"What makes you so sure he was murdered and that Authority is somehow involved?" She watched me earnestly.
"Certain actions, facts and behaviors. To be honest I don't have much more than hearsay. No evidence. Just a feeling. Something unexplainable-like you trusting me."
She smiled with real humor. "Thank you, Mr. Wildclown. Your efforts will be appreciated."
I nodded, and followed Edward along the hallway. There was a major cover-up going on, I knew that much. But how hard should I push? It was very easy to disappear in my neighborhood. I had heard of other detectives that dug too deep and struck lava. And here I was investigating the death of man whose murderers had almost liquefied his body. Greasetown wouldn't miss me any more than I would miss Greasetown.
I didn't want to be a story in the Murder and Death section: Some nobody's mangled remains were found…
Chapter 25
The search through Alan Cotton's office had turned up nothing. Edward had been an annoyance throughout the inspection-humming distractedly as he checked the top surfaces of furniture for dust. The office itself was a large one-room enough for a long couch and easy chair around a low coffee table. At one wall by a bay window, the prerequisite desk, chair and filing cabinets. It was one of those kinder, gentler offices-all fuchsia and pastel-that prompted an urge in me to butt my cigarette on the carpet. Authority had been thorough all right. I tried to turn the computer on but it blinked and beeped like it was short-circuiting then quietly died. Edward assured me that Mr. Cotton did not use or trust computers, but kept this one in the hope that scientists could find a way to repair them one day. I dug around, but there was nothing left in the way of records except for a scratch pad. I tried the old detective pencil shading over paper trick to reveal any impress from former notes, but even that had come up blank. I left the office, rejoined Elmo in the foyer, and was met there by Mrs. Cotton. Her protuberant eyes were red. She dabbed at them intermittently with a silk handkerchief.
"You were right, Mr. Wildclown. I had a difficult time finding someone who would talk to me about it. Finally, they gave me to an Inspector Borden. He told me to calm down. When I pushed him, he said the lab had been badly damaged and there would be no point in viewing it. He said I could see it if I had to, but he thought it might be dangerous considering some of the chemicals Alan used in his experiments. He felt it was an unnecessary risk.
"When I asked him if he knew of a rumor about Alan being murdered at the Morocco Hotel, he became very interested. He wanted to know where I had heard it; in fact, he became very insistent on the point. I told him a servant had heard something of it on a trip into Greasetown. He wanted to know who the servant was. I said I couldn't be sure because I was already quite distraught when I was told, and I have many servants. I told him I would try to remember.
"This Inspector Borden told me that around every death, rumors are bound to spring up. He said it had to do with the people's morbid curiosity. He then assured me that Alan died in an accident, and then offered me an Authority Psychologist. He said it might do me good to talk. I just told him I had my own psychologist, and could look after myself. He said that if I must see the lab, I would have to give him some notice."
Mrs. Cotton's expression changed from the blank aspect of the storyteller to a rigid look of determination. "I'd like to hire you, Mr. Wildclown. I didn't get this far in life without learning to recognize the run around when it's given me. I don't care about the cost."
Chapter 26
It was about eight-fifteen when we hit the highway north. Road signs appeared in our headlights like yellow ghosts. I was employed again-the same deal I gave Billings. I now had more intrigue than I wanted. Mr. Adrian was missing. Jan Van Reydner was missing. The lawyer Conrad Billings was dead. Alan Cotton was dead. He was not a 'cosmetics for the dead' salesman at all. He was a scientist working on Regenerics. Why would he turn up dead at the Morocco when he could afford a better hotel? Why would Authority try to cover up Mr. Cotton's true history? I knew how they could. Authority just had to threaten the right individuals, but why? Unless Cotton was more important in all of this than just another murder. What was he doing at the Morocco Hotel? Did he stumble on Adrian and Van Reydner as they were working on Billings? Who turned him into blood pudding? It was obviously an organized bit of work. The type of job that was done on his body led me to believe organized crime was involved, but why would Authority cover for them? Like them or not, Authority still represented the law-even if it was a somewhat rabid law. Then, a name came to me: Mr. King of King Industries: Former Senator William King, the King of the Dead as the media called him. The King made billions from his preservative treatments for the dead. Did he actually contemplate selling them life with Regenerics? Too many questions and not enough answers. I looked at Elmo. His face was strange and inhuman in the glow from the dashboard.
"Elmo, this is a stupid question, but: if there was a way for you to be alive again, would you try it? Even if there were risks."
Elmo looked at me incredulously. "I'd d-do anything to be alive again."
"I thought so." I lit a cigarette. I was certain that this would be the attitude of all dead people. If so: what if Regenerics worked? Any dead man with the slightest amount of pull would do everything in his power to obtain a new life. But, I couldn't forget Adrian. Regenerics would destroy him. So he would want Cotton dead. But he was missing? Did he step on someone else's toes? He obviously wanted me out of the picture. So he had his goons try to finish me off. But what happened to him while I was out in the Landfill waltzing with the monkey-twins?
"Pull over at the next filling station, Elmo," I said. In about thirty minutes we found one. I dropped a dime in the slot of the pay phone. A bit of verbal fencing with the butler, then…
"Hello, Mrs. Cotton. It's Wildclown, I don't want to upset you again, but could you answer one question for me?"
I heard a muffled affirmative.
"What was the name of the Authority inspector who claimed Alan's files?"
"Oh, let me see. Yes, a surly little fellow. Mr. Crane, no Cane. Inspector Cane."
I thanked her, hung up and got back in the car. "Cane," I said absentmindedly. "Cane."
"What's that, Boss?" Elmo looked over as we pulled out onto the highway.
"Nothing, Fatso. Let's get home. I could sleep for a week."
The bars in the broken centerline passed like images in a dream.
Chapter 27
Life is but a dream, and like in every dream the images flicker fast. The pictures change, dissolve and strangely intertwine. Nothing's what it seems. Clocks tick faster, slower, there seem to be recurring themes of the tightening noose, the enemy draws near, he shoots, you die. I had the same feeling about this case. Strange New World aside, things were slipping slowly into the madness of nightmare-far off I heard the click of the heel, the impatient step of doom.
After returning to my office I sat quietly, my mind perusing abstractions for a time. It was about ten-thirty, and a bad time to do official detective research. I wanted to have a look at Cotton's lab, but had no idea where it was. The time told me that most reputable scientists were fast asleep with visions of atom bombs going off in their heads-or deep in thought in secret laboratories of their own. I had heard that people were afraid of the dark before the Change-living in a world with walking dead while perpetual cloud cover hung overhead had intensified the paranoia to dangerous proportions. The Change had pushed the majority over the edge. You could see madness in the faces on the street-people adapted as best they could, but nothing had prepared them for what the world had become. The hints were there, the cracks in the human spirit evident in the clothing frayed at the edges, the smeared lipstick, or the bus driver's tears. And so people did not open their doors after dark. And the thought of me showing up unannounced dressed as I was, made the notion as ludicrous as it was dangerous. Then, a name came to my mind. I snatched the phone up, and rummaged in the desk for my address book. I made a call.