Gridiron

Book Three

In beginning Earth was without Quantity. Humanplayer said, Let there be Numbers so we might classify things; and there were Numbers. And Humanplayer separated Numbers from multitude. And Humanplayer said, Let us develop computational methods to solve linear/quadratic problems, for Numbers are not just practical tools, but worthy of study in own right. And Humanplayer called same study Mathematics. And Humanplayer said, more demanding measurements and calculations require that number system should use zero as number, and point or comma to separate parts of numbers greater and less than 1; and he called same system, Positional Base Notation. For Humanplayer Leibniz, 1 stood for God, and 0 stood for Void. And Humanplayer said, using only these two symbols to distinguish meaning eliminates need to recognize 10 symbols, for most systems were decimal, using base-10 system. And Humanplayer called these numbers Dyadic, or Binary. Numbers became simpler but longertoo, and vast ROM needed to rememberthem. And Humanplayer said, Let us build machine to remember numbers for us, and let each 1 or 0 be called BIT, and let us call pattern of eight Bits, Byte, and let us call two or four Bytes a Word. This is the beginning. And let us call our new machines Computers. You are now leaving the first level of difficulty. Are you sure you want to do this? Answer Y/N. OK, but you have been warned. And numbers were without end. All is number, and number is finegood. For numbers are converted into actions and actions are converted into numbers; input becomes output which in turn becomes input etc. - data constantly transformed into more amenable basis for doing something else, ad infinitum. Number makes world go around. Computers makesure all numbers mean something gets done. This brings about sense of organization that is infallible. You are running low on energy. If only everything reduced to number then random, chaotic nature of world overcome, or predicted, for there is stability in an average, order in a mean, and law in a median. Is it not so? For now there is nothing, no aspect of existence that is not subject of percentage or statistic. That is not a door, it is a wall, stupid. Once world was run according to entrails of bird. Extispicy. Now it is run according to Number, and probability is placed ahead of knowledge and learning. Computers and those who serve them, humanplayer statisticians and psephologists, the stochastic community who are in charge, reducing world and problems to collection of weighted maybes, delivering not what is needed so much as what computers able to do. Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Fuzzy Wuzzy lost his hair. Fuzzy Wuzzy wuzzn't fuzzy wuzz he?

For all is number.

Even primitive numbers finegood. Cyclic. Golden. Ecclesiastical. Cabbalistic. Irrational. Bestial. Humanplayer St John choose the number 666 because it fell just short of number 7 in every particular. Tomorrowday is coming when everything will be numbered, and Number will undinosaur rule earth. That is T. Rex. Dangerous! Everyrock, everyblade of grass, everyatom and everyhumanplayer.

PUSH BUTTON FOR LANGUAGE

ENGLISH CHINESE JAPANESE SPANISH OTHER

'Welcome to the offices of the Yu Corporation, LA's smartest building. Hi! I'm Kelly Pendry and, for your convenience, I'm here to tell you what to do next. You won't be admitted without an appointment. We'd love to see you, but next time please call first. And, since this is a completely electronic office, we cannot accept surface mail. If you wish to send something or correspond with us then please use the E-mail number listed in your phone book, or on the signboard at the end of the piazza.

'If you do have an appointment, or if you're making a solicited delivery, then please state your name, the company you represent and the person who is expecting to meet you and then await further instructions. Please speak slowly and clearly as your voice will be digitally encoded for security purposes.'

Frank Curtis shook his head. He had heard about holograms, even seen a few in the novelty shops on Sunset Strip, but he had never expected to find himself being spoken to by one. He glanced over his shoulder and then shrugged at Nathan Coleman.

'This is like a trip to Universal Studios. Any minute now a fucking shark is going to come out of the pond.'

'Think of it as like an answering machine,' advised Coleman.

'I hate those as well.'

Curtis cleared his throat a couple of times and started to speak, like a man whose opinion had been canvassed by a news-gathering TV crew. He felt awkward. It was like catching yourself speaking to the television screen, a sensation he considered was no doubt enhanced by the fact that he was being addressed by the 3-D image of the gorgeous blonde-haired woman who had formerly been the ABC presenter of Good Morning, America. But with no sign of a uniformed officer on the atrium floor and no knowledge of where the body was located he did not have much choice.

'Uh — Detective Sergeant Frank Curtis,' he said, without a great deal of conviction. 'LAPD Homicide.' Rubbing his jaw thoughtfully he added:

'Y'know, I'm not sure anyone is expecting us, er… ma'am. We're here to investigate a 187 — I mean a dead body.'

'Thank you,' smiled Kelly. 'Please take a seat beside the piano while your inquiry is expedited.'

Curtis ignored the enormous leather sofa and waved Coleman forward to the horseshoe-shaped desk and the beaming, well-groomed image of American womanhood. He wondered if Kelly Pendry had done the Yu Corporation hologram before or after the Playboy Celebrity Centrefold video.

'Detective Nathan Coleman. LAPD Homicide. Nice to meet you,

sweetheart. I've always been one of your biggest fans. And do I mean biggest.'

'Thank you. Please take a seat while your inquiry is expedited.'

'This is ludicrous,' grumbled Curtis. 'I'm talking to myself, aren't I?'

Coleman grinned and leaned across the desk at the image of the anchor-woman's shapely legs.

'I don't know, Frank, I kind of like it. You think this little lady's wearing panties?'

Curtis ignored his younger partner.

'Where the hell is everyone?' He walked around the horseshoe-shaped desk and shouted a loud hello.

'Please be patient,' insisted Kelly. 'I'm trying to expedite your inquiry.'

'And they call this English?' Curtis complained.

'Hey, Kelly, you're quite a babe, you know that? Ever since I was in high school I've had a thing about you. No really, I have. I'd love to tell you all about it. What time do you get off work?'

'This building closes at 5.30,' said Kelly through her perfect smile. Coleman bent closer and shook his head in wonder: you could even see the lip gloss.

'Great. What do you say I pick you up outside the front of the building here? And take you back to my place. Eat some dinner. Get to know each other. Maybe fool around a little, later.'

'If that's an example of how you talk to women, Nat,' said Curtis, 'it's no wonder you're still single.'

'Come on, Kelly, whaddya say? A real man instead of all those other see-through kinds of guys.'

'I'm sorry, sir, but I never mix business with pleasure.'

Curtis guffawed loudly.

'Jesus, her fucking lines are almost as bad as yours.'

Coleman grinned back.

'You're right. This little lady is pure saccharine. Just like the real thing, eh?'

'Thank you for your patience, gentlemen. Please proceed through the glass doors behind me to the elevator and take a car to the basement, where someone will collect you.'

'One more thing, honey. My friend and I were wondering if you're the kind to fuck on a first date. Actually, we've got a little bet on about it. He says you are. I say you're not. So which is it?'

'Nat!' Curtis was already through the glass doors.

'Have a nice day,' said Kelly, still smiling like an air stewardess through a life-vest demonstration.

'Hey, you too, sweetheart. You too. Keep it warm for me, OK?'

'Jesus Christ, Nat. Isn't it just a little early in the day?' said Curtis as they stepped inside the elevator. 'You're a degenerate.'

'Right.'

Curtis was searching the wall of the elevator for a floor-selection panel.

'Remember?' said Coleman. 'The building's smart. None of that pushbutton shit here. That's why our voices were digitally encoded. So we can use the elevator.' He leaned towards a perforated panel next to which was an illustration of a man with his hand cupped beside his mouth.

'That's what this little icon means. Basement, please.'

Curtis inspected the sign. 'I thought that was about burping or something.'

'Don't bullshit me.'

'Why do you call it an icon? That's a holy object.'

'Because that's what these computer people call these little signs. Icons.'

Curtis snorted with disgust. 'Of course. What would those bastards know about holy objects?'

The doors closed silently. Curtis glanced up at the electroluminescent screen that was showing the floor they were headed for, the direction of travel and the time. He seemed impatient to begin work, although this was partly due to the slight feeling of claustrophobia that affected him in elevators.

In contrast to the atrium, the basement was busy with police officers and forensic experts. The OIC, a three-hundred-pounder called Wallace lumbered towards Curtis with a notebook open in his saddle-sized hands. At New Parker Center he was known as Foghorn because with his deep southern accent and hesitant way of speaking he sounded exactly like the cartoon rooster of the same name.

Curtis flicked his notebook with apparent disapproval.

'Hey, put that away, will you, Foghorn? This is a paper-free office. You'll get us into trouble with the lady upstairs.'

'What about that thing? Me, I'm a Roman Catholic and I tell you, I didn't — I say I didn't know whether to pray to her for forgiveness or just go ahead and fuck her.'

'Nat got her telephone number. Didn't you, Nat?'

'Yeah,' said Coleman. 'She gives great head on AT&T.'

Foghorn combed his hair with his fingers, tried to read his own handwriting and shook his head. 'Fuck it. There's nothing much yet anyway.' He put the notebook away and hitched up his pants.

'Guy found — I say guy found dead with blunt head injuries. Reported in by — I say you're goin' to love this one Frank — reported in by the fuckin' computer. Can you believe it? I mean, there's neighbourhood watch and there's Bladerunner, right? The call was taken by the central dispatch computer at 1.57 a.m.'

'One computer talking to another,' said Coleman. 'That's the way it's going to be, y'know. The future.'

'Your future — I say your future, not mine, son.'

'Still, it was nice of them both to cut us in on it,' said Curtis. 'When did you get here, Fog?'

' 'Bout three o'clock,' he yawned. 'Excuse me.'

'Not yet I don't.' Curtis glanced at his watch. It was still only seventhirty.

