is no quick or automated path to anywhere. Sure, there are lifts to take you between levels, but each level is so freaking huge you just wind up putting in the miles. I wondered what a pedometer would show was the average number of steps the inhabitants took on a daily basis? Whatever the number, I’d be willing to swear under oath that it was higher than outside the massive building. Just another counterintuitive bit of joy in this ant-farm.

I’d thought I’d seen the pinnacle of power decoration when we strolled down the hall to Cho’s apartment, but if I had taken the time to think it through I would have figured out there was at least one higher level. For all that Cho was the jewel in the scientific crown that was G-T, he was still was not part of the power elite, the ones who paid the piper and called the tune. No, that was reserved for people who were closer to the very top of the social order. Inside G-T no-one was closer to it than Otho Johnson.

I’d like to say the place was a gaudy and overblown as Versailles, but it really wasn’t. The long halls were of the same width and height I’d seen near Cho’s place, and while the carpet and lighting were an upgrade, there was no ostentatious over use of gold or massive dripping chandeliers. Of course, there were no local coffee shops either. The walls were empty except for widely spaced doorways and the occasional niche filled with original artworks.

We rang the doorbell next to the heavy black Teak door. When the slab of fabulously expensive wood opened we were greeted by a narrowly build man with a gleaming bald head.

“Good evening, Ms. Morris, and Mr. Hunt,” the man said his manner smoother than a slab of Teflon. He ushered us into the entryway and closed the door behind with a sound the worry-wart part of my mind insisted was the closing of a casket lid; irrevocable, dark and final.

The foyer (being met by a butler meant there was exactly zero chance of this first little room of the apartment being called anything as plebian as an entryway) was another step up the luxury ladder. Green, white and black marble laid out in a tight herringbone pattern covered the floor. The walls were a deep, rich red, with gold painted molding outlining each wall. The gold was not shiny like the actual metal, but looked aged and darkened with a patina, as if it had been there forever, and couldn’t possibly be something as gauche as decorating.

There was only a single piece of furniture in the room, a gorgeously carved table, its top a slab of gold veined marble. On it was a small bowl and a vase that anywhere else I’d say was a reproduction of a Ming vase. But would someone like Johnson ever settle for a copy when the original could be had for mere money? The odds were against it.

It was a stark contrast to the drum in Cho’s apartment. Instead of the appropriation of classic styling, this was the real thing. Tall and heavy porcelain, with a wide body tapering to a narrow mouth, the whole thing was done in shades of blue. The picture on it was a depiction of twisting Chinese dragon, flying among five pointed clouds that looked rather like the burst from old-style anti-aircraft guns.

From a distance the picture looked sharp and well defined, but as I wondered closer the lines showed a blurring and lost some of their precision. It only served to further identify this as a priceless antique, rather than a perfectly mass produced copy. And it was just about the only thing to look at in the foyer. There was a message for anyone who was ushered into this room; someone with the wealth and power to leave an item like out for all to see lives here. Enter at your own peril.

Messages like that get right up my nose. Especially ones where you had to have a certain knowledge of history and art to even fully get. So, I did the only thing I could, stuck my hands in my pockets and looked around the place like I thought I might buy it and have it turned into a home for indigent cats or something equally worthwhile.

“If you would follow me?” the butler asked, and led the way towards a wide hall. He stopped at a door in the middle of the hall and opened it. “Ms. Morris, if you would care to wait here?” he ordered, but still managed to make it a question.

I didn’t like that, not one bit. “Ms. Morris part of this investigation, she stays with me,” I told the majordomo with a hard smile.

“I am sorry Mr. Hunt, but Mr. Johnson was quite explicit that he and you speak alone,” the butler said, leaving no doubt that he would rather set the two of us out in the hall than disobey his masters orders.

“Eamon,” Belinda said, “its fine. I’ll wait here until you get back. I’m your guide in G-T, but you don’t need one to have a drink with the CEO, do you?”

When she put it that way I didn’t really have an option. But that didn’t mean I was happy about it. Having someone one else in the room to watch the conversation instead of participating in it was a big thing in the Fifteen Steps, and it worked. But needs must when the devil goes off-roading, or something to that effect.

