Nothing Is Ever Simple (Corin Hayes Book 2) Page 20

  “Less than a day and we need to be far enough away so the sub can’t be recalled. I’ve notified the Mayor, he is pulling some strings, but it’s difficult. You killed a man.” She still hadn’t looked at me. Was she disappointed in me?

  “It wasn’t my fault.” Her eyebrow twitched. “Okay, I hit him, but he attacked me first. Derva, the device they have, the one I took from the cable, is stealing millions from companies or making millions from companies. I never got that quite figured out. It doesn’t matter. They are stealing from someone and certainly from the Company. I was close to having all the proof I needed.”

  “The Mayor will sort it out. If we are not away from here soon, there will be nothing we can do. Come on.” She pulled me forward at an even greater speed.

  “No.” I stopped in the middle of the street. She carried on for two more steps before turning the full anger of her stare on me.

  “Hayes, I didn’t just get you out of jail, and probably break a number of minor laws to do with data security in the process, just for you to come over all heroic, or stupid. I haven’t decided.”

  “Derva, I don’t have much. Not even a good name, but I have a, very small, measure of self-respect,” I began.

  “And a stubborn streak a few kilometres wide,” she interjected.

  “That too. They tried to use me and kill me, Derva. And they are going to get away with millions. All the evidence I need is on that security desk and on a computer. If I can get that, I can prove what they did and clear my name, and yours.”

  “Where is the computer?” She began tapping her foot.

  “At Rehja’s boss’s house, I think. There were some files mentioned in one of the messages I found on Rehja’s Pad. I copied them to mine.” I dragged the Pad out of the pocket and unlocked it before handing it to her. “There is lot of stuff on there, but without those files I don’t think it’s enough. Take the Pad, keep it safe. Give me a few hours. I need to get my suit as well.”

  “We can have the suit picked up,” she said. “Corin, this isn’t safe. The Mayor should have enough with the files here. Even if it isn’t enough, at least you’ll be safe.”

  “No. I’ll get the device, the files and that antique needs to go back to its real owner.”

  “You actually stole that?” Her eyes widened.

  “Um... kind of. They have some evidence they’ve been using against me. It wasn’t my idea.” I raised my hands in surrender as the anger flared in her eyes. “They forced me. Look, three hours, maybe four. I know where I have to go. Please, go and sit in the sub or better yet, get out of the city and I’ll come and meet you.”

  “Corin,” she began.

  “I have to do this,” I said. “Tyler’s dad is many things, but not this.”

  It was a cheap trick. Using her sympathy for my murdered child, and her need to look after the pathetic husk that I’d become, against her, but right now it was my best weapon.

  “Three hours,” she said, handing me her own Pad, a smaller, faster and more up-to-date model. “Here, I’ve keyed it to you and there are some things you might find helpful on it. If anyone else tries to use it, it will wipe itself but I’d prefer to have it back in one piece.”

  “Three hours, I promise.” Stupid thing to say, we both knew that. “Thank you.”

  “If you don’t come back, I am going to go after them with everything I can muster.” Her eyes softened for a moment. “But I’d prefer to have you back.”

  Chapter 45

  It took me an hour of dodging, hiding and walking to find Rehja’s boss’s house. Half that time was spent in a secluded bar with Derva’s Pad searching company records and sites to find her name. Once I had that it was the celebrity pages that proved the most fertile hunting grounds. Pictures, stories, galas and balls. She was there in many of them. Not an A-lister, out in the front, the darling of the photographer’s eye, but she was there. In the background, sat at a table, walking the red carpet, applauding from the crowd. Some stories were about her and her fortune. According to the gossip sites she was incredibly rich and possessed a finely honed sense of taste.

  A few, right down at the bottom of the ooze that was celebrity lifestyle journalism were some stories about her tastes. Specifically for young men and, going back through the stories over the past twenty years there did seem to be a succession of different young men on her arm at the functions. In the more recent ones, beginning three to four years ago, was Rehja.