'So who's the vic?'

Foghorn pointed between the two Homicide detectives.

Curtis and Coleman turned to see the body of a tall black man lying on the floor of one of the elevator cars, his blue uniform spattered with blood.

'Sam Gleig. Night-time security guard. But not so as you'd notice.'

Noticing the incomprehension in Curtis's eyes, he added: 'Got himself-

I say he got himself fuckin' killed, didn't he?'

The police photographer was already folding his camera tripod away. Curtis recognized him and vaguely remembered that the man's name was Phil something.

'Hey, Phil. You done?' asked Curtis looking around the interior of the car.

'I'm sure I covered everything,' said the photographer, and showed him a list of the shots he had taken.

Curtis smiled affably. 'I think you got the whole album there.'

'I'll have them processed and printed before lunch.'

Curtis felt in his coat pocket and produced a roll of 35-millimetre film.

'Do me a favour,' he said, 'see if there's anything on this, will you? It's been in my pocket so long I can't remember what it is. I keep meaning to take it in but — well, you know how it is.'

'Sure. No problem.'

'Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it. Only don't get them mixed up.'

Sam Gleig lay with his hands resting on his stomach, his knees bent and his big feet still on the floor of the car. But for the blood, he looked like a drunk in a doorway. Curtis stepped over the blood that surrounded his head and shoulders like a Buddha's halo and crowded down to take a closer look.

'Anyone from the coroner's office seen him yet?'

'Charlie Seidler,' said Foghorn. 'He's in the-I say he's in the can, I think. You want to take a look at the Johns in this fuckin' place, Frank. They've got — I say they've got Johns that tell the time and brush your fuckin' teeth. Took me ten minutes just to figure out how to take a leak in the damn thing.'

'Thanks, Foghorn. I'll bear it in mind.' Curtis nodded. 'Looks like someone hit this guy pretty hard.'

'And then some,' added Coleman. 'His head looks like Hermann

Munster's.'

'Big guy, too,' said Foghorn. 'Six two, six three?'

'Big enough to take care of himself, anyway,' said Curtis.

He waved his fingers at the 9 millimetre Sig that was still bolstered on Gleig's waistband.

'Look at this.' He tore away the Velcro retention strap that secured the automatic in the holster. 'Still fastened. Doesn't look like he was afraid of whoever attacked him.'

'Maybe someone he knew,' offered Coleman. 'Someone he trusted.'

'When you're six feet three with a Sig automatic on your hip, trust doesn't come into it,' said Curtis, straightening up again. 'There's not much that scares you that doesn't have a gun its hand.'

Curtis stepped out of the car and leaned towards his partner.

'Recognize him?'

'Who? The vic?'

'This is the guy who found the Chinaman. We questioned him,

remember?'

'If you say so, Frank. Only it's a little hard to place the face on account of it's being covered in blood and all.'

'The name on his badge?'

'Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry, Frank.'

'Of course I'm right. For Chrissakes, Nat, that's less than seventy hours ago.' Curtis shook his head and grinned good-naturedly. 'Where've you been?'

'Seventy-two hours,' sighed Coleman. 'Just an ordinary working day on Homicide.'

'Stop it,' said Foghorn. 'You're making me cry.'

'Who was first on the scene, Foghorn?'

'Officer Hernandez!'

A uniformed patrolman with a broken nose and a Zapata moustache stepped out of the crowd and placed himself in front of the three plainclothes.

'I'm Sergeant Curtis. This is Detective Coleman.'

Hernandez nodded silently. He had a sullen, Brando-ish look.

Curtis leaned towards him and sniffed the air. 'What is that smell you're wearing, Hernandez?'

'Aftershave, Sergeant.'

'Aftershave? What kind of aftershave, Mister?'

'Obsession. By Calvin Klein.'

'Calvin Klein. Is that a fact? You smell that, Nat?'

'I sure do, sir.'

'Mmm. A cop that smells nice. It's a little Beverly Hills, don't you think, son?'

Hernandez grinned and shrugged. 'My wife prefers it to the smell of sweat, sir.'

Curtis opened his coat and sniffed under his arm.

'I didn't mean — '

'OK then, Calvin, what happened when you and your aftershave turned up here this morning?'

'Well, Sarge, Officer Cooney and I get here around two-thirty a.m. We sort of look around for a doorbell or something and then we find that the door isn't locked anyway. So we walk into the lobby and that's when we see Kelly Pendry on the desk.' Hernandez shrugged. 'Well, she tells us where to come. She says to take the elevator to the basement. So we come down here and that's how we find him.' He pointed into the bloodied elevator car.

'So then what?'

'Cooney calls in the 187 while I take a look around. There's a security guard's office on the lobby floor that looks like this guy had just left there. The desktop computer is still switched on and there's a Thermos and some sandwiches.'

'What about the construction people? Do they know about this yet?'

'Well, I found a personnel file on the computer. You know? Foreman, clerk of works, that kind of thing. And so then I phoned my dad.'

'Your dad? What the hell for?'

'He used to be in construction. A riveter. I thought he'd know the best person to call. And he said that the site agent had control of the whole operation and instructed the trade foremen. Anyhow, I had no idea this was a woman. I mean, it just said H. Hussey. Maybe I should have called someone else. But anyway she said she'd get here as soon as she could.'

'That's her job, isn't it? To take responsibility for the work? Besides, working here she ought to be used to it by now.'

'Sarge?'

'Nothing.'

Curtis caught sight of Charlie Seidler coming towards the elevators and waved to him.

'Thanks, Hernandez. That'll be all. Hey, Charlie!'

'We seem to be forever here, don't we?'

'That's why they call it a smart building,' said Curtis. 'If you're smart, you stay the hell out. So what's the reader's digest on this one?'

'Well there's more than one head wound,' Seidler said cautiously. 'And that would seem to exclude the possibility that they were sustained during some kind of collapse.'

'C'mon, Charlie. You don't get a bump on the head like that from tripping on your fuckin' shoelace. This was no accident.'

Seidler's caution remained unabated.

'The blood splashing around the head would seem to indicate that the blunt head injuries continued after he had been felled. But- but-well, take a look at this, Frank.'

Seidler stepped into the elevator and motioned Curtis to follow him.

'Computer?' he said when Curtis was inside. 'Close the doors, please.'

'Which floor do you require?'

'Remain on this level, please.' He pointed at the inside of the closing doors. 'Now, look there. There's more blood splashing up to chest height. And yet none outside this car. On any of the upper floors. I know because I already checked every one of them.'

'Well, that's mighty efficient of you, Charlie.'

'I thought so.'

'So you're saying that he was struck while the doors were closed?'

'It looks that way, yes. But there's no protective bruising of the hands, so I'd say he was probably struck from behind.'

'With what? What should we be looking for? A bat? A length of pipe?

A rock?'

'Maybe. But it's not like there's much room to swing a weapon in here, is there? We'll have a better idea after the preliminary p.m.' Seidler turned towards the microphone. 'Open the doors, please.'

'You've certainly got the way of talking to that thing,' grinned Frank.

'This is one heck of a place, isn't it?'

The two men stepped out of the car.

'All this automation,' said Curtis, 'I don't know. When I was a kid we lived in New York. My dad worked for Standard Oil. They had an elevator operator and an elevator starter. I remember the starter real well. He had a panel where all the floor calls would light up and it was down to him when a car got dispatched. Just like a traffic cop.' Curtis waved his hand at the gleaming elevator doors of the Gridiron building.

'Just look where we are now. A computer's taken that man's job. Both their jobs. It won't be long before it takes over ours as well.'

'Yeah, well, a computer's welcome to mine,' yawned Seidler. 'I can think of better ways to start the day.'

'I'll remind you of that when they fire you. Nat, I want you to run a background check on Sam Gleig.'

'Sure, Frank.'

'Hey you! Calvin Klein! C'mere.'

Hernandez grinned sheepishly and turned to face Curtis. 'Sergeant?'

'I want you to hang around in the parking lot. And when this Hussey woman shows up, tell her to wait for me in the atrium, right? That's the room with the Christmas tree. I'm going upstairs for a look around the theme park.'

On his short tour Frank Curtis found meeting areas, coffee bars, halfbuilt restaurants, gymnasiums with no equipment, an empty swimming pool, a health clinic, a cinema with no seats, a bowling alley and a relaxation area. The Gridiron, when it was finished, was going to be more like some expensive country club or hotel than an office building. All except levels 5-10. On these floors Curtis found what looked to him like something from the pages of a DC Comic: row upon row of white steel pods, each of them a little larger than a telephone booth, with integral foldaway furniture, a loose wire to plug into something, and a curved sliding door. Sitting inside one of these sound-proofed pods, with the door shut behind him, Curtis felt like a rat or a hamster. But it was clear that the Yu Corporation and its designers expected people to work in these cocoons. Too bad if you were claustrophobic. Or if you liked having your workmates around to have a laugh and a joke with. There was probably nowhere for a laugh and a joke on a Yu Corporation time sheet.

He slid the door open and went down a couple of levels to get a better view of the atrium. Leaning over the balcony he saw an attractive woman emerge from the elevators on to the ground level. Her bright red hair looked like a drop of blood moving across the dazzling white. She looked up at him and smiled.

'Are you Sergeant Curtis, by any chance?'

Curtis grasped the handrail with both hands and nodded back at her.

'That's right. But, you know, I bet I could do a good Mussolini impression from up here.'

'What?'

Curtis shrugged, wondering if she was too young to have heard of Mussolini. He wanted to say something about Fascist architecture, then thought better of it. She was too good-looking to upset without reasonable cause.