“Alright, if that’s what you want,” I told her, “I’ll let Wooster over here show me to Otho and I’ll pick you up on the way out.” Belinda smiled and walked into the little sitting room, headed to a couch opposite the door. I turned and gave the butler a pair of arched eyebrows. He nodded and showed me down the hall.

“Jeeves, sir,” he said quietly.

“Your name is Jeeves? Really? Isn’t that a bit on the nose, even for Johnson?” I asked nastily. I still wasn’t happy with him putting Belinda on the bench, even if it was Otho calling the tune.

“No, sir,” he said with a smile, which had its own nasty edge, “The gentleman in the stories by Mr. Wodehouse was Bertie Wooster, the valet was Jeeves. I assume you were trying to be insouciant by referring to me as a famous fictional gentleman’s gentleman.”

Well, that was me put in my place. Of course I couldn’t show it, otherwise the smug bastard would win, or more precisely know he’d won. So I ignored the statement, see, nothing gets under my skin. Much.

“Is it a long walk to where Otho is?” I asked “Maybe we could take the mono-rail, instead of walking? It’s been a long day.”

“Mr. Johnson has arranged for drinks and light fare on the terrace. Perhaps you would be more comfortable in a sports jacket and shirt?” he asked, “I believe we have several that would fit you, and I would be more than happy to put that…” he paused, obviously looking for just the right adjective, but finally failed, “shirt in the incinerator. Surely to throw it out would invite a fine for mishandled toxic waste.”

Ouch. I’m supposed to be the smartass around here! It even says so on my cards. But no, instead I am getting one-upped by a Rumba with an attitude. Then it hit me. And I had to resist rolling my eyes, it was so obvious. The kind of man who’d decorate his foyer with a Ming vase wouldn’t leave the intimidation and demonstration of power at that, oh, hell no. Jarvis-Jeeves-Jocko here was the second wave. I wouldn’t be surprised if this smooth, smug bastard had a background in political speech writing! Well, Mrs. Hunt’s little boy wasn’t going to get played that easy.

“Sorry, but I made a vow never to wear the symbolic chains of Wall Street, so a jacket is right out. For me, smoking jacket is only description after a house fire.”

“Indeed, and it seems to have served you so admirably, thus far, sir” he said in a tone dry enough to cause a drought.

Hmph, so maybe Mrs. Hunt’s son was going to be played, but he didn’t have to let the player know. Small victories, they are so important.

Before I could invite further shame on my name, Rumba-the-butler led me through a huge room with hardwood floors and a couple of decades of my income worth of rugs on the floor , then out onto a deck which was just shy of being big enough to land Gulfstream-15 jet on. But only just.

We were on the east side of the acrology and what I assumed were the upper levels of the apartment rose above the deck, putting the whole thing into shadow. I hadn’t really paid much attention to the clock while I’d been working today, so I was a little surprised to realize it was after seven in the evening. The sun was working its way down. On this side of the building, the blast furnace heat of the day had been banished.

The deck was laid out like a suburban back yard; if that backyard had been designed by top notch landscapers and architects. There were Magnolia trees, Crape Myrtle, Goldenrain, and even a couple of Mimosa’s with a spattering of pink blossoms. Each was ensconced in its own huge urn, and of course, they were all painted to look similar to the vase in the front of the house. When Otho found a mode he liked, he stuck with it, apparently.

There was a twenty-five meter pool slightly off-center in the clear space between the trees, the bottom of which had been tiled in alternating copper-gold and patina green hand-sized tiles. Combined with the bright underwater lights, they threw a green-gold glow up into the lower branches of the trees.

There was a full wet bar lurking to one side, filled to near bursting with rare booze from around the world. Nearby a set of mesh-fabric patio furniture, each one showing a different idealized print of the Italian country-side. It was there that Otho Johnson waited for me.

He had changed his clothes, but was still wearing a suit; the difference was it was a light-weight linen of pale cream and worn (oh! The horrors!) with a shirt and no tie! Otho looked every inch the cool, collected Overlord. Give a pig enough money and it can pull off that look too. Except for maybe the ears, it depends on the pig’s stylist. Rumba cleared his throat in a sound that had to have been bred in (or would that be in bred?) over generations of snotty servants.

“Your guest has arrived, Mr. Johnson.”

