Streetlethal Read online

  "Well then, why does he have the short-term message on?"

  "Forget to switch?" She hunched her shoulders, and he went on. "Maybe he was taking an unexpected trip." He grinned suddenly as a cheerfully larcenous thought struck him. "In that case, maybe he forgot to arm his alarms, too."

  "Aubry," she said urgently, "how in the world can we be sure they aren't armed?"

  "We can't. Have a little faith." He crept around the side of the building, and after a swift and acrimonious discussion with her common sense, Promise followed.

  It wasn't that Aubry moved silently, it was that the sounds he made seemed integral parts of the night, background noises, nothing to draw the attention. He moved in spurts, covering ten or fifteen meters in a crouched run, then paused, listening.

  At last he spied an unlatched upper window. He gestured her near. "See?" he whispered. "Get around the back door. I'll let you in there." Then he was gone, his strong fingers finding purchase where her eyes saw none, scrambling up and up like a meld of monkey and black spider.

  The night seemed infinitely deep and hostile as she watched him disappear into the house with a screech of resisting hinges.

  When his feet disappeared into the open rectangle, Promise took her bearings, inhaled and held her breath, then ran to the rear of the house.

  He was at the back door before she was, holding it open a crack. "Come on," he said quietly. "I don't think there's anyone here."

  "Let's hope it stays that way."

  "Chicken?"

  "Don't want my feathers ruffled, if that's what you mean." She crouched close to him. "Where do we start?"

  "We start by looking for Patricks's bedroom. Upstairs? Downstairs? What do you say?"

  "I'm not sure. You've had more experience at break-and-entry."

  "Yeah, but I'll bet you can sniff out a bedroom at eighty meters."

  "Fair enough. Upstairs."

  The house was well furnished, but not extravagantly so. The stairway was a spiral in the center of the cubical house, coiling on itself one-and-a-half times before reaching the second floor. "Which way?" Promise said when they reached the top, examining an empty frame hanging on the wall. She probed a button at the base of the frame, and a holographic sculpture of a bisected human body appeared there, blood pumping as they watched. She turned it off. Aubry had already moved down the left branch of the hall. There were three doors, two on one side and one on the opposite wall. Aubry eased one of them open with his fingertips, saw that it was dark, found the light strip, and ran his finger a third of the way up. By the dim light it was clear that it was a work room, with a small library attached. There were papers strewn on the floor. Books had been pulled out, tapes and data cubes and holo plates ripped and broken on the desk, electronic instruments shattered on the floor.

  Aubry whistled low.

  He crossed to the next door and opened it a crack, then opened it wider. He jerked his head, motioning for Promise to follow.

  It was a bedroom, and judging by the wealth of electronics and comfort accessories, almost certainly Patricks's own.

  There was a refrigerator and microrange built into the night-stand. The bed was diamond-shaped, and the blankets were some gossamer-thin material that glowed in the dim light.

  Promise sighed. "This bastard lives just too damn good."

  "I'll try to do something about that. You must have stretched out a few toppers. Where did they keep their candy?"

  "I'm not sure he'd have any, Aubry. 'Them that deal don't do,' and all that."

  "He didn't deal it, he cooked it up. And even if he isn't a junkie, he still might have a personal stash."

  "Try the medicine cabinet."

  "Cute." There was an adjoining door. Aubry nudged it open, flicking the lights up halfway. "Well," he said in disgust, "I think we can stop looking for Patricks."

  Part of Promise knew what he was saying even as she moved to follow him, but another part hung back, pretending that there could be more than one interpretation of the words. By the time she crossed the threshold of the bathroom, she knew that she was lying to herself.

  A sunken tub had been installed in the bathroom, surrounded by white synthetic fur carpeting. Promise hoped it was synthetic. She doubted if that much blood would ever wash out of natural fabric.

  It was splotched and puddled, gumming brown, at least a liter of it in the fur. There was more on the white ceramic of the tub itself, and even more running in cracked rivulets on the twisted and ruined body of Dr. Patricks.