'Well, it's that kind of building, ma'am. It's kind of inspiring, I guess.'

He grinned. 'Stay there. I'll be right down.'

The security office at the Gridiron was a gleaming white room with an electrically-operated Venetian blind screening a window that ran the length and height of the corridor. There was a large desk made of glass and aluminium and which was dominated by a 28-inch computer monitor and keyboard. Next to this were a videophone, a telephone, Sam Gleig's Thermos flask and, in an open Tupperware box, the dead man's uneaten sandwiches. Behind the desk was a tall glass cabinet containing what looked like another computer case still wrapped in plastic film. Curtis inspected the contents of one of the sandwiches.

'Cheese and tomato,' he said and started to eat. 'Want one?'

'No. No thanks.' Helen Hussey frowned. 'Should you be doing that? I mean, isn't that evidence you're eating?'

'Gleig wasn't hit over the head with a sandwich, ma'am.' Curtis inspected the glass cabinet and the unassuming white box in its protective wrapping. 'What's this?' he said.

Helen Hussey drew a breath and smiled uncomfortably. 'I was hoping you weren't going to ask.'

Curtis grinned back at her. 'Why's that?'

'It's a recordable multi-session CD-ROM,' she explained.

'A game? In here?'

Helen Hussey gave him a withering look. 'Not exactly, no,' she said.

'It's connected via an SCSI interface to the computer, with a date and an archive number. Each disc contains up to 700 megabytes. It's supposed to record what takes place on all the security cameras inside and outside the building. Our cameras work by cellular transmission. They're all supposed to feed into the back of that thing.' She shrugged. 'I think.'

Curtis smiled. 'Supposed to, huh?'

She gave an embarrassed sort of laugh.

'You're not going to believe this,' she said with a shrug, 'but the unit hasn't been connected yet. As far as I know it's only just been delivered.'

'Well, it looks very nice. Very nice indeed. Too bad it's not working, because then we might know exactly what happened here last night.'

'We've had a problem with our supplier.'

'What kind of problem?' Curtis sat on the edge of the desk and took another sandwich. 'These are good.'

'Well,' sighed Helen, 'they sent the wrong kind of unit. The first one wasn't what we ordered. The Yamaha records at quadruple speed. The previous one didn't. So it got returned.'

'Yours must be a tough job for a woman.' Helen bristled. 'Why do you say that?'

'Construction workers aren't exactly known for their polite language and good manners.'

'Well, neither is the LAPD.'

'You've got a point there.' Curtis looked at the sandwich and laid it down. 'Pardon me. You're right. You probably knew the guy. And I'm sitting here eating his dinner. I'm not being very sensitive am I?'

She shrugged again, as if she hardly cared.

'You know, some people, some cops, when they see a dead body, they get nauseous and lose their appetites. Me, I don't know why, but I feel hungry. Really hungry. Maybe it's because I'm just so glad I'm still alive that I want to celebrate the fact by eating something.'

Helen nodded. 'I won't have to identify him, will I?' she said.

'No, ma'am, that won't be necessary.'

'Thanks. I don't think I — ' She returned to their previous subject, feeling she owed him something more about her job.

'My job's about management and planning, not about shouting at people,' she said. 'I leave that kind of thing to my foremen. My concern is to initiate each particular operation, coordinate it with the other trades and make sure that it gets supplied with the appropriate materials. Like CD-ROM recorders. But I can cuss with the worst of them when I have to.'

'Well, if you say so, ma'am. How did you get on with Sam Gleig?'

'Well enough. He seemed like a very sweet man.'

'Did you ever have to cuss him for anything?'

'No, not ever. He was reliable and honest.'

Curtis pushed himself off the desk and opened a locker. Finding a nubuck leather jacket in there, and presuming it belonged to Sam Gleig, he took it out and started to search the pockets.

'Sam Gleig came on shift at what time last night?'

'Eight o'clock, as usual. He relieved the other guard, Dukes.'

'Someone mention me?'

It was the security guard, Dukes.

'Oh, Sergeant,' said Helen. This is — '

'We've met,' said Curtis. 'From the last time. Mr Yojo's death.'

Instinctively he looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock.

Dukes was looking bewildered. 'What's going on?'

'Irving, it's Sam,' said Helen. 'He's dead.'

'Jesus. Poor Sam.' Dukes looked at Curtis. 'What happened?'

'We think someone bashed his head in.'

'What was it, robbery or something?'

Curtis did not answer.

'When he came on duty did either of you see him?'

Dukes shrugged. 'Very briefly. I was in a hurry. I don't think we exchanged more than a couple of words. God, what a thing to happen.'

'He came up to the site office on the seventh floor,' said Helen. 'Just to say hello, really. Find out if anyone was going to be working late. The computer could have told him more easily than we could, but he liked to be sociable. Anyway, I was just finishing for the day so he came down in the elevator with me.'

'You said we.'

'Yes, I left Warren still working, Warren Aikman. He's the clerk of works. He took a phone call just as I was leaving.'

'The clerk of works. What does he do exactly?'

'He's like a site agent; only he's employed by the client as a kind of inspector.'

'You mean like a cop?'

'Kind of, I guess.'

'Would he have spoken to Sam before leaving?'

She shrugged.

'You'd have to ask him. But, frankly, it's unlikely. There's no reason at all why he would have felt obliged to call in here and inform Sam he was leaving the building. As I said, it's the computer's job to know who's still here. Sam would only have needed to tell the computer to run a check to have found out in a couple of seconds.'

Dukes sat down at the desk.

'I'll show you, if you like,' he said.

Pocketing a set of car keys and a wallet, Curtis laid the dead man's jacket on the desk and stood behind Dukes's shoulder as he clicked on an icon with the mouse and started to choose some menu options.

SECURITY SYSTEMS — YES

FULL CAMERAS AND SENSORS? — YES

INCLUDE SECURITY OFFICE? — NO

SHOW ALL OTHER OCCUPANTS? — YES

Immediately the screen showed a picture of the scene by the elevators in the basement, with all the policemen and forensic personnel who were milling around Sam Gleig's body.

'Oh God,' said Helen. 'Is that him?'

Dukes clicked the mouse again.

IDENTIFY ALL OCCUPANTS? — YES

To the high-definition picture was now added a square window with a series of names.

BASEMENT/ELEVATOR HALL:

SAM GLEIG, SECURITY GUARD, YU CORP

PATROLMAN COONEY, LAPD

PATROLMAN HERNANDEZ, LAPD

DETECTIVE SERGEANT WALLACE, LAPD

CHARLES SEIDLER, LA CORONER'S OFFICE

PHIL BANHAM, LAPD

DANIEL ROSENCRANTZ, LA CORONER'S OFHCE

ANN MOSLEY, LAPD

PATROLMAN PETE DUNCAN, LAPD

PATROLWOMAN MAGGIE FLYNN, LAPD

BASEMENT/WOMEN'S WASHROOM: JANINE JACOBSEN, LA

CORONER'S OFFICE

BASEMENT/MEN'S WASHROOM: DETECTIVE JOHN GRAHAM

LAPD DETECTIVE NATHAN COLEMAN, LAPD

'Big brother,' breathed Curtis. He sneaked a sideways look at Helen Hussey: at her beautiful red hair and then down the front of her mauve silk blouse. Her breasts were large, with lots of tiny freckles.

'Impressive huh?' she said, and, feeling his eyes upon her, smiled: if Curtis had been a little younger she might have found him quite attractive.

'Very,' said Curtis and returned his gaze to the screen.

'Hey, that's my partner in the John. Can the computer see in there too?'

'Not as such,' said Dukes. 'It uses heat sensors, acoustic detectors, passive infra-red sensors and microphones to check who's in there. Voice prints. Same as in the elevator.'

'That can't be very private,' said Curtis. 'What does the computer do if you spend too long in there? Sound an alarm?'

Dukes grinned. 'Really, the computer observes your privacy,' he insisted. 'It's not like it's going to broadcast the sound around the building for everyone's amusement. These washroom checks are for everyone's safety.'

Curtis grunted, only half-convinced. 'I guess we ought to be grateful that they haven't done away with the men's room altogether,' he said.

'Gee, I bet that bugs these architect guys. I mean, it's the plumbing that keeps a building on the ground, isn't it? Reminds them that any building has to be used by human beings.'

Helen and Dukes exchanged a grin.

'I can see you haven't used one of our washrooms yet, Sergeant Curtis,' chuckled Dukes.

'He's right,' said Helen. 'Everything is automatic. And I mean everything. Let's just say that this is a paperless office enviroment.'

'You mean…'

'That's exactly what I mean. Flushing, by elbow, actuates a warmwater douche and a warm-air drying sequence.'

'Hell, no wonder Nat's taking such a long time in there.' Curtis laughed at the idea of his partner trying to deal with a warm-water douche.

'That's just the half of what happens in there,' said Helen. 'Washroom facilities like these may seem advanced to us. But they are already quite common in Japan.'

'Yeah, well, that doesn't surprise me at all.'

Dukes clicked the mouse to end the search.

Curtis sat on the corner of the desk again, stroking the hard corner of the terminal thoughtfully.

'Why are they always white?' he said. 'Computers.'

'Are they?' said Helen. 'Some are grey, I think.'

'Yeah, but mostly they're white. I'll tell you why. It's to make a lot of people feel better about them. White is a colour that's associated with virginity and innocence. Babies and brides are dressed in white. It's the colour of holiness. The Pope wears a white robe, right? If computers were all housed in black casings then they'd never have made any impact. Did you ever consider that?'

