I walked in the door and said, “Three in one system? That’s not good.”
“A sign of desperation?”
“More likely a sign of competence. He’s proven he’s the man for the job. It’s more cost-effective for him to stack up projects in one system.”
“Well, this one was messy. Someone blown up.”
On the vid, the story was, “—Roberti was a well-known commercial property developer, and—” and little of substance.
He was a commercial developer, but he used very modern technologies for building, and tended to acquire property during various disasters; economic, structural, traffic. There were rumors he tweaked the traffic himself to impoverish his marks. Then he moved in, bought at fire sale prices, demolished—he always demolished, it was a trademark—and built new. An economic rape of a troubled victim. I could see why people would want him dead.
What they did show was a lot of cops and beacons and forensics vehicles and the words “blown up.”
“Explosive?” I asked.
She said, “Not as such. Localized to the individual and no collateral damage at all. It’s nearby.”
“We need to examine it. Got ID?”
“I certainly do, Investigator Gold, licensed by the Citizen’s Council.”
“Let’s go.”
I just set the car to shortest route and let it go. I didn’t know the map well enough to override. The car took us through several main streets, two detours through residential loops, and then I had to take over manual because we hit the crime scene. It was an entire square, with tens of cars, trucks, lights, warning beacons. The car’s systems flashed warnings to avoid the area and I had to argue for manual control.
I found a spot to pull in, and was immediately faced with a uniform shaking his head, waving at us, and trying to override the car with his wand.
I swung out quickly but smoothly and said, “I’m here officially.” I wanted to distract him from the fact that our car was immune to his control.
“Who are you?” he asked, politely enough. He was about my age, good bearing, a little gray. He did have a name badge. Yazrikov.
“Gold. Contract investigator to the Freehold Council. I’ve got reason to believe this is one of ours.”
“Oh, do you?” he said. He examined the ID and even ran his reader over it. It was good enough for that scrutiny. “We’re guessing he’s a veteran.”
“Then he’s probably the one I’m looking for,” I said.
“Great. I served near some of your people on Mtali. I’m not happy with the idea of one turned to crime.”
“Well, I’ll have to see what I can find. This is my assistant, Gretchen Wickell.”
“Ms. Wickell.” He nodded, and gave her ID the same going over.
“Very well,” he said, and keyed his phone.
“Seven to Two. I have two investigators here requesting escort.”
I didn’t hear any reply, but a few moments later, a young woman officer came over. She looked a little ill. Her uniform made her Patroller Meyerson. She wasn’t particularly small, but presented as rather meek for the moment.
“It’s ugly enough they sent me to be escort,” she said to Yazrikov. She looked at us. “First violent case I’ve seen. I’m a bit out of sorts. I apologize.”
“We’ve all been there,” I said to reassure her.
“Please come with me,” she said.
It was a very pretty building: a monococque cylinder with a oblique roof, the outside a spectral translucent that shifted from violet to green in sunlight. It was opaque from outside, the appearance coming from prismatic effects. The landscaping was coordinate-neat but warm and not mechanical.
The walkways were well laid out in cobbles, and the parking aprons back just enough to give a sense of distance and space. There were field-supported molecular weather screens over the walks. Classy.
Inside, I could see cops at the door, cops down the hall, cops back and forth, cameras, DNA tools, bio isolation gear, everything. I could hear casualties talking softly and occasionally moaning in the other direction.
We were stopped again at a checkpoint halfway down the hall. I could see trails of debris from panic flight. People had run screaming, if I made my guess. It stank. I’ve smelled better morgues.
A senior detective checked our IDs, made us pose for pics, which I strained to stand still for. My cover was pretty much trash at this point. I’d have to hope that everyone would continue to vouch for me, rather than trying to get clear of the pending blast. My choice was be imaged, or start a scene. I needed the intel. I let them do it.
My image didn’t trigger any alarms. Detective Marquardt waved us over, and in a slightly muffled voice said, “I saw you at Empire Repair the other day. In a recently abandoned car. So I can stop worrying about that connection in my investigation.” He glowered over his mask. I guessed he was a tiny bit annoyed, in that he’d had a false lead, and been unable to trace me. Not an auspicious start.