Taking the Highway

THE HOLORECORDERS HAD IMPROVED since Andre left Internal Affairs. He remembered, three years ago, when they had to get an authenticator chip and notarized anti-tampering software in order to make any interrogation stick. Now, the recorders had authenticators built-in, and single-use recording media guaranteed that nothing could be altered. Everything he said and did in this interrogation room was now part of a permanent record. Hell, they could probably measure how much oxygen he breathed and how much sweat he produced.

One thing that hadn’t improved in the last three years was Lieutenant Quigg’s mood. Quigg reached into his pocket and pulled out a third chunk of clove gum, adding it to the other two already in his mouth. He worked the gob around for a bit, then put his hands flat on the table and leaned forward. “So, you say you saw ‘someone’ point a rifle out a car window, but you don’t know who.”

“Correct.” Andre leaned as far back as his chair would allow. He knew how that looked to the cameras—like he was trying to get away from the question. The recorders couldn’t tell that he was retreating from the stench of Quigg’s gum.

Quigg exhaled, blowing a spicy stream in his direction. “And this so-called shooter was aiming at the fourths.”

“He was aiming at a fourth.” Andre looked over Quigg’s head at the holorecorder. With all that measuring and quantifying and verifying, was anyone even listening to what he said?

“A fourth,” Quigg said. “Which one?”

“I don’t know.” How long had he been sitting in this room? A half hour? An hour? And it looked bad. It looked very, very bad. He imagined himself back in IA, on the other side of the table, doing Quigg’s job. After mentally spitting out that disgusting gum, he took a hard look at the suspect. Spotty reputation and poor work ethic. Charming, fun to work with, a good guy, but not exactly known for clearing cases. There was that one incident a couple, maybe three years ago . . . and now he sat here, giving vague half-answers that looked worse than no answers at all. If Andre were in the investigator’s chair, he’d throw the book at himself. He’d throw a whole library.

“So let me get this straight,” Quigg said. “You just happened to be in the same place as this shooter.”

“I didn’t ‘just happen.’ He was following me. Somebody put a smart tag on me.”

“What kind?”

Andre threw up his hands. “How should I know?”

“You don’t know what kind, but you’re sure you had one.”

“They were tracking me, okay? There was a device, about this big.” Andre held his thumb and finger a centimeter apart. He’d instantly assumed it belonged to a spinner. One of them, he thought it was Naked Jay, had used the word bomb. The same word Andre had used in the car. But wasn’t it the first word that came to mind? For all he knew, the spins had called the last crash a bomb as well. The tag he’d found wasn’t necessarily a spintag. It could have just as easily come from the shooter.

Quigg held out his hand. “Let me see it.”

“Elway took it.” Oh God. Jordan. Where was Elway now? Surgery? Recovering? Andre didn’t know how bad it was, but prayed it wasn’t as bad as it looked. A few hours ago, he’d slapped Elway on the back and called him a hero. Told him that his career was secure. Now he was flushing the poor guy’s future right down the shithole with his own.

Andre sat straight and inhaled a deep breath of fiery air. “I want a lawyer.”

“You can’t have one. You’re not under arrest.”

“Horseshit, Quigg. Bring me a lawyer or I’m not saying another word.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“I can’t say ‘horseshit?’ What kind of horseshit is that?”

“Watch it.” Quigg worked his gum, staring at Andre across the table. “Let me tell you what this looks like. It looks like you knew that Overdrive would be sabotaged, and you knew who was doing it, and you wanted to arrest the saboteurs yourself. You always were a hotdog. When it all went south, you decided to throw off some suspicion by conveniently mentioning a shooter.”

“I wasn’t hotdogging!”

Quigg raised a single finger to pause the conversation. He left the room, and reappeared a moment later. He held the same finger in the air, pointed upward, and Andre’s own voice came through the ceiling’s speakers. “Sofia, listen to me. You cannot have a visible presence here. You’ll scare them off.”

Quigg raised his eyebrows and pointed. Again, Andre’s voice: “You have to move those units. Backup means back. I don’t want anyone within five klicks of Vernier. Ten would be better.”

Quigg signaled to whoever was on the other side of the window to shut it off. He crossed his arms. “Once wasn’t enough. You had to tell her twice.”

“You don’t understand. That—” Andre pointed to the ceiling. “Did you listen to the whole thing? I had to tell her—I couldn’t let her—” Andre closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wondered if it would have turned out differently if he’d brought Sofia with him. But then she might be on her way to the hospital, too—injured, like Elway. Maybe even dead. He wouldn’t be able to stand it.