  Aubry tried to look at the thing in the tub but couldn't, suddenly dizzy. He turned and staggered, catching himself on the washbasin with both hands. Promise shut the wet sounds out of her mind as she examined the corpse.

  He was stark naked, hands and feet bound with wire and fastened to either end of the tub. There didn't seem to be a centimeter of his body that was not bruised, burnt, or torn. A gooseneck lamp had been twisted down to shine directly into his eyes. There was a half-melted bucket of ice cubes sitting at the head of the tub. Patricks's lidless blue eyes stared sightlessly into the ceiling, and beneath his gaping mouth was a second, lipless red maw that stretched from ear to ear.

  It was repellent and fascinating at the same time. She was horrified to hear a small voice in the back of her mind say, That evens it for Maxine.

  Aubry staggered out of the room, and she followed. As she stood, the barriers she had erected in her mind, that had kept her going for the past thirty-six hours without sleep crumbled with the abruptness of a rotten bridge giving way underfoot. The events of the past day hit her a sledgehammer blow and she felt her vision blur, her guts twist like a rubber band. There was a flash of light and then blackness. When she opened her eyes, Aubry was crouching over her.

  "I think," Aubry muttered, "that they got what they wanted out of him."

  "Why?" she said dizzily. Odd ... a moment ago I could look at Patricks as if it were all make-up and cherry jell-o. Now, even bringing the image to mind makes me want to puke.

  Aubry steadied himself. "The throat. They cut his throat when they were done. A reward."

  "Reward?"

  "If you were Patricks, believe me, by the time they delivered that cut you'd be grateful."

  "All right, all right. A reward for what?"

  "What do you think they wanted? He talked. He told them what they wanted to know."

  "All right. Do you know what it was he told them, Sherlock?"

  "What?"

  "Sherlock. Holmes. Don't you read?" There was a moment of strained silence, and then she sighed. "Right. He was a big detective."

  His voice was steadier, but she could detect a tremor when his eyes flickered to the open bathroom door. "He probably told them about the drug. Everything they wanted. Formula, source, whatever it was." He wiped his finger on the carpet. "One more thing. Maybe they killed him because he didn't give them any other choice, got too greedy. Or maybe they're still tidying up after themselves."

  A horrible thought was forming just below the horizon of conscious thought. "Let's say that's what they're doing. That they're killing everyone connected with it. Ornstein. Maxine. Patricks." She paused hesitantly, "There's still me. They want the drug. But maybe if I can get it back to them..."

  Aubry shook his head. "I think it's too late for that. Just hope it's not too late for your friend at the clinic."

  Promise paled and spun on her heel. "Oh, no... Cecil "

  Aubry carefully wiped the doorknobs clean behind them and followed her out, his mind filled with new questions. Behind him, Patricks stared sightless in the tub, beyond all thought.

  It was near dawn by the time they got back to the clinic. There were no lights on anywhere in the building.

  "Maybe he's gone home?" Promise said hopefully. Aubry shook his head as they pulled back behind it, pointing out Kato's two-seater. The back door was unlocked, and Aubry entered it sideways, flattening himself against the wall. There was a sound from the far end of the hall, the sound of clinkin
g bottles and harsh breathing. Aubry ran lightly down the hall, almost making it to the end before a face poked out and squeaked. Promise was close behind him, but what happened next was much too fast for her to see clearly. Aubry reached out and grabbed a handful of hair faster than the figure could vanish back into the room. With a savage yank, he pulled the man— hardly a man; stick-thin, he could barely have been out of his teens—off his feet and hurled him across the hall with a movement so reflexive he hardly broke his stride. The youngster somersaulted into the wall shoulders-first, sliding to the ground in a heap.

  There was trash everywhere, and broken glass. The examination rooms had been stripped almost bare. Promise nudged open the door of Cecil's office with her toe. There, in the middle of the floor was a single huddled shape.

  Moving slowly, she sat on the floor next to Cecil, lifting his head into her lap, keening to his inert body, the light from her face washing over him in gentle waves.

  She didn't hear Aubry move up behind her. She felt him there, and turned with wet streaks lining her face.

  "He was the only one, Knight—the only man who ever gave me anything without wanting my body in return. The only one worth a damn. And I killed him." She paused, then added, "We killed him."