Otho turned his perfectly coifed head to look at us and smiled the lazy smile of a well fed predator. “Ah, Mr. Hunt,” he said without rising, “good to see you. Please have a seat.” He indicated a spot on a loveseat sized couch to his right. Being in a contrary mood, I plopped myself down on the far side of couch he was lounging in. I didn’t get the scowl I was hoping for but, there was a slight tightening around his pale blue eyes, I scored it as a partial hit.

“Would you care for something to drink? Catherwood here can make about any cocktail you might fancy.”

Catherwood. A better man might have let it slide, or at least saved it up for some other time, but I’m not the saving type. “Catherwood? Really? I’d have figured you would have made him use James or Jeeves,” I said brightly.

“Too much trouble,” Otho said with a wave of one hand, “Besides, why copy when you can innovate? However, if I recall, Burtie’s drink in the evening was a Sparkling Gin. I can have him make one, if you feel its needed for mood.”

“Well, isn’t everyone well read here?” I asked with a sour look. I hate it when people get the reference. But it’s even worse when they take it a step further than me. I was tempted to play it to hilt and ask for the damned drink, but have you ever had a Sparkling Gin? Gin, lemon juice, simple syrup and Champaign. Gak! It tastes like fizzy-sweet pine soap! No, even to win a round. There was no way in hell I was going to drink something like that. Just no.

Otho smiled a big smile at me. “Actually, I suspect you’ll find that most of the people who live and work here at G-T are very well read. It must be a bit of a shock, given how much more education you have than most people. It would be a grave mistake to think you’re the smartest or most well educated here.”

I didn’t like his tone. “Excuse me; was that some kind of threat?” I asked my voice low and a little angry.

Otho’s eyes widened, then he smiled even more broadly, “Not at all, Mr. Hunt, not at all! It was more along the lines of good advice. I like smart people, and even more so when they are well educated, so I try to surround myself with them. I thought I’d save you some time and maybe some embarrassment by pointing it out.”

Hmm, it still had the edge of a threat to me, but maybe I was just annoyed at having Rumba-Catherwood rough me up verbally. It had been a long afternoon, so resetting my expectations was in order. Of course, now that Otho had shown he thought he had me figured out, this would be a good time to take advantage of his mistake.

I pointed to the glass of amber liquid on the table by his hand. “What are you drinking there?”

Otho picked up his drink and took a sip, “This? Oh, this is my Scotch” he said, rather opaquely.

I looked at the butler, “I’ll have one of those, a double, please.” See, I can be civil, just like anyone else.

Rumba-Catherwood nodded his head, like there had never been any other choice. “Shall I bring the horderves as well, sir?”

“Yes, I think so. Let’s start with the cheese platter and then we can move on to the sati.” Johnson said decisively.

“So, your Scotch? Which distillery do you own?” I asked.

“None. You see when I say my Scotch, I do mean mine. When I was born, Father commissioned the Glenmora distillery to make one hundred barrels of Scotch for me. It was a gift for my twenty-first birthday. Every year or so I have another cask bottled or mixed and re-barreled, that way, while it is all similar, it does change over time.”

A hundred barrels. That was a hell of a gift. It comes out to something like ten thousand litters of Scotch. None of it was drunk before it had two decades in the wood, and what was left was approaching fifty years old. If you could find a bar that had something this exclusive and small batch you could expect to shell out upwards of two hundred bucks for a glass. I was doubly glad I’d passed on the Sparkling Gin now.

“That is a pretty amazing thing to have access to,” I noted, “Do you ever drink anything else? I imagine most sprits suffer by comparison.”

“Oh, of course I do. It’s by comparison that you appreciate the truly unique, after all. Plus there is no way I could ever possibly drink all Father had made. I serve it or give it as gifts. It’s not often that most people have or drink Scotch this well aged.”

I should have known, for Otho and his family everything was about power. It’s the kind of thing you forget or ignore to your regret.

Catherwood arrived, and placed cut crystal glass with four fingers of hellishly expensive and rare Scotch at my elbow, on the other table flanking the couch we sat on. He also placed a plate with various, artistically arranged, pieces of cheese and a few hard whole grain crackers there. I took a sip of Otho’s Birthday Scotch.

