Android: Golem (The Identity Trilogy) Read online

  “What did you hear?”

  Jonathan returned to his work. “Dawes was afraid for his life.”

  “He knew someone was going to kill him?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Who was with him at the time of this conversation?”

  “A man. He was not a guest.”

  “Will you know him if you see him again?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I was ordered by our guest to forget that I had seen the man—I was not ordered to forget the conversation when he ordered me to forget.”

  “Did you try to help Dawes?” I knew the Three Directives should have impelled Jonathan to action if he believed a human was in danger.

  “I went to our guest and asked him if I should summon security. He told me no, and he told me to forget everything that had happened. I did as I was ordered.”

  And he had, because that was how encoding on a low-end bioroid worked. That was why Dawes hadn’t worried about anyone being notified.

  “You recognized fear in Dawes?”

  “The guest was in definite distress. I have subroutines that allow me to monitor distress in humans.”

  “If the human was in danger, why did you obey?”

  “Because he was in no immediate danger that I could detect or identify.”

  “Where was he?”

  “The guest was in the hallway in front of his room at the time.”

  That meant I had no vid recording of the man to verify his identity. “Did the man threaten Dawes?”

  “I do not know. I was told to not remember the conversation.”

  “You don’t have an audlog of the conversation?”

  “No. I am not equipped in that manner, and I would have had to erase it at Dawes’s request.”

  “But you remember Dawes telling you to forget the conversation?”

  “Yes.” Jonathan took one of the pieces off the grill and reached for a replacement part with his manipulative hand. “The guest did not tell me to forget he was worried.”

  “Why do you think another murder may occur?”

  “I think the possibility exists because the man with our guest was also worried.”

  “You know this without remembering the conversation?”

  “Yes.” Jonathan fit the new part on the grill and began screwing it into place.

  “Have you seen the images of the three men that killed Dawes on the 3D?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they were not the man speaking to Dawes during that conversation?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me anything at all about the man with Dawes?”

  “During the conversation in the hallway—earlier than the point where I was told to forget—the man called Dawes ‘father.’”

  I accessed Cartman Dawes’s personal records and brought them up. He had two sons and a son-in-law. All of them lived in New Angeles and worked at IdentiKit.

  “Why didn’t you tell the police department about this, Jonathan?”

  “I was told to forget the conversation. But I could not forget everything I had not been told to forget. The police investigation has continued. I have learned that the men who killed our guest were hired by someone else. I must do all that I can to preserve human life.”

  “I know. But why did you contact me?”

  Jonathan looked at me. “It has been my experience that humans overlook bioroids, or they fault us for things that are beyond our control. We do things for them, but they do not want us mixing in their affairs. I thought you would be the best solution to the problem. If I forgot the conversation completely, and someone else was killed as a result of it, I would be in violation of the First Directive.”

  I couldn’t disagree with his logic, but I knew that I didn’t fare too much better in my world than he did in his.

  *

  The next morning, I checked out an undercover hopper from the NAPD motor pool. There were a few minutes of confusion while Lieutenant Ormond questioned my reasons for such a request. I pointed out to him that I still had to arrange interviews because Hansen had told me he didn’t want to be involved during background checks.

  Eventually, after Ormond finished arguing with himself about the added workload necessary to keep me grounded, aided only tangentially by me, I was issued a hopper. I didn’t tell him where I was going. Shelly had taught me that sometimes it was better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission.

  I knew if Ormond learned where I was going, he would forbid it. I was programmed for omission, that was part of my job description as a detective, but this was the first time I’d used it against my superior. Doing so felt odd, but I wasn’t as resistant to the idea and execution as I had expected.

  My partner had been killed, and I was supposed to do something about it. Shelly had been very adamant on the subject of partnerships and how we should handle ours. Perhaps I was doing a disservice to Ormond, but I was within operating parameters of Shelly’s view of the work I had to do on the case. I had no problem putting Shelly first, which was unusual and most curious. Still, I knew what I needed to do.

  While crossing the city, I commed to set up an appointment with Michael Dawes, Cartman Dawes’s oldest son. Michael Dawes was the lead attorney for the corp. At first, Michael Dawes was reluctant to meet with me; then I told him that I was attached to the investigation of his father’s murder. He was surprised, but he wanted to talk to me. I easily recognized curiosity in others.

  I told him I could be there in twenty minutes, and he agreed to see me then.

  *

  The IdentiKit New Angeles offices occupied the top two floors of a modest building well away from the ocean. Most corps preferred locations closer to the ocean, but those areas were all either taken, or hard to acquire, and very expensive.

  I landed on the rooftop, locked up the hopper, and pulled on the skullcap Shelly had gotten for me. I would never pass for human, but I wanted to be the detective Shelly had helped me become.

  A flesh-and-blood secretary met me at the security gate. She was tall and pretty, a professionally dressed young woman with blond hair. She was a clone, and I recognized the make as one that often had secretarial skills, and sometimes came with pleasure programming. Of course, there was also the possibility that she’d been upgraded with either of those secondary characteristics.

