Oath of Fealty Page 14

  "He might have thought he was helping us," Tony Rand said.

  "How's that?" Bonner demanded.

  "The morning news was full of threats by Planchet," Tony said. "How he'd wreck Todos Santos. It could be that Pres thinks he's saving us a lot of grief."

  "It won't help," Frank Mead insisted. "Makes us look like idiots-"

  "What do we do now?" Churchward asked. "We didn't talk to Pres about strategy, and we weren't supportive enough. We'll fix all that. But what do we do this afternoon?"

  "Prepare for siege," Art Bonner said. "Tony, you and Cross will have to speed up the new security system installations. Meanwhile, we'll try Angelino justice. I don't have any faith in it, but we'll give it a try."

  Alice Strahier waited nervously in the comptroller's office. Why was he late for his appointment with her? His secretary had said something about an emergency meeting in the board room. Some new development from the FROMATE raid.

  Could they have found out? Alice wondered. Maybe I ought to run- She took a deep breath and laughed nervously, then glanced up to see if the receptionist had noticed. She needn't have worried. The receptionist was talking in low tones on the telephone.

  The guilty flee when no man pursueth, Alice thought. The best way to be certain they know is to act scared. They don't know. They don't even suspect. Tony Rand trusts me with everything- He sure does, Alice Marie, another part of her mind said. Ain't you proud?

  And that was just the trouble. She wasn't proud. Tony Rand had trusted her, promoted her to an important position, and she had betrayed him.

  I had to. The Movement put me here. And it's important. We're rushing toward the eco-spasm, we have to act before it's too late-

  But it's already too late for those kids. They're dead, and they wouldn't have tried it without your information, Alice Marie. And now the Movement will want more. Everything about the new security systems, the guards, everything-and you know why they'll want it.

  Damn, people are complicated. It's so much easier to work with computers. I should have stayed a programmer, never taken that promotion, then I wouldn't have -- Frank Mead came in, charging ahead as if he were hitting the line for Princeton again. He glanced at Alice. "Oh. Sorry to keep you waiting. Should have phoned. Come on in."

  She followed him into his big corner office. It was elaborately furnished-more so than Art Bonner's, she thought. And that has to mean something. She took a seat and waited for the inevitable inquisition: Frank Mead trying to learn more about Tony Rand's department.

  "I have a right to know," Mead had told her the first time he'd summoned her. "And asking Tony is a waste of time. So you're not betraying him, you're doing him a favor."

  Which might even have been true. Tony Rand would hate having to explain himself to the comptroller, but since he went over - or outside of-his budget quite often, somebody had to come down here and defend what Rand's department did. So she wasn't really being disloyal in talking to Mead-which was a joke, because what Mead learned was legitimate company business.

  And what I tell Wolfe is legitimate human business, she told herself. The survival of the human race is far more important than petty bourgeois morals.

  Which doesn't explain why I feel so cheap sometimes.

  "So. Here's the check, all approved," Mead was saying. He held out a slip of paper. "Hope your friends in Diamond Bar appreciate it. Easiest profit they ever turned. They don't really have anything at all coming to them-"

  She took the check and waited for the questions, but Mead seemed preoccupied, and after a while she left his office.

  Homicide Lieutenant Donovan drank quietly and alone.

  That is not to say that he was not enjoying himself. There could have been drinking buddies if he'd wanted them. He could have gone to a cop bar. He wasn't in the mood this afternoon. Instead, he was in a mood to get quietly buzzed, watching the thoughts that played through his head, enjoying some of the life that surged around him. This very skillful pickup, that clumsy approach that worked anyway. The endless political discussion between the two who didn't know what they were talking about.

  He also had memories to savor. The Todos Santos tunnel crew knew nothing about the mugging victim, but they'd enjoyed telling him about their job, and showing off the enormous machine that chewed into dirt and rock, fused the detritus to line the tunnel walls, and crawled inexorably onward. It had been something to see, and there wasn't another machine like that in the western hemisphere. And then came the news that their high mucky-muck Sanders had turned himself in. The work crew hadn't been happy about that at all. Interesting, workmen who worried about their boss- But the argument at a nearby table threatened to ruin his mood.

  Three of them. Men younger than Donovan, getting excited. The youngest sat quietly, happily, letting the others lecture each other. He wasn't going to stop the developing fight.

  "Don't tell me about those Todos Santos bastards." That one had small features and very pale blond hair. He leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, to emphasize his words.

  "They got a right to live," said the third man. He was small and lean, with a face like a hatchet and a tension in him that showed even when he relaxed.

  "Yeah? Listen, do you know the Red Plush Onion? Right in the shadow of that big fucking building?"

  "I've heard about it. Never been there."

  "It's a whorehouse. I thought I'd try it. You know how it is. I got lonely one night." The blond man relaxed, looked into his beer, drank. Donovan watched in the mirror. Donovan's pleasantly melancholy mood had faded somewhat.

  It was a pity he couldn't take off his reflexes with his badge. Then he could let them work themselves up, punch each other out, get thrown into the street, incident finished. None of his business anyway. But he'd been a street cop a long time before making detective. He reached into his pocket.