  "Don't lay that on me, lady. You brought us here. My hands are clean."

  She flared murderously, the light from her plastiskin so bright that for a moment it hurt his eyes and he had to look away. The effort exhausted her. She slumped down, folding herself over Cecil's head. Her body moved, but she made no sound.

  Aubry left the room and looked out into the hall. It was empty, the one remaining assailant gone into the night. He grunted with a mixture of anger and relief.

  "Aubry," Promise called. She was still holding Cecil's head, but the tears on her face had dried. "What now, Aubry? What do we do?"

  "Only one thing left," he said.

  There was total silence in the room for a few heartbeats, and Promise bit her lip, examining Aubry carefully. "I know they did something to you in prison, Aubry." Her voice held no mockery, no taunt. "Are you sure?"

  "The day I can't fight back is the day I'll lay down and die," he said. His voice was steady, but she saw the perspiration on his forehead, and wondered.

  "All right, then," she said, lowering Cecil's head gently to the ground. He helped her up with a steady hand. "Truce. No bullshit. No play."

  He took her hand and shook it, hard. "All right, then," he said, taking a last look at the figure on the floor. "Let's get it done."

  7. Luis

  "I know —I did security detail there sometimes. But they have a weak spot, and together we can break it. Luis. Every Friday night he's got to have his party. Can't believe he's still so predictable, but that's Luis. You'll know him when you see him. Tall. Built like a dancer, but the man isn't human. Does all the drugs in the world. Drinks like an alky, burns the sheets every night with a different woman, and still manages to take care of business.

  His little brother Tomaso is different, dangerous. It's easy to forget that he's even there. Round, soft little man. Doesn't party, doesn't drink. Doesn't like women or men. Talk is that he doesn't have any balls at all. Doesn't care about anything but the Family, and taking care of big brother. Watch him. He's the danger..."

  One of the host/bodyguards came to meet her aircar as it settled, opening her door before the steam ceased gushing from under the rubber flange. Showtime, she said to herself, taking a moment to adjust her wrap and carefully shoulder her braided hemp handbag. It held extra makeup, a few salves and ointments for the adventurous, and a couple of props, all non-metallic and nonthreatening.

  "Gibbs?" Rhetorical question. He took her hand and helped her down, keeping an eye on the metal detector on his wrist. His eyebrow rose in surprise. "Less than ten grams?" He was almost as tall as Aubry, but slender and white.

  She smiled, showing rows of perfect teeth. "Right here." She ran her tongue over them smoothly. His shoulders squared, back straightened, stomach tautened. Male preening. He was hooked, his mind pulled off business.

  The left side of her body flared with light for a moment. The burst seemed to crawl upwards from her feet, finally coiling out through her hair. The stream of partyers paused in their forward motion. Men studied her speculatively, their female companions analyzed the competition with practiced caution.

  She squeezed the host's hand as he helped her past the still-warm landing coils. "I hope you won't have to search me," she said so softly that he had to strain to hear her. "I'm sure you wouldn't find anything you'd like."

  If a depth charge had gone off in his pants, the reaction could have been no more obvious. He grinned broadly. "My name's Brad," he said. "And I'll definitely see you later." He escorted her past the first checkpoint, and she had an opportunity to check out the other guests.

  She recognized the mayor of a southern California municipality, and a congressman from Nevada. There was a businessman she recognized—from her business, not his. A few women she knew professionally. The rest were just faces, hungry faces. She knew the type. They would be here every Friday night. Currying favor, enjoying the sex and drugs, seeking an opportunity to observe Luis's guests with their guards down and libidos up.

  The guests were individually scanned a second time, but Promise's was cursory, the man on her arm a quick pass through the checkpoint. She sighed in relief as the whining scan-field remained stable, no change in color or pitch.

  There were at least twenty guards, perhaps more. Some were uniformed, but most were dressed as guests, only the constant movement of their eyes a giveaway. They strolled through the checkpoints over and over without concern. "Brad," she said quietly, "I heard that this place was tight. Why are all of those people just walking through the gates?"