  I wondered if she had been upgraded, and, if so, which operating system had come first. My curiosity was in no way puerile. Knowing the answer would have given me more insight into Michael Dawes.

  She conducted me down to the corp offices, and then took me to Michael Dawes.

  He sat behind a massive organic wood desk that was incredibly expensive. The whole room seemed decadent, filled with antique furniture and a collection of Japanese jade figurines.

  Michael Dawes was a tall and handsome man, and I saw some of his father’s features in him. His hair was black and combed back from his flawless face. His eyes were watchful and deep violet, a DNA adjustment that had been made before he’d been born, according to his records. A well-groomed goatee framed his strong jaw.

  He started to get up, then sat down again and leaned back in the large chair that shifted soundlessly under him.

  “Mr. Dawes.” The clone’s voice was perfect for allaying clients’ fears, or for cooing sweet nothings in a lover’s ear. Shelly had told me that. “This is Detective Drake. Please let me know when you need me.”

  “That’s all right, Lisa. Stay here. You’ll be taking our guest with you in a moment.” Michael Dawes remained fixated on me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Following up on the homicide at L’Engle Hotel.” I didn’t indicate which homicide I was investigating. There were three: Cartman Dawes, Shelly, and Brock Thurman, whose death was also listed as a homicide, but self-defense. I could take my pick, or choose all of them.

  “There has to be some mistake.”

  “I’m here to talk to you about your visit to your father
the night of his murder.” I had matched up Michael Dawes to one of the sec vid sequences from that night on a lower floor.

  His pupils flared slightly and I knew he was going to lie to me even before he said a word. “I wasn’t there.”

  I held up a hand and projected the 3D image sequence I’d copied from the sec vid. The sequence clearly showed Michael Dawes entering the L’Engle Hotel lobby. The time and date stamp burned red in the lower right corner. “This is you, Mr. Dawes. You entered the hotel under false pretenses, under another name, and you used forged documents to gain entry. That’s a felony.”

  “Getting caught with such documents is a forgery. I know that because I’m a lawyer.”

  Strictly speaking, that was the letter of the law.

  “You were not logged into the L’Engle, yet here you are.”

  “And you have no DNA to prove that is me.”

  That was also true. I pressed on and ignored his objections. “During that time with your father, both of you expressed concerns. Your father was afraid for his life. Less than two hours later, he was murdered. I want to talk to you about your visit that night.”

  Michael Dawes grinned, but there was no humor in the expression. “That’s not going to happen. This conversation is over.” He touched his PAD lying on the desk and the comm application opened.

  I wanted to stop him from placing the comm, but I couldn’t. I had no legal recourse, and I knew Jonathan’s testimony wouldn’t stand up in court once the judge learned he’d been told to expunge the records of the meeting.

  Michael Dawes got through to the police commissioner’s office after only a short wait.

  I stood there to find out if he was grandstanding and trying to intimidate me. Instead, he talked to the police commissioner and I was summarily ordered off the premises. It was the first conversation I’d ever had with Commissioner Chen Mai Dawn. She wasn’t happy.

  I turned to go as Michael Dawes closed down his PAD.

  “Wait.”

  I halted and turned back to him.

  “Who sent you here?”

  “No one. I’m operating within the parameters of the homicide investigation.”

  He stared at me in silence for a moment. “If you know who killed my father, you have to tell me.”

  I didn’t have to. “You have no basis for that conjecture.”

  Michael Dawes frowned in irritation. I recognized the expression from the comparative sampling I’d done with Lieutenant Ormond. “I do have a basis for that conjecture: if you think my life is in danger, you have to tell me.”

  “I have not confirmed that your life is in danger. Perhaps you should elucidate the matter of the conversation you had with your father.”

  Michael Dawes clenched his fists on top of the massive desk and glowered at me. “No, but I will tell you this: if at any point you recognize there is a threat against me, you have to tell me so I can take precautions.”

  “All right.” I paused. “The problem with your line of logic, though, is that, without proper input regarding the matter, I may not be able to confirm that you’re in danger until after you’re dead.”

  The answer didn’t set well with Michael Dawes. His face whitened a little and a vein throbbed at his temple.

  “If I may suggest, Mr. Dawes, should you feel imperiled at any point, maybe you could contact me. At that juncture, with a clearly defined threat, I can take action that perhaps your private security teams cannot.”

  “I think I’ll be just fine.” Michael Dawes made himself grin confidently, but I noted the effort it took for him to do it. “You go along. Don’t bother me again.”

  I went through the door, waited for it to close, then turned and looked back at it. Michael Dawes’s name was on a nameplate on the surface of the door, but closer inspection showed that another plate had been there earlier.

  Evidently, Michael Dawes had wasted no time in assuming his dead father’s office.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Less than an hour after I left the IdentiKit hopper pad, I was pulling my hopper into a small parking area that sat adjacent to a strip club. The interview with Michael Dawes hadn’t borne fruit—yet—but I still had other work to do with the cold cases.