  "So I drove out there and tried to get in. You know, they wouldn't let me in? I wasn't drunk. Not drunk. The big bouncer said they didn't want my kind." The blond man's lips crawled away from his teeth. "I was going back to thy car when a guy went past me. A tall, thin guy with lots of teeth. I knew him. The bouncer let him in. Said 'hello.' Called him by his name. Know who he was? The Todos Santos undertaker!"

  "Well, you can see their point," said the other. "They get most of their customers from Todos Santos."

  "Yeah. Yeah. And the Hivers won't go in if the Angelinos do. That's what they call us. Angelinos. I hope they put that Sanders bastard in the gas chamber."

  If the little guy could have let it lie … nope. "Why? Because he killed two kids, or because he's from Todos Santos?"

  "Yes," said the blond man. Then, "What are you defending him for? He gassed 'em. Gassed 'em. Nerve gas! What the fuck, they were only Angelinos."

  "Maybe they won't dare try it again," the smaller man taunted him. "Why don't you try sneaking inside some night with a box labeled Dynamite?"

  Donovan was there as the blond man tried to surge across the table. "Think of it as evolution in action," he said, because it seemed to fit and had been on his mind.

  They froze and looked at him, all three. It was a good stopper, that phrase: just cryptic enough. He held his badge low, cupped, so that only those three could see it. "Forget it," he told them.

  Their eyes dropped.

  Donovan went back to his own table. His eyes found theirs in the mirror. They left very soon.

  The interview room in the new Los Angeles County Jail had not intentionally been designed to be intimidating. The furniture was heavy and nearly immobile, of course, and the windows were barred; but the designers had tried to make the room comfortable. They hadn't succeeded.

  Big Jim Planchet tried to keep his voice under control as he eyed Allan Thompson with distaste. Why hadn't he paid more attention to the kind of companions his son had? And yet-what could he have done? This boy wasn't any criminal. Good family, real estate people, good upper middle-class family. Just like Diana Lauder. The Lauders were blaming him.


  He didn't want to think about it, but he had to. And he didn't have a lot of time. He wasn't supposed to be here, of course. It had taken pulling strings. But Jim Planchet was a lawyer, and if Ben Costello (good thing the Thompson family lawyer was an old friend) insisted on having Planchet as an associate, the D.A.'s office wasn't going to object.

  "Why?" Planchet demanded. "What did you think you were doing?"

  "Easy," Ben Costello cautioned. "Mr. Planchet's right, though, Allan. If I'm going to defend you, I've got to know everything."

  For a moment the boy's face held defiance. He even started to say it. "It seemed like a good-" But his reserve broke. "My God, Mr. Planchet, I'm sorry. Really sorry."

  "Lot of good that does. Why?" Planchet said again.

  "Easy, dammit," Costello said. "Can't you see Allan doesn't like this any more than you do? Why, Allan?"

  "Well-Mr. Planchet had said a lot about Todos Santos. Jimmy really respected you, Mr. Planchet. He thought-he thought he was helping you."

  It hit Planchet like a blow. And it was probably true. I did, he thought. I did spout off a lot about Todos Santos. Termite Hill. The Box. Graveyard of freedom. Picture of an ugly future.

  He remembered it all, public statements and what he'd said at home at the breakfast table (would Eunice ever sit across a table from him again? They had her in Queen of Angels under sedation, and they were talking about nursing homes) and Junior making wisecracks but listening, listening- "All right. I can see that," he said when he'd got his voice under control "But-you went past those doors." There'd been a special on Channel 7 showing that door and its ominous warnings. "It was said plainly. 'IF YOU GO THROUGH THIS DOOR, YOU WILL BE KILLED.' It said it."

  "We didn't believe it," Allan said. "We just didn't. I mean, everyone's always telling you what horrible things are going to happen to you, but they never do."

  Only this time they did, Planchet thought. Oh my God.

  He sat down and put his head in his hands. Unwanted pictures came to his mind. Jim Junior with his chemistry lab. Jim getting his ham radio license at age thirteen and getting a home computer for his next birthday. Eunice bragging to their friends about her son the genius. And I guess he was.

  Ben Costello took out a yellow legal pad and a dozen pencils. "I'd better get as many details as I can," he said. "This isn't going to be easy."

  Allan Thompson looked puzzled. "So what? What's the worst they can do for trespassing?"

  "The charge isn't trespassing," Costello said. He tried to keep his voice as calm and gentle as possible. It was obvious that the boy was torn up with guilt. He talked defiantly, but he was ready to collapse-and what Costello had to tell him wasn't going to help either. "The charge is murder."

  "Murder! But I didn't kill anybody! Those termites, they did the killing, with war gas-"

  "You were committing a felony. When there's a death resulting during the commission of a felony, the law says it's murder," Costello said. "Same as if you were holding up a liquor store and the police shot your partner."

  "Jesus." Allan's eyes darted around the interview room. "Maybe it's right. Maybe I did kill them. But I didn't mean to! I didn't mean any harm!"