  "Guards."

  "They're not wearing uniforms. How can you tell?"

  He laughed. "Security Central knows. Little implant under the arm. Talks to the computer every time they pass a scan. If the code doesn't match, well... you wouldn't want to see it."

  "What might I like to see?"

  They reached the front door before Brad formulated an answer. She grinned. "Like you said. I'll see you later." She walked through the final checkpoint alone.

  The light inside the house was a soft gold, radiating from the carpets and walls of a hall that seemed to stretch to the horizon. She blinked. Some kind of visual illusion field, certainly. Her wrap and purse were taken at the door, and she wandered down the hall.

  After a few steps she turned and looked behind her. It looked as if she had walked a mile, the front door a distant and tiny rectangle disgorging midgets.

  The first door to her left was a dining room, and she entered, mingling with the guests. They were gathered around a low table, a slow, continuous conveyer belt circling buffet dishes in never-ending abundance.

  The smell was maddening, and she took a plate. There was slivered and glazed roast duck, turkey in wine sauce, to be plucked out with chop sticks; Cornish hens stuffed with spiced mutton; fish served whole, halved, diced, sliced, souped, bouil-labaissed, jellied, dried, and pounded raw. Bowls of raw and cooked vegetables made the rounds, platters of fruits, trays of fresh hot breads and jugs of every conceivable beverage. And of course, the desserts, hot and cold, sweetened and natural, in any quantity or variety desired.

  She chose sparingly and circulated through the crowd, keeping an eye open for Luis. There was no one who fit the description, although she did finally see Tomaso.

  He was soft-looking. Studiedly so, and something about his fleshy chin, his skin—unusually pale for a Latino—the brutally short hair and poorly cut suit, told her that it was a deliberately shaped image. His movements were reserved and tentative. When she walked backward through the crowd to get closer to him, she could hear his voice as he spoke to a striking blond woman. "... Chyrmin, I suppose he's down in the Grotto." She heard a carefully timed pause. "He always ends up there. Maybe he started early this evening."<
br />
  Promise engaged in conversation with one of the male guests, and maneuvered him around enough to get a closer look at Tomaso. Their eyes met for an instant, and he looked away in disinterest.

  Check that— apparent disinterest. There was something there that made her suddenly, massively uncomfortable. His face was so flat, he made Osato's look downright convex.

  She found a mirror along one wall and stared into it until she found Tomaso, noting that he glanced at her twice before returning to his polite conversation. A moment later he left the room. Her spine crawled. She put her plate down, her stomach too knotted even to look at food.

  The guard at the front door seemed happy to see her again. "My purse, please. I'm going downstairs in a few minutes." He glanced in it, saw the collection of oils and glazes, and handed it to her with naked envy on his face.

  "Don't look so sad," she said. "Don't you get your fun later?"

  "Yeah... much later. Everything good's used up."

  "I'm never used up," she said, meeting his eyes so directly that he had to look away.

  She found her way to the rear of the house and pushed at the doors until she found the bathroom. It was a miracle of glittering tile and chrome, two sunken bathtubs and a bubble-shower, massage table, and tanning lights. The bathroom had a dual-pipe system: fresh water for bathing and cleansing, salt for flushing. At the rear of the room was a window that looked down on the ocean. She opened it as far as it would go, looking out. The sun had set completely, only the slightest fringe of red brushing the horizon. The kiss of sea air helped to unknot her stomach, and she inhaled deeply.

  Hold on. Just hold on. It's too late for Cecil, but Maxine still needs you. Steadied, she dumped her purse out into a hamper, turned it inside out, and felt along the bottom for the knot. When her fingers found it, she breathed a sigh of relief, and started to work it loose.

  The Grotto. It was a cavern sculpted in the rock beneath Casa Ortega at a cost she couldn't imagine. Artificial stalactites crowned huge bathing pools, colored lights flickering in their depths. The water was filled with nude couples absorbed in slow-motion lovemaking. The scent of hashish, opium, grubs, and sex was heavy in the air. The sound of a tropical lagoon played over hidden speakers, augmented by an excited heartbeat rhythm.