What can I say about it? Unless you have the means to have tried something similar, it’s a losing battle to describe it. Yes, it was smoky, all Scotch is. Yes, it was cask strength (undiluted), and it had an astounding number of flavors which evolved as the alcohol slid across my tongue and down my throat. What did it taste like? Gun to my head, I’d say it tasted of time. The kind of time that shapes hard rocky places like Scotland. It tasted of the warm spring time when malt and barley grew. It tasted of the decades each tree used to make the barrels had lived. Even more decades as they gave up their tannin and vanillin to the raw liquor. It tasted of winds from the sea and the spicy decay of peat bogs.

When distilling starts in most cultures, the first product is called many different names, but they generally translate into water of life. This whisky, which tasted of so much and so varied amounts of time, was truly a drink to deserve that name.

For a few moments, Otho and I sat and sipped our drinks. Look, I may be a dilettante and Philistine and five-eighths of a jackass, but even I can scrape together enough respect for a truly unique experience to just sit and sip my drink while evening fell over Houston. The city spread out in front of us, all the dirt and wear hidden by distance and the golden light of sunset.

After while, Otho broke the spell. “So, Mr. Hunt, what do you think of Gen-Tech?”

I took another sip, it was time to get my head back in the game. “It’s impressive.”

Otho grinned and nodded, “It is, isn’t it? We’ve really built something to envy here.”

I shook my head slowly, and assembled some stinky cheese on a cracker. “Impressive is not always a positive evaluation.”

“You don’t like what you’ve seen here?” Otho asked, genuinely confused.

“Some of it, sure, but over all, no I don’t think so. There is too much control from the top, too little way for the average inhabitant to affect the course of their lives.” I offered.

Otho gave me a pale blue stare for a moment, then said, “I see, or I think I see. For someone of your…bohemian sensibilities the highly organized nature of Gen-Tech would rub your fur the wrong way. But I wonder if you’ve really looked past the annoyance to what we’ve built here?”

“And what is that?” I asked interested more in his willingness to chat than the answer.

“The future, Mr. Hunt, the future. You look at Gen-Tech and you see a big and possibly nefarious company, not too different from other multinationals; but it is far more than that. Every person living and working here has a standard of living that is well above the average for Houston and for much of the nation. Our schools are all cutting edge with the very best teachers and equipment available. A job at Gen-Tech not only guarantees housing and transportation, but it also comes with access to our world-leading health care and genetic medicines.”

“As long as they toe the line the executives set, that is,” I pointed out.

Otho shrugged, “Of course, how else could it be? All societies have their rules, and the rules are set by the leaders. Likewise those who break the rules or laws are punished to one degree or another. Here at Gen-Tech, we don’t have a problem with repeat offenders. Those committing crimes are terminated from employment, then they become Houston’s problem.”

How glibly he said this. As if he had actually solved a problem by exporting it to the city that surrounded him.

“At least in Houston the citizens have some say in who makes the rules.”

“And they do here as well!” Otho countered, “There is a city council, popularly elected.” He saw my skepticism. “And if they want a say in the running of the company, well, they can invest just like any other shareholder.”

I nodded, letting him think he’d made his point with me. The reality was I didn’t want him to know exactly how deep my contempt for him was. I could easily imagine a feudal lord opining how the peasants were happy with their lot and if they wanted to change it, well, anyone can learn to fight. Or maybe it was worse, maybe it was the privileged faux benevolence of a slave-holder noting how well he kept his owned workforce. In either case I knew I wanted exactly nothing to do with the future Otho Johnson envisioned. To me it wasn’t progress, it was a return to a time when the thin odds of pulling oneself up were even thinner than they have been in the United States up to now.

“I do have a few questions I need to ask you,” I said, trying to turn the conversation in a direction that wouldn’t lead to me calling a very wealthy and powerful man a lot of names.

“Of course. What would you like to know?”

“You were aware of the threats against Dr. Cho’s life?”

“Yes, sadly, he is not the only member of our community who receives them. On any given day we might receive as many as a hundred threats. It is part of why we spend so much on security.”

“Any that stands out recently?”

Otho took a sip of his drink and looked back out at the view of Houston. “Not that I recall. I have Chief Round for that kind of thing; he would only notify me if there was a serious and specific threat against Cho or any of our people.”

“What about internal threats?”

“Internal? What do you mean?” Otho asked looking back at me.

I gave him a sour smile; it is never any fun when people pretended ignorance. “Let’s not play games, Mr. Johnson, you know as well as I that Constantine Cho was no choir boy.”