  Her home was large. More evidence of her wealth. A walled garden surrounded a pristine white, three-storey building. Columns rose along the frontage supporting a sloped roof, a pointless affectation in a city where it never rained, and a dark door marked the entrance. All around the wall were cameras and sensors. Derva’s Pad had almost unlimited access to blueprints and plans held in the City-AI store, but it didn’t hold any software that would help me to break in. That was down to me. Problem was. I couldn’t see a way past all the security. Not without getting seen, sensed, heard and captured.

  Time was running out. I needed to get past the security systems into the house and to the computer. Which was why I was currently walking up the perfectly maintained pathway towards that dark door carrying a large bunch of flowers. There were even a few real ones mixed in with the expensive fakes. A bouquet like this had cost Derva a small fortune, but I wasn’t getting in without something that cost more than I made in half a year.

  “Yes... sir?” The butler who opened the door at my approach was dressed just like those in a pre-flood clips show. All long black jacket and stiff white shirt.

  “Flowers,” I said.

  “For whom, sir?”

  “For the lady of the house. Cards on top.” I tilted the flowers towards him, making sure he could see the real flowers in amongst the fakes and so the scent hit him right in the nose. Real flowers, I’d learned from the florist a few minutes ago, had a scent that not even the most expensive fakes could recreate.

  The florist had been right. One sniff did something to your brain. Something primal. It lifted your mind and senses. It also imparted a great sense of loss and sadness. I watched the perfume hit the butler. The old man’s eyes widened and he sucked in a deep breath. “Can I bring them in?”

  “I’ll take them.” He reached out.

  “Best if I do it,” I said. “I’ve got my licence and everything.”

  I’d learned that too. To deal in real flowers you needed a licence and a degree in something or other to handle them. Real flowers were rare and though the garden of this house had living plants in it, they were all genetically created. They weren’t from real, unadulterated stock. They’d lost the edge to their scent. These hadn’t.

  “Of course, sir.” There was a lost look in the old butler’s eyes. Not over the flowers, but something else, a realisation that something had been missing in his life and he still wasn’t sure what it was. I knew the feeling, and I knew what was missing in mine. She would never come back. “This way.”

  The inside was even more impressive than the outside. A large hallway, three storeys high, panelled walls hung with pictures and chandeliers suspended from slender wires. I could imagine any number of galas being held here. There was a clips show, a film, set in a house just like this. The leading female was dressed in a gigantic gown that must have made it almost impossible to walk, let alone sit down. How more than five of them got into one room at the same time amazed me at the time. I recall putting it down to special effects.

  A vase was put in front of me and I went through the basic instructions the florist had given me about care for the flowers. Lotions, potions, powders all went into the water before the flowers did. Then I started to arrange them.

  “Will you be long?” The butler asked.

  “A few minutes.” I didn’t look away from the flowers. “Perhaps, you’d like to get the lady of the house? I can explain how to care for them and where they came from? A little history of each species normally goes down well.”

  The b
utler didn’t move for a long moment and I could almost hear the gears turning. “Do not leave the kitchen.”

  “Not a problem, just give me a minute or two to get the colour balance right.” I moved a red flower next to a yellow one. It might have made a difference for better or worse. I didn’t know or care. The moment I heard the door close behind me I was off.

  There would be others in the house. More servants, a bodyguard or two maybe, though, from my reading, she had no other family. The kitchen was long and had two other exits. I chose the one at the far end that promised to lead me further into the house. This would need to be quick. Find the computer, and it would be one that was in a secure location, and get the files. Easy. Not a problem.

  If I only knew where to look that is. Derva’s blueprints had hinted at a room on the ground floor that seemed to have only one door, no windows and a surfeit of power conduits. Not a generator room, or heating, the room was quite small. That was my best guess and best shot. It was where I was headed now.

  Working out in the ocean means you are quite literally working in the dark a lot of the time. If you couldn’t hold a good mental map of your surroundings it was too easy to get lost. And then you’d die.