Quigg rested his forearms on the table. “You knew enough to request backup. You knew something was going down today.”

“Arrest someone before they commit a crime? Is that how we do things now?”

“You were there, LaCroix. You had had enough evidence to hold somebody. Yeah, that’s how we do things now. That’s how good officers have always done things.”

Andre stood. “Get me counsel or I walk.”

“Sit down, Sergeant!”

Andre did not move. “Counsel.”

Quigg looked over his shoulder at the holorecorder, then at Andre, and back at the recorder. He pulled out his datapad. “Have it your way, but Stamps isn’t going to believe you, either.”

“I don’t want the union lawyer. Get me Oliver LaCroix.”

Quigg pocketed his gum in his cheek, making a bulge the size of a ping-pong ball. “I never liked you.” He ran his finger across the top of his datapad. “I never liked working with you.”

Andre perched on the edge of his chair. “Yes, you did. You’re just reconsidering.”

“That’s what I’m doing all right. I’m reconsidering everything about you.” Quigg stood. “Oliver LaCroix? So you’re going to tattle to city council?”

“My brother’s a damn good lawyer.”

“Stay here. Watch your mouth.” Quigg made for the door.

Andre found the air vent in the corner of the ceiling. He dragged the heavy chair directly underneath it and stood on it to open the vent wider. Cool air rushed onto his head and he tilted his face toward it, savoring the breeze. Never had the stale, damp, air of a police station basement felt so fresh.

He thought about how glibly he’d dismissed fourthing as shallow, with only social consequences. What he wouldn’t give to be nothing but a fourth right now, where the pleasures were immediate and a sure thing, and where mistakes disappeared with the next carpool. What did a mistake cost a fourth? Half a day’s pay? Never more than that. It never cost anyone’s life.

How many were dead? How many were injured? He’d seen Elway taken in the ambulance, but in the crush of bodies, would Elway even get the medical attention he needed?

Quigg was right. Andre had enough information. He’d done the police work, he knew who the bad guys were. He just didn’t want to admit it. But he could have done something—arrested Topher, warned off Nikhil, something.

Instead, he’d done the most useless possible thing. He’d stopped the shooter.

Andre didn’t know how long he sat hunched over in his chair, the vent blowing cold air onto the back of his neck. They’d taken his datapad and would have taken his phone implant too, if they could. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t get a waveguide in this room, so they’d blocked his calls anyway. Besides, who would he call? Once word got out, no one would talk to him.

He put his hands on his knees and felt something hard and rectangular in his suitcoat pocket. He brought out a crumpled paper booklet. He stared at it stupidly until he remembered Topher giving him the pamphlet at Oliver’s fundraiser. He’d barely glanced at it that night before shoving it in his pocket and forgetting about it.

Now he unfolded it and looked at the pages. The typeface was so small that some of the words disappeared in the creases, but the meaning was unmistakable. He smashed the pamphlet in his fist and tucked it right back where he’d found it. The cameras in the room. Did they see? He cut his eyes to the door, wondering if he’d hidden it in time. He wanted to huddle in the corner, take it out, and study it more closely, but he didn’t dare. This pamphlet went beyond intelligent dissention into threatful manifesto. It was a prosecutor’s wet dream. No need to gather evidence against Topher or Nikhil or the CEJ, since they would just as gladly incriminate themselves. Andre wondered how to get rid of it, and if he could do so before Oliver arrived.

He glanced at the door again, feeling like a child kept after school. Sure, your parents would come save you from the principal, but you’d be in worse trouble when you got home. What could he tell Oliver? Sorry, bro, your son and his friends f*cked up Overdrive.

He wouldn’t apologize. Not to Oliver. Not for this. He’d saved Nikhil’s life. He held onto that thought, like a shiny penny in an otherwise empty pocket. Nikhil is alive because of me. That had to count for something.

He couldn’t tell Quigg about Topher, or the CEJ and certainly not Nikhil. One slip and he’d dump all this bad weight—every last particle—on his nephew. There was no way to share, no way to help. He broke contact with Nikhil, or he painted a target on him. It was as simple as that. He had to work his own angles, use the task force, arrest the ringleaders, maybe even get Nikhil to help him from the inside.