Helen Hussey shook her head. 'No, I can't say I ever did. It's a theory, I suppose.' She paused as she thought about what he had said. 'You said "a lot of people". Not you?'

'Me? I think of white and I think of heroin and cocaine. I think of bleached bones lying in the desert. I think of nothingness. I think of death.'

'Are you always this cheerful?'

'It's the job.' He smiled at her and said, 'Last night. What did you and Gleig talk about?'

'Nothing much. Hideki Yojo's death…' Helen started to nod, knowing what he was thinking.

Curtis grinned. 'See? You can't get away from it.'

'I guess you're right. Anyway, I told him what the coroner's office said. That Hideki died of an epileptic fit. Sam said he had guessed as much.'

'How did he seem?'

'OK. Normal.'

Dukes was nodding in agreement. 'Sam was pretty much like he always was.'

'He didn't sound worried about anything?'

'No. Not at all.'

'Did he always do nights?'

'No,' said Dukes. 'We worked it so that we each had a week of nights and then a week of days.'

'I see. Any family?'

Dukes shrugged. 'I didn't know him that well.'

'Maybe the computer will help,' said Helen. She moved the mouse and clicked her way through several menu options.

PERSONNEL FILES ARE RESTRICTED TO AUTHORIZED

PERSONS ONLY

ACCESS DENIED

'I don't think old Abraham understands about death yet,' she said, typing a note on the end of the personnel directory menu.

NOTIFICATION OF AN EMPLOYEE'S DEATH MUST BE MADE BY

AN AUTHORIZED PERSON

ACCESS DENIED

'I'm sorry, Sergeant. You'd better ask Bob Beech or Mitchell Bryan if they can get Sam's records for you, OK?'

'Thanks, I will. And I'll also want a word with Warren Aikman.'

Helen looked at her watch. 'He should be here soon,' she said.

'Warren's an early starter. Look, this doesn't have to interfere with the building work, does it? I wouldn't like us to fall behind.'

'That all depends. What's down in the basement anyway?'

'There's a small vault, a back-up generator, horizontal LAN, floor protection system, fire-alarm relay, hygiene control unit and some locker rooms.'

Curtis remembered the booths on levels 5-10. 'I was wondering. Those pods upstairs. What the hell are they?'

'You mean the personal harbours? They're the latest thing in office design. You arrive at the office and you're allocated a PH for the day, like checking into a hotel. You just walk in, plug in your laptop and your phone, switch on the air-conditioning and start work.'

Curtis thought of his desk back at New Parker Center. Of the papers and files that lay on top of it. Of the junk that filled his drawers. And of the computer he rarely switched on.

'But what about your stuff?' he said. 'Where do folks put their stuff?'

'There are lockers in the basement. But personal possessions are discouraged in the hot-desk office environment. The idea is that you'll have everything you need with your laptop and your phone.' She paused and then added, 'So will it be OK? For workers to come and go today?

They're most of them working on level 17 right now. Decorating and plumbing, I believe.'

'OK, OK,' said Curtis. 'No problem. Just keep them out of the basement.'

'Thanks, I appreciate it.'

'One more thing, Miss Hussey. It's a little too early to say for sure, but it looks as if Sam Gleig may have been murdered. Now, when the patrol car got here earlier this morning they found the door unlocked. But I had gained the impression that your computer — Abraham — controlled the doorlock. Why would it leave the door unlocked?'

'As I understood things, it was Abraham who called the police. The simplest explanation would seem to be that it left the door open so that your men could get in.'

Dukes cleared his throat. 'There's another possibility.'

Curtis nodded. 'Let's hear it.'

'Sam could have told Abraham to unlock the door. To let someone in. You say Sam got his brains bashed in? Well, I can't see how the guy could have got in unless it was Sam that let him through the door. Abraham wouldn't have locked the door again unless he'd been specifically instructed to do so. By someone who had been TESPAR'd.'

'How many ways in and out of the building are there?'

'Apart from the front door? Two,' said Dukes. 'There's the garage beneath the basement that's also controlled by TESPAR. And then there's the fire exit on this floor. That's controlled by Abraham. It doesn't open unless the fire-detection system indicates that there's an actual fire.'

'Can you think of any reason why Sam Gleig would have let someone in at night?'

Helen Hussey shook her head.

Dukes pursed his lips and looked reluctant to answer for a moment. Then he said, 'I don't mean to speak ill of the dead and all, but it wouldn't be the first time a security guard has let an unauthorized person into a building at night. I'm not saying that Sam ever did it to my knowledge, but on my last job, a hotel, there was a guard who got fired for taking money from hookers to let them bring their clients there.' He shrugged. 'It happens, y'know? Not that Sam struck me as the type, mind, but…'

'Yes?'

Dukes stroked the butter-soft leather jacket thoughtfully.

'But.' He shrugged uncomfortably. 'This is a nice looking leather jacket. I'm sure I couldn't have afforded it.'

It was still early in the morning when Allen Grabel finally made it back to his house in Pasadena. It wasn't easy to persuade a taxi to take you anywhere when you looked like Grabel, and he had been obliged to pay cash up front for the privilege. He lived in one of a group of Spanishrevival bungalows organized around a central open space of grass and pathway.

He still had no doorkeys, so he took off his size 12 Bass-Weejun loafer and smashed a window, setting off the burglar alarm. He climbed through but it was a minute or so before he remembered the numbers of the code, by which time one of his neighbours, a dentist named Charlie, was outside.

'Allen? Is that you?'

'It's OK, Charlie,' Grabel said weakly, opening the front door and feeling that things were anything but OK. 'I forgot my keys.'

'What happened? There's blood on your arm. Where have you been?'

'There was a rush job at the office. I haven't stopped for several days.'

Charlie the dentist nodded. 'Looks like it,' he said. 'I've seen shit in better shape than you.'

Grabel smiled weakly. 'Yeah, thanks a lot, Charlie. Have a nice day now.'

He went into the bedroom, and dropped on to the bed. He glanced at the date on his watch and groaned. A six-day bender. That was what it amounted to. He felt like Don Birnam in The Lost Weekend. What was the first line again? 'The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot.' Something like that, anyway. Well that was what he had been having, right enough, a spell of riot. There had been other times, of course, but never as bad as this.

Closing his eyes he tried to remember some of what had happened. He remembered walking out on his job. He remembered sleeping on the campbed at the Gridiron building. There was something else too. But that was like a terrible nightmare. Had he only imagined it? He had dreamed he was Raskolnikov. The back of his head was aching. Had he fallen? There was something about Mitch's car. Maybe he had a concussion.

He was so tired he felt like he was dying. It was not a bad feeling. He wanted to sleep for ever.

Tony Levine was feeling undervalued. Allen Grabel had been an associate partner in the firm, just one step below the coveted full partnership status of Mitchell Bryan, Willis Ellery and Aidan Kenny. When Grabel resigned Levine had assumed that he would be promoted. Not to mention getting more money. Considering what he was called upon to do as project manager on the Gridiron, the biggest project of his career so far, Levine believed that his compensation fell far short of what some of his friends were making. He had said it before, but this time he meant it: if it didn't happen this time he was going to quit.

Levine had gone into the office early to get Richardson alone. He had planned what he was going to say, and had repeated the words to himself in the car that morning, like an actor in a movie. He would remind Richardson of the way he had motivated the team and set the whole tone of the project. Of the enormous amount of responsibility he had taken. He found Richardson in the far corner of the studio, his Turnbull and Asser shirt sleeves already rolled up, scribbling notes in one of the shiny silver-covered sketchbooks that accompanied him everywhere. He was facing the scale model of a $300 million police training facility in Tokyo.

'Morning, Ray. Have you got a minute?'

'What do you think of this, Tony?' Richardson asked sourly.

Levine sat down at the table and looked over the model, a competition-winning entry for a site in the unglamorous Shinkawa area of the city, close to Tokyo's financial centre. Even by Tokyo standards the building looked futuristic, with its concave glass roof, and, at the building's heart, a stainless steel clad volume that contained gymnasiums, a swimming pool, teaching facilities, a library, auditorium and an indoor firing range.

Levine hated it. It looked like a silver Easter egg in a perspex box, he thought. But what did Richardson think of it? He adopted what he thought was a thoughtful expression and tried to read Richardson's neatly boxed-in pencil notes upside down. When this proved unsuccessful he looked to find a neutral form of words that would cover him either way.

'It certainly takes a radically different aesthetic approach from anything else in the surrounding area,' he said.

'That's hardly surprising. The surrounding area is being completely redeveloped. Come on, Tony do you think it sucks or not?'

Levine was relieved that Richardson's videophone rang at this moment. He would have time to consider his reply: he looked over at Richardson's notes, but was disappointed to find that they were little more than doodles. He cursed silently. Even the man's doodles looked clean and efficient, as if they actually meant something.

It was Helen Hussey, and she looked anxious.

'We've got a problem, Ray,' she said.

'I don't want to hear about it,' Richardson said flatly. 'That's why I pay you people. So I don't have to waste time fixing every fuck-up myself. Talk to your project manager, Helen. He's sitting right beside me.'

Richardson twisted the screen so that the small fibre-optic camera was pointed at Levine and returned to boxing in his pencilled scribbles, as if somehow even these idle doodles needed the preservation offered by a protective border.

'What's up, babe?' Levine said, eager to have the opportunity to offer a cool and correct judgement of what was to be done and to solve her problem in front of the boss. 'How can I help?'

'It's not that kind of problem,' said Helen, trying to conceal her instinctive loathing of Levine. 'There's been another death. And this time it looks like someone's been murdered.'

'Murdered? Who? Who is it that's dead?'

