Spares - Michael Marshall Smith [78]
“Any word why?”
“Well, Val says that Yolande Maxen was one of Louella’s shopping clients. Maybe they’re all cut up about it because of that.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “The Richardsons weren’t special friends of the Maxens?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Word is the Maxens aren’t special friends of anyone at all.”
It wasn’t clear whether this made any difference to anything, but it was certainly odd.
“You really slip it to Louella?” Golson asked Vinaldi, his voice full of manly respect.
Vinaldi’s voice clearly betrayed that he had. “It’s no business of yours, you twelve-year-old ass-wipe, and it’s disrespectful to talk like that of the dead. Didn’t your father, whoever the fuck he may be, teach you anything at all?”
“Hey man, whatever you say,” said Golson, holding his arms up placatingly and flashing an orthodontic smile. “Shit, I’m just impressed. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Then it happened. In the way that it does, regardless of events, clues or intuition. Your mind just burps it up. Sometimes.
“Where’s your deck?” I asked. Golson pointed and I leaped over to the side of his bed, pulling Mal’s disk from my pocket. I slammed it into the spare slot and slapped the button.
“What?” Vinaldi asked, coming to stand behind me.
“The guy who killed Mal had no rap sheet,” I said, drumming my fingers on the desk as I put it together. “Maybe now we know why.”
“Yo, Jack,” said Mal’s versonality. “How’s it going?”
“Give me the picture of that stiff,” I said, and it popped up onto the screen.
“Hil Trazin,” Vinaldi said immediately. “He was there too.”
“Okay, so all these guys are out of The Gap. Somehow. They’ve got a job—search and destroy for SafetyNet—but these are people with a grudge against you, and so half the time they’re moonlighting trying to fuck you up. One of them, probably Yhandim from what Ghuaji said, is getting way out of hand and not just whacking your associates but climbing through your ex-lays as well. Computer, get me the info on SafetyNet again.”
“I don’t get it,” said Vinaldi. “What’s this got to do with—”
“The homicide files on all five victims are security locked from the top of the NRPD. Which means the real job they’re supposed to be doing is for someone with more power than God. This person bought protection for Yhandim while he was looking for the spares, because one of them was important to him.”
“Company information,” said the computer. “SafetyNet still looks a mess.”
“Trace back every single company with a stake in it,” I said. “All the way back to the bone. I want to know if anyone’s got a majority shareholding.”
While the computer chugged away I lit a cigarette. Golson pointed out that they were bad for me, and I suggested that he fuck off.
“Do you know what the answer’s going to be, and if so just give me in ASCII,” said Vinaldi. “The suspense is giving me hives.”
“Not for sure,” I said, but then the answer burped up onto the screen. The majority shareholder in SafetyNet, through about a billion holding companies and subroutes, was an outfit called Newman Sublinear. Didn’t mean anything to me, but it sure as hell did to Vinaldi.
“That’s a Maxen company,” Vinaldi said quietly. “Administered by Arlond Maxen himself.”
I’d already noticed that the more serious Vinaldi was the simpler his sentences got, so I knew he was telling the truth. “How do you know?”
“I just do.” Vinaldi turned away. “Jesus shits.”
“Either of you guys want coffee?” Golson inquired, baffled but enjoying the show. I yanked Mal’s disk and stood up.
“So,” I said, “Maxen’s behind SafetyNet, which figures. He’s somehow pulled