  The door swung closed and I was in a dining room. A long table ran down the length of the room, chairs lined either side and there were silver candlesticks on the polished surface. The walls held a selection of mirrors and paintings. Ancestors, real or imagined, to impress the guests and the glass mirrors to reflect the candlelight. All very nice. Not the room I needed.

  The next door opened into a longer room that ran almost the entire width of the house. More paintings on the wall to my right and long curtains covering the windows the blueprint said should be on my left. There were a few seated areas along the gallery, never more than four chairs together around a small table. A room made for quiet talking and, with the curtains open, looking out onto the well-tended gardens beyond. At the far end, a grand piano. Black and polished. It looked expensive and was the second one I had seen this week. What is it with pianos? You can go years without seeing a single one and then, suddenly, two come along all at once. The answer; money. I’d been in, broken into, some rich homes recently. They could afford that kind of luxury and the time to learn to play.

  The floor was carpeted so I had no compunction about running the length of the gallery to the door at the other end. I didn’t go through. The blueprints and the mental map in my mind said there was another door here, on the right wall. The bugger was, I couldn’t see it.

  Doors generally follow the same pattern. They’re square, have a handle, and open either in or out. You can usually see them otherwise they wouldn’t be much use. This door though, this one was hidden. Had to be. Blueprints don’t lie.

  Putting my hands on the wall I felt for the door. Nothing. It was there. I just couldn’t detect it. Which meant it was well built. There had to be a way to open it. A keypad, a sensor, something that would be close by and easy to find. At least, that’s what I told myself because if it wasn’t, I was totally fucked.

  I peeked behind a few paintings. Nothing. Lifted the piano lid and was confronted by the, I assume, usual layout of black and white keys. It might be linked to the door. A tune perhaps? A few notes in the right order, but I can’t read music, play the piano, or knew what that tune might be. Plus, what if a guest just happened to play the right notes and the door popped open? It might create some awkward questions.

  Not the piano. Not behind the paintings. A hidden switch that opened a panel? My hands skimmed the walls seeking any little nubbin, depression. Something sharper or smoother than it should be. Anything that would set the little instinctive part of my brain going.

  “And who are you?”

  Chapter 46

  “Fuck.”

  “It’s him, Miss, the florist.” The butler’s voice. Which made her the boss lady.

  I turned and gave her a smile. “I believe we’ve already met.”

  They were in the doorway, two metres from me. I hadn’t heard it swing open. She was in front of the butler, who’d obviously opened the door for her and she’d walked through, wearing a white suit with her hair tied up in an elegant pony tail. The look on her face was interesting. Shock mixed with fury and the battle to maintain a calm composure.

  “Hayes,” she spat. The butler took a step into the room, still in the doorway, and a confused look in his eye.

  “My lady.” I bowed to her. A grand gesture that had the advantage of turning my body in her direction. It also masked the shift of my feet, distracting them both. As I straightened, I leaped for the door, catching hold of the handle and slamming the heavy wood into the butler’s shocked face. I didn’t let go of the door, but wrenched it back open.

  The butler was still standing, an impressive feat of endurance. A door is just like any other blunt weapon. Hit someone hard enough and they’ll be unconscious before they reach the ground. His legs were just starting to buckle when I grabbed the front of his jacket and yanked him forwards, into the room.

  Spinning, using the weight of the butler as a pivot, I pushed the stunned man into the lady and saw them both tumble to the floor. She hadn’t had a chance to scream or shout for help. Two surprises in a row and a dose of violence had been a little too much for her to process. It wouldn’t last. The subconscious brain makes quick decisions; fight or flight. She didn’t look like a fighter.

  Which only proves you shouldn’t go on first impressions. I skipped the two steps towards her and reached down. Her foot rose with admirable speed and the sharp toe of a very expensive looking shoe caught me on the hip. A yelp of pain escaped my lips and my leg went numb, which was something of a relief, all things considered. I saw her wind up for another and this time I was ready, blocking the kick with an open hand and wrapping my fingers around her ankle.