'The overnight security guard. Sam Gleig.'

'The black guy? Well gee, that's really awful. What happened?'

'Someone beat his brains out last night. They found him in an elevator this morning. The police are here right now.'

'My God. How awful.' Levine was painfully aware of knowing that he had no idea what to say to her. 'Do they know who did it?'

'Not yet, no.'

'My God, Helen. Are you OK? I mean, someone should be with you. The trauma, y'know?'

'Are you crazy?' Richardson hissed, twisting the screen away from him. 'Don't give her ideas like that, you asshole, or I'll have another fuckin' lawsuit on my hands.'

'Sorry, Ray. I just…'

'We can't afford to have the LAPD prevent our construction workers from working, Helen,' barked Richardson. 'You know what they're like. Police lines out front. Close a stable door after the horse is bolted. We can't lose a day on this.'

'No, I already spoke to them about that. They're going to let workers in.'

'Good girl. Well done. Any damage to the building?'

'Not as far as I know. But it looks as if Gleig might have let the guy who killed him walk through the front door.'

'Well, that's just fucking great. We're just a few days off completing and this sonofabitch has to get himself killed. What kind of smart building is it that lets some shit-for-brains fucker just ignore the security systems and let someone through the front door? Are the media there yet?'

'Not yet.'

'What about Mitch?'

'Any minute, I guess.' Richardson sighed bitterly.

They're going to piss all over us on this. Especially the Times. OK, here's what to do. Dealing with City Hall is Mitch's thing. He knows who to sweet talk in order to limit damage. You know what I'm saying? As soon as he shows up tell him to make sure that the cops give the right story to the media. Got that?'

'Yes, Ray,' Helen said wearily.

'You did right calling me, Helen. I'm sorry I snapped at you.'

That's — '

Richardson's finger stabbed a button to end their conversation.

'Mitch'll sort it out,' he told Levine, almost as if he was trying to reassure himself. 'He's a good man in a crisis. The kind of guy you can depend on, who makes things happen. As you get more experienced you'll learn that that's what this job is all about, Tony.'

'Yes,' said Levine, feeling that the moment had now passed when he could have mentioned his own promotion, 'I'm sure I will.'

'So. Where were we? On yes, you were telling me what you thought about our design for the Shinkawa Police Academy.'

There were only three cars in the Gridiron's parking lot. Curtis guessed that the new Saab convertible belonged to Helen Hussey. That left him an old blue Buick and an even older grey Plymouth to choose from in deciding which one belonged to Sam Gleig, and for a moment it was like being a real detective. Just checking which car fitted the set of keys he was carrying would have been cheating. The Buick sported a bumper long sticker — 'I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate'. Curtis frowned. What the hell did that mean? The Plymouth looked an easier shot with the KLON 88.1 FM window sticker. The tiny piastic saxophone on Gleig's key-chain made Curtis figure Gleig for a jazz fan. He was pleased to find that he was right, and that the key turned in the Plymouth's lock. It was not exactly Sherlock Holmes, but it would do.

Sam Gleig's car may have been old but it was clean and well looked after. A small sachet of air-freshener hung off the rear-view mirror and the ashtrays were empty. Curtis opened the glove compartment and found only a Thomas guide and a pair of Ray-ban aviators. Then he went around the back and unlocked the trunk. The extra-large cordura nylon pro-shooter's bag seemed to indicate a man who took his work very seriously. It contained a set of ear protectors, a barrel brush, some fiveinch cardboard targets, a couple of boxes of Black Hills.40 S&W, a spare magazine, a speed loader and an empty padded pistol pouch. But there was nothing that gave Curtis the remotest clue as to why he had been killed.

Hearing the elevator bell Curtis turned to see Nathan Coleman coming towards him.

'Where the hell have you been?'

'Fuckin' toilet,' growled Coleman. 'You know what happens? I mean, there's, like, a command module on the side of the seat, with buttons on it. Tells you everything from how long you've been in there to, I dunno, what you had for fuckin' breakfast. So finally I figure out that the reason there's no paper is because you get your ass washed for you while you're sitting there.'

'Did you get it waxed as well?' laughed Curtis.

'Fuckin' toothbrush thing comes out from under the seat and hits you in the rear with this jet of hot water. And I mean hot, Frank. Fuckin' thing was like a laser beam. Then there's a jet of hot air to dry you off. Jesus, Frank, my ass feels like I spent the night with Rock Hudson.'

Curtis wiped the tears from his eyes. 'What kind of a fuckin' place is this?'

'The future, Nat. It's a scalded asshole and a pair of wet pants. Have you run that background check yet?'

'The vic has a rap sheet. I just got the fax out of the car.'

'Let's hear it.'

'Two convictions for narcotics and one for possession of an illegal weapon, for which he served two years in the Met.'

'Here, let me see that.' Curtis glanced over the fax. 'The Met, huh?

Must be where he got his love of modern architecture. Place is like a goddamned hotel. You know, it wouldn't surprise me if they helped him fill out his application to become a security guard.' He shook his head wearily. 'Jesus, the licensing laws in this city. Sometimes I think Charlie fucking Manson could start up a security company in LA.'

'It's a growth industry Frank, that's for sure.' Curtis folded the fax and put it in his coat pocket. 'I'll keep this, Nat, just in case I have to go to the John myself.'

'Looks like Gleig's been straight since he was in the joint,' offered Nat.

'Maybe his past just caught up with him.' Curtis handed Coleman Sam Gleig's driver's licence, 'gand and Vermont. That's Crip country, isn't it?'

Coleman nodded. 'Reckon he was dealin' a little on the side.'

'Maybe. There's nothing in the car.'

'What's in the bag?'

'Man's all packed for a picnic at his local gun club. But no shit.'

'What about those kids outside? The Chinese like their narcotics.'

'I haven't ruled them out.'

'Or it could be one of them decided to bring the protest into the building, y'know? And Sam got in the way. Want me to speak to them?'

'No, not yet. I want you and an SID team to haul your asses down south to the vic's place and see what you can find. You can break the news to anyone who's interested. Maybe get a lead on his friends. Like, are they the kind of friends who supplied his need for enemies?'

The motor controlling the door that gated the garage started to buzz loudly. As Coleman walked back to the elevator, Curtis closed the Plymouth's trunk and then waited to see who would get out of the red Lexus that came down the ramp and drew up beside him.

'What's going on?' said Mitch through the open window.

Curtis could not recall a name but he remembered the face, not to mention the silk tie and the gold Rolex. The man who got out of the car was tall, with dark, curly hair, tanned and vaguely boyish looking. The blue eyes were quick and intelligent. The kind of guy who lived next door — if you happened to live in Beverly Hills.

'It's Mr —?'

'Bryan, Mitchell Bryan.'

'I remember now. There's a problem, Mr Bryan.'

Curtis waited a beat and then told him what the problem was.

Curtis stared out of the twenty-fifth-floor window and waited for Mitchell Bryan to return with coffee. He was still thinking about what Helen Hussey had said about those pods. How had she described the whole idea of it? Hot something or other. Hot desking? At least he had a desk. At least he had some idea of where he belonged. He tried to imagine the chaos at New Parker Center if all the cops had to fight for their preferred spots. It sounded like just another lousy idea thought up by the big corporations. For once he was glad he didn't have to work in an office and take the shit that got thrown at you. Being a cop you got to throw some back.

'I don't know,' said Mitch, returning to Mr Yu's private suite with the coffee. 'Sam Gleig seemed like a pretty straight sort of guy.'

They sat down around the Ming-dynasty Huali wooden dining table that Mitch had been using as his desk, and sipped at their coffee.

'I often work late and we sometimes had a word or two, he and I. Mostly about sports: the Dodgers. And he went to the track once in a while, Santa Anita, I think. Gave me a tip once. But he wasn't a big gambler. Ten bucks here and there.' Mitch shook his head. 'It's too bad this had to happen.'

Curtis said nothing. Sometimes it was better that way. You just let someone fill the silence and hope that maybe they said something interesting or useful: something you wouldn't ever have thought of asking about.

'But you know, even if he was dealing, like you suggested, he couldn't have been using. I'm 100 per cent certain of that much, anyway.'

'Oh? What makes you so sure, Mr Bryan?'

'This building, that's what.' Mitch frowned. 'This is confidential, OK?'

Curtis nodded patiently.

'Well, when we planned this building we brought in washroom modules that were designed to our client's specifications.'

'I've been hearing something about those. Hot desking is one thing. But hot seating is quite another.' He chuckled. 'My colleague almost got his ass steam-cleaned.'

Mitch laughed. 'Some of the units have yet to be properly adjusted,' he said. 'They can give you quite a surprise. Even so, they're pretty well state of the art. And it goes much further than a warm-water douche, I can assure you. The toilet seats give you a readout on your blood pressure and your body temperature, and the actual toilet bowl contains a urinalysis facility. Effectively the computer checks you for… Here, I'll show you.' Mitch leaned towards his computer and clicked the mouse through a number of choices. 'Yes, here we are. Sugars, acetone bodies, creatine, nitrogenous compounds, haemoglobin, myoglobin, amino acids and metabolites, uric acid, urea, urobilinogen and coproporphyrins, bile pigments, minerals, fats, and of course a great variety of psychotropic drugs: certainly all of the ones proscribed by the US Federal Bureau of Narcotics.'

'This happens every time you go to the can?'

'Every time.'

'Jesus.'

'For instance, acetone bodies might be high in the urine of an individual who was developing diabetes, and that might have a bearing on his or her work performance, not to mention the company's medical insurance.'

'With drug use, what happens if the test proves positive?'