He smiled at the hit. “Trust a detective to find out all the dirt, eh? Well, yes, Cho could be a bit of a problem child. The very best minds often are, you know.”

“So the HR complaints, the affairs, it’s all just the cost of keeping a resident genius resident?”

“As you say, Mr. Hunt.”

“And when he crossed you?”

Otho froze in the act of raising his glass to his lips. He put the drink down and turned his full attention to me. “And what do you mean by that?” he asked, cold menace in every word. Gone was the image of the benevolent ruler. Now the warlord shone through completely.

“Johnny Round was seen in a very heated shouting match with Cho.” I explained casually, “Now, I figure it would be beneath someone like you to chastise straying employees, but that’s what you have Chief Round for. Isn’t that so?”

He glared at me, but said nothing, so I made myself another cracker, this time with a less stinky cheese. I chewed slowly while he stared me down. I’m sure that look would wilt anyone in G-T, but I wasn’t on the payroll and it’s a detective’s job to find pertinent information by asking impertinent questions. It says so right there in Chapter Eight of the Fifteen Steps.

I swallowed and thought I’d either have to prod Otho some more, or make another cracker, when he finally spoke.

“There have been times when I have found it more effective to have the Chief speak to various employees, if they skirt the boundaries of the law. We are, after all, a part of the chain of government.”

“So, you didn’t have Round threaten Cho?” I pushed, annoyed by this weasely answer.

“Of course not! Why in the world would I want to threaten my star scientist?”

“Oh, people do a lot of things that don’t make obvious sense. It happens more often than you would think, especially with people who are not used to being told no.”

“Well, that is not a problem for me, Mr. Hunt,” Otho said, biting off his words and showing just how false they were by it.

“Of course,” I said, my tone also playing my words false, “But for forms sake, where were you last night Mr. Johnson?”

He smiled a nasty smile, “I was here in my apartment from nine until morning.”

“Can anyone verify you were here?”

“Of course. Catherwood was here, as well as both of my mistresses, all night.”

Well, hell. Not only did he have an alibi but he had one he could brag about, the jerk. Even if Otho wanted Cho dead, he was the type to order it done, instead of getting his manicured hands dirty.

“Do you really think I am a suspect, Mr. Hunt?”

I didn’t, not really, but there was no reason to let him off the hook, “It’s all about procedure, Mr. Johnson. Check every box you can and the empty ones are where the killer is.”

“Well, I hope you are spending most of your time checking more productive boxes. I did hire you after all, what kind of criminal mastermind would do that?”

Time to play a card he surely did not know I had. “Well, off hand, one that was tied up in something illegal with the victim. Maybe something like each having dirt that could ruin the other if they were willing to take the fall as well. Then it might be a good idea to hire an outside detective to with the hope that they would muddy the waters and make it impossible to prove who actually did the deed.”

I’d watched Otho’s eyes closely while I played on the edge of a cliff. There were a limited number of people who both knew about the Goodnight’s Syndrome cure and would tell me. I didn’t want to get Belinda in deep water, not as long as I had any suspicion that Johnson might have ordered Cho killed. He tensed a little at the suggestion of mutual illegality, but just as quickly pushed away the idea that I knew the details, which to be fair, I didn’t have all of.

It looked like I had slipped it by. He was worried, but not worried that I knew the secret that could bring down his whole empire. Still, Otho had not gotten to where he was by letting an opponent see him rattled. He smiled and stood.

“I’d say that’s more in the range of fiction, wouldn’t you Mr. Hunt?”

I stood, glass still in hand, “My father always said that life was stranger than fiction, Mr. Johnson” I threw back the two fingers of Scotch still in my glass. “Right up to the day the elephant sat on him.”

Okay, so the cask strength Scotch had gone to my head, a bit. But the joke was intentional. I wanted to leave Otho off his footing, and by giving him the deadpan line, and not laughing out loud, it was guaranteed he’d be skewed in his thinking about this interview.

Again his experience and training took over, and rather than ask what the hell I’d meant, or show any kind of failure to understand, Otho only waved a hand, “I’ll have Catherwood show you out.” Then he turned and sat back down, making it very clear I was dismissed from his presence.

Before I could even mooch around looking at things, Catherwood appeared and led me out of the apartment. I made sure to ask about Otho’s whereabouts the evening before, and the snotty Rumba confirmed the two mistress story. Jerk.