  Dragging her forward, I let go of her leg and dropped down, covering her mouth with my open hand. Some security systems are voice activated. A simple but obscure phrase called out and the alarms would sound, steel doors would drop, gun turrets would erupt from the ceiling... or maybe not.

  “I’m not a big one for hitting women,” I whispered in her ear, “however, this past year I’ve been shot, punched, betrayed and generally not been treated very well. My self-control might be slipping a bit.”

  She tried to bite my hand, but I flattened out my palm and her teeth slid across my skin. With a sharp push, I forced her head back to the floor. It was carpeted. I’d forgotten, but it didn’t matter. I could see the shock in her face. Perhaps, outside of her bedroom where she was, according to those bottom dwelling journalists, in charge, no one had treated her like this.

  “Don’t do that again. It is not ladylike.”

  One of her hands clawed at my face and I was forced to pull away a little. I let her flail away for a moment before I used my free hand to restrain her. Gritting my teeth, and hating myself, I slammed her head back down into the carpet. Harder this time, and without an ounce of pleasure. This woman had had me blackmailed, beaten up, and ordered me killed, but it didn’t make it any easier. I was on a deadline, I needed her to believe that I would do what was needed, whatever that was.

  “You will stop and you will do everything I ask, or I will kill you.” I said in the coldest voice I could muster. “I killed Kade. I can kill you much more easily.”

  I hovered over for a moment, locking my eyes onto hers and letting all the anger I felt pour out of them. Tyler’s death and my own descent into drink. The time in the courtroom, in prison. All the inequities and inequalities I saw on a daily basis. A city falling on me. The death of hundreds. Being shot, beaten up. Everything I had went into that look.

  “You will do everything I tell you to,” I said and saw her eyes widen, pupils dilate. She would, for a time. Fear is a powerful motivator. I’ve been scared most of my life, I know what it can do.

  With care and deliberation, I let go of her hand and removed my own from her mouth. Step
ping back, I gave her room to stand, but not to run.

  “What do you want?” she said, refusing to meet my eyes.

  “I want into that room.”

  I watched her glance towards the wall where I knew the invisible door was. It was an unconscious gesture. She probably didn’t know she’d even made it, but it confirmed my thoughts.

  “What room?” The shock was wearing off already. This was a strong willed woman.

  I stepped forward into her space, careful of a swiftly rising knee. “You know which room and you will let me in there.”

  Another unconscious gesture, this time towards her neck. An alarm button or a key? The latter, I guessed.

  “There is no room,” she began.

  “You will let me into that room or I will strip search you here and now,” I hissed at her.

  Her hand went to her neck again. This time she caught herself and I saw her shoulders hunch. Stress and indecision. A boss, an executive, used to being in total control. You can get used to feelings like that. Servants to carry out your every whim with a ‘Yes, ma’am’ and no complaint. Employees you can shout at, bully, hire and fire with an idle thought. Power rusts your morals, tarnishes your ethics, stains your soul, and erodes your character. Pretty soon you believe you’re untouchable. Then someone touches you, or beats up your butler and slams your head into the floor until you’re seeing stars.

  That’s what was happening to her. Now. In front of me. It wasn’t pleasant to watch, but I forced myself. Her hand shook. Long thin fingers picking at the neck of her suit and I could see her veins and arteries throbbing on the back of her hand. I’d guess her blood pressure was off the chart.

  “You can let me in, or I’ll take it from your body. Last chance.” I extended my hand, palm up and stood silent, unmoving. A second later she lifted the chain over her head and placed it in my hand. “You first.”

  She took the chain and stepped past me. If she chose to, she could run, but I was close behind. She wouldn’t get far. An executive knew how to balance risks. Raising her hand she pressed the necklace against one of the paintings, a young girl who stared out of the portrait with eyes full of innocence. The artist had done a good job. Even a cultural vacuum like me could see it was her aged around eleven or twelve.