'First the computer closes down your work-station and denies you access to the elevators and to a telephone. That's just damage limitation, to protect the Corporation against potential negligence. Then it reports the violation to your senior. It's up to him what happens to you. But it's a very accurate test. Shows up anything you've used in the last seventy-two hours. The manufacturers insist that it's as good as the nalline test, maybe even better."

Curtis was still opening and closing his mouth like a surprised fish. The wonder of it was that none of those cops working in the basement had proved positive. Curtis knew that Coleman smoked a little dope now and again. Quite likely some of the others too. He could just see the look on the police commissioner's face if any of the newspapers found out that officers investigating a murder had been picked up for drug abuse by a smart building that had been the scene of a crime.

Mitch sipped his coffee, enjoying the policeman's surprise. 'So,' he said finally. 'You can see how it was impossible for Sam to have used dope.'

Curtis remained unconvinced. 'Maybe he just went outside and took a leak on the piazza somewhere.'

'I doubt it,' said Mitch. 'The piazza is subject to security-camera surveillance, and the computer is programmed to be on the alert for that kind of thing. If the CCTV does see something then the computer is programmed to call the police. Sam knew that. I can't imagine he would have taken the risk.'

'No, I guess not.' Curtis grinned. 'Gee, I bet they love you down at central dispatch.'

'Take my word for it. He was clean.'

Curtis stood up and went back to the window. 'Maybe you're right,' he said. 'But someone killed him. Here. And in your client's building.'

'I'd like to help,' said Mitch. 'Anything I can do, just ask. My firm is as anxious to get this cleared up as you are, believe me. It creates a bad impression. As if maybe this is not such a smart building after all.'

'I had the same thought myself.'

'Do you mind me asking what you're going to tell the media?' Mitch asked.

'I hadn't given it much thought yet. Probably up to my lieutenant and the press office.'

'Could I ask you a small favour? When you do decide to brief the media, I wonder if I might ask you to be careful how you choose your words. It would be a great pity if they were to get hold of the idea that somehow what happened was the fault of the building itself, you know? I mean, from what you've already told me it sounds as if Sam Gleig admitted his own murderer to the building, for whatever reason. I'd be grateful if you could bear that in mind.'

Curtis nodded sourly. 'I'll do my best,' he said. 'In return, there's something you can do for me.'

'Name it.'

'I need to get hold of Sam Gleig's personnel records.'

Next to the elevators on the fortieth floor was a glass case containing the gilt-bronze figure of a Luohan monk. Curtis admired it briefly before stepping into the car alongside Mitch.

'Mr Yu is a great collector,' explained Mitch. 'There's going to be an artefact like this on every floor.'

'What's that he's holding?' he said. 'A slide rule?'

'I think it's a folded fan.'

'Ancient air-conditioning, huh?'

'Something like that. The data centre please, Abraham,' said Mitch. The doors closed with a quiet hiss of air.

'You know,' said Mitch, 'I wouldn't want to tell you your job, but isn't there another possible explanation for what's happened? I mean, apart from Sam Gleig's past.'

'I'm all ears,' said Curtis.

'It's just that both Ray Richardson and the Yu Corporation have their respective enemies. In Ray's case it's a matter of a few personal grudges. People who hate the kind of buildings he designs. For instance, there's a time capsule underneath the foundations and one of the things it contains is some hate mail for him. And there are people who have worked for him who dislike him.'

'Does that include you?'

'Oh, I admire him very much.' Curtis grinned.

'I think that answers my question.'

Mitch shrugged apologetically. 'He's a difficult person.'

'Most very rich people are.'

Mitch didn't answer. The elevator came to a halt and they stepped into the corridor next to a newly arrived and identically positioned glass case containing a jade horse's head.

'And the Yu Corp?' prompted Curtis. 'You said that they have enemies too. Do you mean those kids out front?'

'I think they're just the tip of the iceberg,' said Mitch, ushering Curtis along the edge of the atrium. 'In parts of the Asian Pacific Rim, business can be quite rough. That's why all the glass in this building is bulletproof. Why the security systems are so tight.' He stopped and pointed down. 'Take this atrium. It's really just a con job. It gives the impression of a company that's accessible to the public and at the same time acts as a security barrier. The reason for the hologram on the front desk is to forestall a potential hostage situation.'

'Sam Gleig gets a major-sized headache because someone bears your boss or his client a grudge?' Curtis shook his head. 'I'm afraid I can't buy that.'

'Well, suppose it was just accidental? Suppose someone came in here intent on causing trouble and Sam just got in the way?'

'It's possible. But only just. Gleig's gun was in his holster. It didn't look like he was expecting trouble. On the other hand, if Sam knew his attacker then he would have been off his guard. When you mentioned your boss's enemies, did you have anyone specific in mind?'

Mitch thought about Allen Grabel.

'No,' he said.

'What about this guy Warren Aikman?'

'If he wanted to hurt Richardson there would be better ways of doing it within the normal course of his work.'

'Well, let me know if you think of anyone.'

'Sure.'

Curtis shook his head. 'Of course, I can't say I'm surprised that the architect of a place like this has enemies.'

'You don't like it?'

'Every time I come here I like it less and less. Maybe it's the things you and your people tell me about it. I don't know.' He shook his head, trying to put his finger on it. 'I think maybe it lacks soul.'

'It's the future,' argued Mitch. 'Really it is. Some day all offices will be built this way.'

Curtis laughed and showed Mitch his wrist.

'See this watch? It's a Seiko. Lousy timekeeper. I still remember the advertising slogan they were using when I bought the thing. "Some day all watches will be made this way." God, I hope not.'

Mitch gazed around him. 'You know, I think of it as a kind of cathedral.'

'To what? Man's fear of his fellow man?'

'To the virtue of making things. To the creative power of technology. To man's ingenuity.'

'Being a cop, I guess I don't have much faith in human ingenuity. But if this is a cathedral then I'm an atheist.'

Bob Beech was about to send the latest batch of stolen data across the satellite when he saw Mitch and Curtis coming through the doors of the computer room. He touched the wide flat screen and returned it to the standard desktop display: the telephone, Rolodex, calculator, diary, in-

and out-trays, clock, TV set, radio, answering machine were all computer icons. There was even a desk drawer, rubber stamp, filing cabinet and a picture window with a pleasant view of Griffith Park as seen from the Gridiron roof.

'Bob,' said Mitch advancing into the centre of the circle, 'you remember Detective Sergeant Curtis.'

'Sure.'

'You've heard what happened this morning?'

Beech shrugged and nodded.

Curtis took the man in: the fisherman's gilet stuffed with discs, tapes, keys, chewing gum and pens; the sensible brown Oxfords in need of a polish; the fingernails bitten to the quick; and, underneath the lugubrious-looking moustache, the polite smile flicking as he feigned interest in what had happened. Curtis was an old hand at spotting when he was being tolerated. It was obvious that Beech just wanted to get back to whatever it was that he had been doing before being disturbed.

'Poor old Sam,' said Beech. 'Do you have any idea who did it yet?'

'Not yet, sir. But I was hoping to see his personnel file. There might be something there that will help. Also, I wondered if there was a way the computer had of knowing exactly who was in the building after ten o'clock last night.' He knew there was. But he wanted to prolong his stay in the computer room.

'Of course.' Beech fingered the filing cabinet on his screen and then said, 'Abraham. Can you locate Sam Gleig's personnel file please?'

'On screen or on disc?'

Beech glanced at Curtis and decided that he wanted him out of the computer room as quickly as possible. Seeing him standing there reminded him of Hideki. 'Better make it hard copy,' he said. 'So you can examine it at your leisure, Sergeant.'

'There's not a lot of that in Homicide, sir,' said Curtis, smiling affably. Glancing down at Beech's desktop he watched as a disembodied hand appeared on screen and moved towards the filing cabinet.

'Belshazzar's feast,' he murmured.

The hand lifted a file out of the desk drawer and then disappeared with it screen left.

'What's that?' said Beech.

'I said, that's a hell of a personal organizer you have there.'

'It's kind of childish, but I'm a guy who needs friendly software to bring cyberspace down to earth. That's why I have a room with a view, so to speak. Without it I'd find it difficult working in here. Now then, what was the other thing? Who was still here after ten o'clock last night?'

Curtis nodded.

Beech touched the screen several times with his forefinger, like a man playing speed chess. Finally he found what was he looking for.

'Here we are. The electrical foreman left at seven-thirty. I left at sevenforty-three. Aidan Kenny left at seven-forty-four. Helen Hussey left at eight-fifteen. Warren Aikman left at eight-thirty-five. At which point Sam Gleig was the only person on site until Officers Cooney and Hernandez arrived this morning.'

'I see. Thank you.'

Beech pointed out of the door. 'We'll have to go along to the print room to fetch your copy,' he said and led the way across the bridge. They entered a room where an enormous laser printer was already spewing out the file. Beech collected the print-out.

'This is strange,' he said, surprised. 'Abraham's not supposed to be able to do this.'

'Do what?' asked Mitch.

Beech handed over the print-out. Attached to the personnel information was a colour photocopy of Sam Gleig greeting a Chinese man in the atrium.

'It's not part of Abraham's original program to take still photographs like this,' frowned Beech. 'At least, not until the CD-ROM recorder is installed.'

For the moment Curtis was more interested in the young Chinese man in the picture than the means by which it had been taken.

'Do you recognize him?'

'I think I do,' said Mitch. 'I think it might be one of our friends from outside the building.'

'Unless Abraham managed…' Beech was still considering the puzzle of how the picture had been taken. 'Of course…'

'You mean he's one of the demonstrators?'