  May as well hit him with all of it, Costello thought. He'd better know how serious this is. "I can't plea bargain, either. Not with Todos Santos involved," Costello said. "Look, they turned you over to the Los Angeles D.A., but they'll go to the state Attorney General if they have to. They want your arse, Allan. And if you don't help me, they're going to get it. Now. You went to Todos Santos carrying the gear that James had built. You waited until there was no one around, and you went to the access-way door. Was it unlocked?"

  "No. Jim unlocked it."

  "With what?"

  Allan shrugged. "It was an electronic lock system. Jimmy had the combination."

  Costello wrote rapidly. "So you unlocked the door. How did you know the combination?"

  "I don't know. Jimmy had it."

  "He had quite a lot of information about the Todos Santos Security system," Costello said. "Where did James get all these data?"

  "Arnie, I guess."

  "Who is Arnie?"

  "Arnold Renn. He's one of the sociology professors at UCLA. Real friendly guy."

  "Did Mr. Renn suggest this expedition?" Costello asked.

  Allan looked puzzled. "Dr. Renn," he said automatically. "Uh - well, he didn't exactly suggest it."

  "But you had discussed it with him?"

  "Yes."

  Councilman Planchet raised his head and looked at the boy. Arnold Renn? He'd seen that name somewhere-where? On a report his assistant had prepared. Dr. Renn was a spokesman for the ecology group. Had offered to speak at a fund raiser for Planchet. It hadn't been easy to find a way to turn him down - why had he been turned down? Something Ginny had dug up, some kind of connection Dr. Renn had that might be embarrassing - Good God. Renn was a FROMATE.

  They wouldn't let Tony Rand see Sanders in an interview room. That was for lawyers only. Friends had to use a different- and degrading, Tony thought-system.

  Rand and Sanders sat at tables facing each other. They were separated by a doubled glass screen, thick. They talked by telephone.

  What do you say in a situation like this? Rand wondered. "Hi, Pres."

  "Hi, Tony."

  Awkward silence. "Now that you've had a week to get used to it, how do you like the accommodations?"

  "Not too bad. Are you going to tell me I'm crazy too?"

  "Do you want me to?"

  "What? The thick glass tended to distort Sanders's expression. "What?"

  "If you want me to, I'll tell you you're crazy," Rand said.

  "Look, I had to," Sanders said. "I can't get Shapiro to understand that. I had to. I killed-"

  "Whoa," Rand said urgently.

  "Eh?"

  "The Sheriff swears blind these visiting phonies aren't tapped," Tony Rand said. "You can believe as much of that as you want to."

  "So what? I don't have any secrets. The whole English-speaking world knows what I did."

  Uncomfortable subject. "How are they treating you?"

  "All right." He smiled. Almost. "They don't know how to treat me. All that publicity. So I got VIP status."

  "That figures. They give you a roommate?"

  "Yeah."

  "What's he in for? Anything interesting?"

  "Tony, he's in for tax evasion. He wants to sell us construction supplies. He does exercises in the cell, and he wants me to do push-ups and jumping jacks with him. He'd really like to cheer me up. Want more?"

  "You know, you're a real wet blanket today."

  Pres said nothing.

  "Why'd you do it, Pres? Why didn't you at least talk to someone first? The first we heard about you turning yourself in was off a television set!"

  "It was no good, Tony. Hiding out. Making like I was crazy. No good, dammit."

  "Yeah, I can see that wouldn't sit well," Rand said.

  "It wasn't right, either. Art was taking a hell of a chance. I could see that Shapiro was worried. Tony, the last damn thing I need is to have Art Bonner in jail because of me. How is he?"

  "He was fit to be tied." Rand saw the effect of that, and quickly added, "He wasn't mad at you. At himself."

  "Why?"

  "He thought he hadn't made it clear enough that you did the right thing. The only thing you could do."

  "Sure, he'd say that-"

  "Not just him. Pres, you're a bloody hero! It's all they talked about in Commons for days, ever since it happened. Savior of the city and all that."

  "They really say that?"

  "That's right. Oh, and I've got a message from Art. He says, all right, it's your life, and if you want to try Los Angeles justice that's what you'll get. Johnny Shapiro will be down soon to talk strategy. I gather he's going to ask for a change of venue, what with all the publicity."

  “No.”

  "What?"

  "I said no." Sanders was adamant. "No change
of venue. No legal tricks. Tell him that, Tony. I don't want to get off on a technicality. I'd rather leave it to a jury."

  "A Los Angeles jury? The kids were Angelinos. You aren't."

  "Angelinos. Tony, I saw them when they were being carried out. They were dead people, dead human beings."

  Tony sighed raggedly. "So did I, on the screen. Pres, could I have designed it differently?"

  "What?"

  "They got in. They put themselves where we had to kill them, or else let them burn up some of our city and some of our citizens. They had to go to enormous trouble to do that, but Pres, they shouldn't have been able to do it at all. How could I have stopped them? How do I stop the next ones, the ones with the real bombs?"