Andre threw his head back and felt cold air blow on his cheeks. Who was he kidding? Sooner or later—probably sooner—someone would ask the wrong question and make the connection between Andre LaCroix and Nikhil LaCroix, then from Nikhil to Topher Price-Powell and the CEJ. The whole thing was a ticking time bomb—for Nikhil if the shooter was still out there, for himself when anyone connected uncle to nephew, and for the entire city if the CEJ decided to bomb Overdrive again.

The door opened and Quigg stormed through it. He tossed Andre’s datapad and wallet on the table. “Pick up your weapon on the first floor.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get out.”

“My brother?”

“I never called.”

Andre picked up his datapad and checked the time. How could it only be three o’clock when he’d already been in here a week? “No more questions?” he asked Quigg.

Quigg worked his jaw. “None. Leave.”

“So, why bring me here at all?”

“You’re not here. You’re gone.”

Andre walked past Quigg, then swung back around. Suspicion felt like someone squeezing his spine from inside his body. He leaned on the doorjamb, one foot inside and one foot outside the interrogation room. Quigg windmilled his arm, shooing him out.

“You got other suspects who need the room?”

“No. Out.”

Quigg—or whoever was pushing Quigg—wanted Andre free and on the street. Nobody was afraid of what he might say. He could have said it all by now. Andre remained in the doorway, feeling like he was being set up for an even bigger fall. But what? And by whom? Well, he wouldn’t figure it out standing here watching Quigg chew his cud. If the world was going to f*ck him, there was no sense trying to keep his pants on. Better to figure out a plan for when they were already around his ankles.

Andre smiled and extended his right hand. “Thanks, Lieutenant. No hard feelings?”

“Son, my feelings are so hard you could break a tooth eating my excrement.” Quigg glared, arms crossed. “I don’t like bad cops. I don’t like you.”

Andre took back his hung hand. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Can I ask you a question?”

“Make it quick.”

“Do you know where they took everyone? Which hospital? I want to check on my friend.”

“Who, Elway?”

“You’ve heard? How is he?”

“Try the morgue.”

Andre’s back hit the doorjamb. He’d physically retreated from the news, the impact of it hurling him backward.

“He died hours ago. Poor guy never even made it to the hospital.”

Andre’s throat tied itself in a knot. He turned his back to Quigg and tried to swallow. “Can I . . .”

“You know what you can do, LaCroix? You can die a slow and painful death. In the meantime, you can get out of my sight.”

“Thanks, man. Thanks a lot.” He pushed past Quigg and made for the stairs.

On the first floor, the property manager held out a clipboard and a light pen. “Thumb on the screen, please. On the X.”

Andre tilted his head to look at Noelle’s face. She was close to two meters tall, and he always felt like he was staring right into her tits. Noelle was usually his source for the best jokes. Now, she just glared down at him, impatiently tapping the board.

Andre thumbed the screen and retrieved his weapon, gave Noelle’s breasts a mock salute, and holstered the Guardian. He did not bother to reload it.

The first floor lobby area was almost deserted. The receptionist sat at her desk. Her screen was full of crashed cars and dead bodies, the Ugly Ben logo glowing brightly in the corner. As he passed, he heard his own name, followed by his own voice. “This is my fault.” He stopped and stared at the screen. The clip was repeated and he heard himself say it again. No! He hadn’t said that. Not out loud. They’d used a voice changer, a scrambler, somehow they’d put words in his mouth. Or did they? The authenticator—the same brand the police used—flashed its logo beneath Ben’s as they replayed the clip a third time. “This is my fault.”

Andre tried to remember the exact sequence of events, but it was like an alcoholic blackout. He leaned over the receptionist’s desk, glaring at the screen, trying to make his synapses fire in the right direction. He remembered climbing that hill, he remembered the spinners accosting him. Did he really tell them—and the world—that the crash was his fault?

And there was Naked Jay on the screen—when did those two start working together?—asking him who was responsible. Andre covered his mouth and shook his head, as if he could prevent words from coming out of that other self’s mouth. It didn’t help. There was his own face, looking directly into the camera, saying he did it, as if he’d reprogrammed the Overdrive towers with his own hand.

The receptionist wheeled her chair away from the desk, staring at him with wide eyes. Andre stumbled to the elevator, blindly pushing the button for his floor. Suddenly his overstuffed cubicle seemed like a refuge. He needed a place where this could make sense. A familiar chair, a familiar desk, something that wasn’t upside down and inside out.

The Jeffs from forensics got on the elevator after him. Andre hadn’t seen them since the Shepler homicide in the zone. He nodded a greeting that wasn’t returned. Uh-oh.