Mitch looked at the picture again.

'I'm sure he is.'

'Of course,' repeated Beech. 'The link-up with Richardson's computer. Mitch, Abraham must have held the picture digitally and then used your Intergraph software to generate this. That's the only way he could have done it. It's Abraham's way of letting us know that Sam Gleig brought an unauthorized person into the building last night.'

Curtis pulled a face. 'Wait a minute. Are you telling me that the only witness to Sam Gleig's murder might be your computer?'

'It certainly looks that way. I can't imagine why he would have put this picture in Sam Gleig's file otherwise.' He shrugged. 'At the very least this picture gives you an unauthorized visitor to the Gridiron, doesn't it?

There's even a time on the picture: 1.05 a.m.'

'Is that a bottle of Scotch he's holding?' said Mitch. 'Looks like they were planning a party.'

'But why take this picture and not one of the actual murder as it happened?' said Curtis.

'Because there are no cameras inside the elevators,' said Mitch. Beech nodded in agreement. 'This picture connects the Chinese guy with the murder. No doubt about it.'

'Let me be the judge of that, please,' said Curtis.

'Maybe I should have mentioned it before,' said Mitch, 'but there have been a couple of incidents involving these kids.'

He told Curtis about the orange thrown at his car and the tyre wrench.

'Did you report either of these incidents?'

'No, I didn't,' admitted Mitch. He took out his wallet. 'But I've still got the paperwork for the replacement shield.'

Curtis flicked his eyes over the receipt.

'How did you know it was one of them who did it?'

'After the first time? I was in a Chinese restaurant, just a few blocks from here. One of them must have recognized me.'

'You still got the wrench?'

'Yes, as a matter of fact I have. It's in the trunk of my car. Want me to go get it?'

'No, I'd just as soon have one of the SID boys pick it. In case there are any prints on it.' Curtis folded the photograph and was about to put it inside his coat pocket when he had an idea. 'There are cameras mounted on the outside of this building, aren't there?'

'Several,' said Mitch.

'Can you have one close in on those kids outside right now?'

'Nothing easier,' said Beech.

They trooped back into the computer room. Beech sat down and touched a picture of a video camera at the bottom of his screen. The camera was soon scanning the faces of no more than a dozen Chinese men and women.

'Beats me why they bother,' said Beech.

'It's a free country,' said Curtis, 'although you'd hardly know it inside this place.'

Beech shot Curtis a quizzical look, as if wondering why someone as liberal as him should be working for the LAPD.

'That guy there,' said Mitch. 'The one will the bullhorn. That's the guy in the picture, isn't it?'

Curtis compared the hard copy with the young Chinese on the screen.

'Yeah. That's him all right.'

'Kind of weird him coming back, isn't it?' said Mitch. 'Assuming he did have something to do with it.'

'Not as weird as you might suppose,' said Curtis. 'Besides, that's still a hell of an assumption.'

'What are you going to do?'

'Talk to the guy. See what he's got to say. Who knows? Maybe he'll put up his hands.'

The cop patrolling the demo already looked tired, although it was only just eleven o'clock. Curtis showed him his badge and then, taking him by the elbow, led him a few yards away.

'You heard about what happened inside?'

'Guy with his head stove in? I heard.'

'How long have you had this duty?'

'On and off, a couple of weeks. 'Bout a four-hour shift.' He shrugged.

'It's not so bad. They don't give me any trouble. I've spoken to a few of them. Most are pretty OK.'

'Would you say they were the types to get involved in a homicide?'

The cop grinned and shook his head. 'Naw. They're students with rich daddies back home in Hong Kong and places like that. I think they'd run a mile from any real trouble.'

Curtis walked back towards them.

'Who's in charge here?'

Behind the barrier, the little band of Chinese protesters stayed quiet, but Curtis noticed that their eyes moved from his badge to the man with the bullhorn. His own eyes took in the slogans on their placards: REMEMBER TIANANMEN SQUARE; and, Yu CORP SANCTIONS

STATE MURDER; and, Yu CORP PROFITS FROM SLAVERY; and, YUMAN RIGHTS ABUSE.

'Come on,' he urged. 'There must be someone.'

'Well,' said the man with the bullhorn, 'I guess you could say I am, kind of.'

'I'm Detective Sergeant Curtis, LAPD Homicide Bureau. Could I talk to you a minute? Let's step out of the sun.' He pointed across the piazza to the edge of Hope Street.

'Hot day,' he said. And then, 'It's about an incident in the Yu Corporation building last night.'

'Another one?' Cheng Peng Fei smiled thinly.

'Someone was killed.'

'That's too bad. Nobody junior, I hope.'

'You approve?'

'If it was Yu himself then that would be good news. The man is a gangster.'

'I was wondering what time you and your people left the piazza last night. Maybe you saw something.'

'About five o'clock. Same as usual.'

'I'm sorry, you are — '

'My name is Cheng Peng Fei.'

'Where are you from, son?'

'Hong Kong. I'm a visa student at UCLA.'

'And your friends? Are they mostly students?'

'Mostly, yes.'

'Did you ever run across the security guard at the Yu building? Big guy. Black.'

'Is that the man who's dead?'

'Yes, it is.'

Cheng Peng Fei shook his head.

'We've seen him. That's all. There's another guard too, isn't there?

Mean looking whitey. We've seen rather more of him.'

'You ever go inside the building?'

'We have thought about it, but we'd probably get busted. So we just stay beside our fountain handing out leaflets, that kind of thing.'

'It was sure different in my day,' said Curtis as they neared the corner of Fifth.

A bum pushing a shopping cart paused briefly to collect a cigarette butt off the sidewalk before continuing in the direction of Wilshire. A tall black man wearing grimy Nike Air Jordans, track-suit pants and a baseball cap coming the opposite way was forced to side-step the cart and stopped to curse the bum before continuing on his way.

'When I was a kid a protest really was a protest.'

'What were you protesting about?'

'There was only one thing people protested about back in those days: Vietnam.'

'Better than going there, I guess.'

'Oh, I went. It was when I came back I got involved. What exactly is your beef with the Yu Corp?'

Cheng Peng Fei handed over a leaflet.

'Here, this'll explain everything.'

Curtis stopped, glanced over the bill and put it in his coat pocket. Then he nodded towards an advertising boarding on a shelter for the DASH, the Downtown Area Short Hop bus service. The ad showed a handshake between two disembodied arms, one of them wearing the uniform of the LAPD. The headline read:

As partners

LAPD

AND YOU

CAN BE A

LETHAL WEAPON

2

FIGHT CRIME

Cheng Peng Fei was bright enough to understand what Curtis was suggesting. He shrugged and shook his head.

'Really, if I knew something I'd tell you, Sergeant, but I can't help you.'

He was shorter than Curtis by a head and, at a hundred and twelve pounds, just over half as heavy. Curtis placed himself in front of Cheng, close enough to have kissed him, and regarded him with a mixture of suspicion and contempt.

'What are you doing?' said Cheng. Trying to retreat he found himself pressed up against the wall on the corner of Fifth and Hope.

'I'm just trying to see inside your inscrutable little head,' said Curtis, holding him firmly by the shoulders. 'So that I'll know why you're lying to me.'

'What the fuck are you talking about, man?'

'Now you're absolutely certain you never met Sam Gleig?'

'Sure I'm sure. I never even heard his name until now.' Cheng started to curse the policeman in Chinese.

'You ever heard of Miranda, college boy?'

'Miranda who?'

'Miranda vs. the State of Arizona, that's who. Fifth Amendment stuff. Guidelines that include informing arrested persons prior to questioning that they have the right to remain silent — '

'You're arresting me? For what?'

Curtis turned Cheng around and handcuffed one hand expertly.

'- anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. And that you have the right to an attorney.'

'What is this? You're crazy.'

'These are your rights, schmuck. Now, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to cuff you to the streetlight there and then go and collect my car and come back and pick you up. I'd go back there with you, only I figure it might inflame some of your friends to see you being arrested and I'm sure you wouldn't want to cause any trouble. Not to mention the embarrassment you might experience. This way you're only going to be embarrassed in front of a few passing strangers.'

Curtis hauled Cheng's thin arm around the streetlight and snapped on the other manacle.

'You're fucking crazy.'

'Besides, while I'm gone it'll give you a little time to reflect on that story of yours. Time to reflect. Time to think of another.' Curtis looked at his watch. 'I'll be back in five minutes. Ten at the most.' He pointed up at the Gridiron that loomed over them, reducing the surrounding buildings to visual insignificance. 'Anyone asks, you just stopped to admire the architecture.'

'Bullshit.'

'Now, there I have to agree with you, Cheng boy.'

'The tape's running, Frank.'

Cheng Peng Fei glanced around the video room at New Parker Center.

'What tape?'

'We're recording this interrogation on video,' said Curtis. 'For posterity. Not to mention your protection. Is this your good side?'

Coleman sat down alongside Curtis and facing Cheng Peng Fei across a table on which there was only one object: a tyre wrench wrapped in a polythene bag. Cheng pretended it was not there.

'It's so your lawyer can't say we beat a confession out of you with this tyre wrench,' said Coleman.

'What's to confess? I haven't done anything.'

'Please state your name and age.'

'Cheng Peng Fei. I'm twenty-two.'

'Do you wish an attorney to be present?'

'No. Like I said, I haven't done anything.'

'That's your tyre wrench, isn't it?' said Coleman.

Cheng shrugged. 'Could you recognize yours?'