  One of the cases I was working involved the twenty-nine-month-old homicide investigation of a dancer that had worked at Roxie HT’s Cabaret, a gentlemen’s club on the south side of the city. The dancer’s name had been Trina Oakes, and she’d been twenty-seven years old.

  Shelly’s notes indicated that she’d believed Trina Oakes’s murder had been the result of a jealous boyfriend. Trina Oakes’s boyfriend at that time had been a man named Adrian Graham, a DJ at the club. Shelly hadn’t been convinced Graham had been telling all of the truth, or the truth at all, when he’d claimed to know nothing of the murder.

  I had questions as a result of checking Graham’s background. Shelly would have had the same questions if she’d known what I knew now.

  I left my hopper in the parking area and walked to the front of the club. Despite the early hour, the club’s business was brisk. Roxie HT’s was a 24/7 establishment whose doors never closed. A patron could get a show, a drink, or a woman at any time, any day of the week. Neon tubes framed the structure, but those were off at the moment. Instead, the windows pulsed with animated features of past shows—dancers swinging from poles and dropping various articles of clothing to lighted stages.

  Two men guarded the barred entrance. Both had sidearms hidden under loose club jackets featuring the Roxie HT’s logo.

  One of them, a big man with G-mod—genetically modified—muscle, shifted his cybered eyes onto me. “Can I help you?”

  “New Angeles Police Department.”

  The man scanned my ID and checked his PAD. Then he looked back at me. “We had a scheduled inspection last week.”

  “I’m not with licensing.”

  “You’re not vice?”

  “I’m with the homicide department.”

  The man nodded. “Working Trina’s murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “You guys have been through here for over two years. You haven’t ever found anything.”

  “I still have questions.”

  “Who are you here to see?”

  “Adrian Graham. I commed before coming over. I was told he was working.”

  “He is.” The man didn’t look happy. “Come on, I’ll take you back.”

  I followed him through the security door.

  *

  Music blared inside the club at levels that would cause damage to anyone subjected to it for too long. The club was dark, but I easily manuevered through with my infrared vision.

  The big man led me through a short hallway, then we passed through another sec door into the main room. Several small tables filled the floor and patrons occupied nearly a third of them. More people would come in with the lunch crowd.

  A voluptuous woman danced on the stage, gyrating and performing acrobatic moves that drew hoots and appreciative yells from the men lined up in chairs fronting the stage. She wore shiny pink boots that covered more skin than the rest of her outfit. As she danced, and the crowd cheered, those articles of clothing hit the floor. A credaccount stick on the floor pulsed as viewers tipped her.

  “This way.” The sec guard hugged the side of the wall as we made our way behind the stage.

  Another woman was already dressed and waiting for her chance to go on stage. She had a bioroid snake—probably from Eliza’s Toybox—draped over her shoulders, and G-mod green hair that ended at her jawline. The green strands almost matched her eyes, and her makeup made her look gangrenous. She lit up a cigarette and looked bored. Her gaze traveled over me and I knew she couldn’t make me out in the darkness.

  “Who’s your friend, Tony?”

  “Not a friend, Simone. He’s a cop.”

  The woman turned away from me without saying anything more. I’d scanned her face and submitted it to facial recognition. Her name wasn’t Simone. Sh
e was Martha Hubbard. She was twenty-six years old and had three outstanding parking tickets. A bench warrant had been issued.

  “I’m not with the courts, and I don’t work traffic.”

  She shrugged, but she looked at me suspiciously over one naked shoulder. The snake’s tongue darted out.

  The woman had also been named in the reports. I stopped. “Give me just a moment, Tony.”

  He hesitated. “I don’t want you hassling the girls while they’re trying to work.”

  “The current musical selection has another three minutes and forty-two seconds to play. I’ll be done by then.” I looked at the woman. “You knew Trina Oakes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How well?”

  “We were friends.” Simone seemed increasingly nervous.

  “You were here the night she was killed.”

  “Yeah.” She shrugged again. “A lot of us were. It was Saturday night—a busy time for us.”

  “Trina Oakes wasn’t working that night.”

  “No. She called in sick.”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno. I guess she was sick.”

  The answer was an automatic dismissal of my authority over her, but I ignored it. “You saw her that night.” I stated that because it was a matter of record. Shelly had interviewed her.

  “Yeah, for a couple minutes.”

  “You talked to her.”

  Simone nodded.

  “Why was Trina Oakes here if she’d called in sick?”

  Simone shrugged. “Sometimes you just need a mental health break from this place.”

  I had less than two minutes to go before the song ended. “You know why she came up?”

  For a moment, Simone hesitated. She hid her indecision with another drag on the cigarette. “Trina came up to talk to Adrian.”

  “About what?”

  “Cred.”

  “Finances?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  Simone shrugged again. “People in this business, it’s about the money. It’s always about the money. Or the drugs.”

  “Careful, Simone.” Tony’s voice held a threatening timber.

  She turned on him. “He’s a cop, Tony. Do you really think he doesn’t know this already?”