“He actually came back to work,” one of them said.

“Some people got the nerve.”

“You hear what he said to Ugly Ben?”

“I heard it.” The taller of the Jeffs slid his eyes over to Andre. “One of our own. Can you believe that?”

Andre glared them down. “I’m standing right here.”

“Yeah? You want to make something of it?” Both men were in front of him now, exhaling heavy breath in his face. “Come on. You want to?”

“Go ahead,” short Jeff said. He already had his hands up. “I’m due for a raise.”

The door slid open. “F*ck you,” Andre said, and exited the elevator.

“You already did, a*shole! You f*cked the whole department.”

The doors closed on a mumbled “Shithead,” from tall Jeff.

He heard it all the way to his office. Everyone from the dayjobbers to the janitor had a word. Andre kept his head down, kept walking, let the waves of hatred wash over him. He was an asswipe, a punce, and a twatwad. He was a traitor to the department. He was a killer, a terrorist, a miserable excuse for a cop. He wasn’t worthy to be called an officer of the law.

He finally made it to his cubicle and pulled the flimsy half-door closed behind him. Over the tops of the walls, he could hear the spins blaring into the room. Naked Jay and Ugly Ben mixed with Tom Griffon Junior, mixed with who-knew-what.

Andre sat in his desk chair, but heads kept prairie-dogging over the tops of the cubicle walls, popping out of sight when he noticed.

Andre set the lights in his office to “away,” which deactivated the ones directly overhead and did nothing to darken his cubicle. The glow of his datapad added to the brightness. He ignored all incoming messages, both urgent and ordinary. The spinners were starting to get calls, now. Plenty of blame to go around. The cops, the fourths, the Overdrive system itself. The callers knew something like this would happen. They just knew it.

I am so sorry, Elway.

Urgent whispers outside his door, and the spins abruptly cut off. He saw the feet first—closed-toe shoes and pressed pants.

He lifted his head. “Hi, Captain.”

Captain Evans pursed her lips and shook her head, her braids dancing across her forehead.

“The spins—”

“Are always first and always wrong,” the captain said.

“They’re saying I did it. A fourth. Or a cop. Both.”

“Yes, they are. The news anchors are playing catch up right now. It looks bad, but give it time. They’ll tell what’s true.”

He could breathe again. “Thanks.”

“We both know what comes next.”

“Yeah.” He unholstered his weapon and gave it to the captain, along with his shield.

“I have to,” she said.

“I know.”

“Temporary suspension. Full pay.” She weighed the Guardian in her hand. “You’re getting a nice vacation so you’d better enjoy it.”

Andre nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Captain Evans touched his shoulder. “I understand what happened. Hotdogging is the ultimate ass-covering move. Get it right and you’re a hero. Even better, nobody sees if you f*ck up. But honey? We all f*ck up. Share the blame a little next time, okay?”

“I wasn’t hotdogging.”

“I know what you were—” Another curious head peeped over the cubicle wall, then disappeared.

The captain glared over the dividers then gestured to the cubicle door. “Mr. LaCroix, let’s step into a more private location.” She took him through the maze of cubicles and into the stairwell. She closed the fire door behind them, then peered upward and downward, listening in the vast column of space. They were alone.

“I wasn’t hotdogging,” Andre said in an urgent whisper. “It was worse than that. Much worse.”

“What happened?”

“Elway found a tag on me.” Andre looked at the floor and spoke through gritted teeth. “Someone wanted to stop the terrorists. To kill them. I led that person right to the place where Overdrive would break down, and I led them right to the people that did it.”

“Why didn’t you stop them?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The bombers or the murderers?”

“Either.”

“You don’t understand. If I hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t done what I did—” He could feel the aching muscles in his jaw, forcing down a memory of Elway’s crushed and broken body. “I thought I knew how big this was.” He held out his hands as if trying to take hold of the case, restrain it. Then his hands opened and fell away. “I chose to save a few lives, and look how many it cost.”

The captain gripped the handrail and closed her eyes for a long moment, inhaling slowly, then nodded as if making up her mind. “Then I’m glad I suspended you.”

“Next you’re going to tell me that it’s for my own good.”

“Nope,” she said. “For mine.”

They both fell silent as the fire door two floors below opened and shut. Footsteps. Voices. Andre reached for the door handle.

Captain Evans caught his sleeve. “I had to call Jordan Elway’s mother. Tell her that her son is dead. I don’t want to call yours.”