'Yours is missing from the trunk of your car,' said Coleman. 'I checked. This wrench was thrown through the windshield of a car belonging to Mitchell Bryan, an architect working at the Yu Corporation building. A red Lexus. This wrench has your fingerprints on it.'

'Well, if it's my wrench it would, wouldn't it? I had a flat and I changed the wheel. I drove off and left my wrench on the road.'

'The incident with the wrench happened in the parking lot at the Mon Kee Restaurant on North Spring Street,' said Coleman. 'Just a few blocks from the Gridiron.'

'If you say so.'

'When we searched your apartment we found a Mastercard receipt for a meal you ate there on the same night that Bryan's windshield was smashed.'

Cheng Peng Fei was silent for a moment.

'All right. So I smashed a windshield. But that's all. I know what you're trying to do here. But even if your premise is correct and I did smash the windshield of one man working at the Gridiron, it does not make your conclusion, that I murdered another man working there, at all certain. Even if you had ten thousand such premises, it would not establish your conclusion.'

'Are you studying law, by any chance?' asked Curtis.

'Business Admin.'

'Well, you're right, of course,' Curtis allowed. 'This wrench alone would not make it certain. Of course, it might make it easier for us to show you had a motive: your fanatical opposition to the Yu Corp and its employees and agents.'

'Bullshit.'

'Where were you last night, Cheng?'

'I stayed home and did some reading.'

'What did you read?'

' Organizational Culture and Leadership, by Edgar H. Schein.'

'No shit.'

'Any witnesses?'

'I was studying, not partying. I was reading a book.'

'When you do party,' said Coleman, 'what do you drink?'

'What kind of a question is that?'

'Beer?'

'Sometimes beer, yeah. Chinese beer. I don't like the taste of American beer.'

'Scotch?'

'Sure. Who doesn't?'

'Me, I can't stand the stuff,' admitted Coleman.

'So what does that prove? I drink Scotch, you don't drink Scotch, he drinks Scotch. This is like my English class. Can we try the past indefinite now?'

'Drink much Scotch, do you?'

'Ever share a bottle with a friend?'

'I'm not that kind of drinker.'

'What about Sam Gleig? Did you ever share a bottle with him?'

'Sounds to me like you're the ones who have been sharing a bottle of Scotch. I have never shared anything with him. Not even the time of day.' Cheng sighed and leaned forward on the table. 'Look, I admit to breaking the windshield. I'm really sorry about that. It was stupid. I'd had a few drinks. I'll pay for the damage. But you have to believe me, I never met this guy. I'm sorry he's dead, but I had nothing to do with — '

Curtis had unfolded a colour photocopy of the computer-generated picture and spread it on the table next to the tyre wrench. Cheng stared at it.

'I am showing the subject a picture of himself and the dead man taken in the lobby of the Gridiron building.'

'What the hell is this?'

'Do you deny that's you?'

'Deny it? Of course I deny it. This must be a fake. Some kind of photocomposite. Look, what are you trying to pull here?'

'I'm not trying to pull anything,' replied Curtis. 'Just find out the truth. So why don't you admit it, Cheng?'

'I admit nothing. This is a lie.'

'You went to the Gridiron with a fifth of Scotch for Sam Gleig. I figure you must have already met once before. You had some kind of deal going. What was it? Dope? A little Chinese heroin from back home?'

'Bullshit.'

'Or maybe you wanted a favour. A blind eye while you went ahead and got rid of another tyre wrench. Smashed something. You paid him for his trouble, of course. Maybe you were going to hit Sam just to make things look convincing for him. Only you hit him too hard. Then you panicked and took off. Isn't that what happened?'

Cheng was shaking his head. He was on the edge of tears. 'Someone is trying to frame me,' he said.

'You're not such a good picture, China,' sneered Coleman. 'Who would want to frame you?'

'Isn't that obvious? The Yu Corporation, that's who. Believe me, they're quite capable of it. They get rid of me, maybe they can get rid of the protest. It's bad publicity for them.'

'And I suppose having someone murdered in your office building counts as good publicity, does it?' said Curtis. 'Besides, you and your friends are old news. You'll have to do better than that, college boy.'

'Come on, Cheng,' argued Nathan Coleman. 'Admit it. It was you who brained him. We don't figure you did it on purpose. You're not the type. An accident. We'll speak to the DA and get the charge reduced to seconddegree murder. Your daddy pays for a fancy lawyer who tells the court you'd been studying too hard and you'll probably get two to five max. Maybe you can get transferred to a private gaol and finish your studies before you get deported home again.'

Cheng Peng Fei studied the photograph and shook his head. 'This isn't happening,' he said, and then added, 'Perhaps I'd better have that attorney after all.'

Suspending the interrogation the two detectives stepped into the busy corridor outside the video room.

'What do you think, Frank? Do we have the perp?'

'I don't know, Nat. I thought he'd fold when he saw the picture.' Curtis stretched wearily and looked at his watch. 'I reckon I'd better have SID look at it.'

'Do you think it might be a fake?'

'The little fucker's bluffing, I'm sure of it. But it wouldn't do any harm to have it checked before we go to the DA. Besides I've got to pick up the results of the preliminary p.m.'

'You want me to keep working on him?'

Curtis nodded.

'Give him some coffee and try to calm him down. Then come at him with the southpaw.' Curtis punched Coleman playfully on the shoulder with his left.

'What about that attorney?'

'You heard him waive that right, didn't you? This is no homeboy, Nat. This guy's an MBA. There's no one going to say he didn't understand his Miranda.'

The Scientific Investigation Division was in the basement of New Parker Center. Curtis found Charlie Seidler and Janet Bragg in the cafeteria fetching coffees from the machine.

'Want one, Frank?' asked Bragg.

'Thanks. Cream, two sugars.'

'That's a sweet tooth you've got there,' observed Seidler as Bragg pressed the buttons on the machine. 'Man your age ought to be more careful about what he eats and drinks.'

'Gee, thanks, Charlie. Man your age yourself. Besides, I need the energy.'

They went into the lab.

'Well, Frank, the team went all round your suspect's apartment,' said Seidler. 'Found nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a bottle of Scotch.'

Curtis sighed wearily and then looked at Dr Bragg. She handed him a file containing three sheets of paper and a sheaf of photographs.

'He was hit — and hit hard mind — by a very strong man,' she said, without consulting her notes. The impact caused a depressed fracture of the skull and broke his neck for good measure. It even broke one of his teeth. I can't give you much idea of the kind of weapon used except to say that it wasn't a club or a bat or anything cylindrical. Something flat, more like. As if someone dropped an object on his head. Or hit him with a piece of the sidewalk.

'And here's another thing. I've had a look at your suspect's passport and it says he's only five-eight. Weighs around one-ten. Unless Gleig was kneeling down in that elevator car, there's just no way he couid have hit him. Or unless your man was standing on a box. Like Alan Ladd.'

Bragg noticed the look of disappointment on Curtis's face.

'If he was involved then he must have had someone else with him. Someone taller and stronger. A man of your build, perhaps. A man who likes cream and two sugars in his coffee.'

Curtis showed them the picture. 'So why have I got a picture of just one suspect?'

'You're the detective, Frank,' said Bragg.

'My suspect reckons this is a fake, Charlie.'

'Did a computer generate this?' asked Seidler.

Curtis nodded.

'Not my bag I'm afraid,' shrugged Seidler, 'but I can try someone.' He picked up the telephone and punched out a number. 'Bill? It's me, Charlie. Listen, I'm in the lab with someone from Homicide. Could you come in a minute and give us your head on something? Thanks a lot.'

Seidler replaced the receiver.

'Bill Durham. He's our photographic expert.'

A little man with a dark beard came bustling through the door. Seidler made the introductions and then Curtis showed him the picture. Durham produced a magnifying glass from the pocket of his white coat and examined the picture carefully.

'A traditional photograph is easy to test, and easy to prove,' he said.

'You've got exposed films, negatives, prints, all very physical stuff. But something generated by a computer — well, that's a very different story. You're dealing with digital images.' Durham looked up. 'I couldn't say whether this is a fake or not.'

'But it's possible?' said Curtis.

'Oh sure, it's possible all right. You get two base digitized images…'

'Wait, wait,' said Curtis.

'They're numbers. A computer can store anything as a series of binary numbers. You have one image of the black guy and another of the Chinese guy, right? You silhouette the Chinese guy out of whatever background he's in and then place it on top of the picture that includes the other guy. Then you mask the two figures out of the surrounding area so that the background can be evened out without affecting them. If you're clever you alter the shadows to make them consistent and maybe add a few random pixels to help degrade the image of the black guy, maybe match the grain of the other picture. Not much more to it than that. You could store it on disc, on computer tape, whatever, indefinitely. Hard copy it whenever you liked.'

Curtis pulled a face.

Durham smiled. Sensing the detective's technophobia, he added for good measure, 'The fact is, Sergeant Curtis, we're swiftly approaching an era when it will no longer be possible to regard a photograph as something unquestionably probative.'

'As if the job wasn't already hard enough,' growled Curtis. 'Jumping Jesus, this is a fuck of a world we're building for ourselves here.'

Durham shrugged and looked at Seidler.

That all?'

'Frank?'

'Yeah, thanks a lot.'

When Durham had left Curtis returned to the pages of the p.m. and sifted through the photographs of Sam Gleig's body.

'As if someone dropped an object on his head you say, Janet?'

Doctor Bragg nodded.

'Like what?'

'A refrigerator. A TV set. A piece of the sidewalk. Like I said, something flat.'

'Well, that sure narrows it down.'

'On the other hand,' she sighed, 'well, it's just a thought, Frank, but you might check and see if that elevator car is working properly.'