Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 Read Online Free PDF Page A

Investments. He was sure of it.
    Gutterson needed to speak to officer King. He switched screens and searched the internal directory for police in the New York City area. He found the number for Officer King, and dialed using the older digital network through the computer, rather than the newer holographic imaging system or his implant phone. The man answered in a gruff, irritated voice.
    Gutterson identified himself. “You were the attending officer for the suicide in Lower Manhattan.”
    “Ayuh.”
    “Anything irregular about it?”
    “Nope.”
    “Did you find out where the guy worked?”
    “We did, but I can’t recall.”
    Gutterson felt the grind of resistance. “Are you sure? Was it a banking or investment firm?” He grumbled something. “Sorry?”
    “Might have been an investment firm.”
    Gutterson caught his breath. “In your opinion, was it a cut and dry suicide?”
    “Read the report, hotshot.” Gutterson ground his jaw. “Say, Gutterson, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes. John Gutterson, over at Midtown, Precinct three.”
    “Wasn’t your old man Ray Gutterson?”
    “He was.”
    “I did some work with him back in ’32. Good guy. Smart.” He felt the wheels turning maybe—“Which means you’re the man who lost his badge for taking bribes—”
    “I didn’t take bribes—”
    “Same thing.”
    The line went dead. Gutterson slammed the desk with a fist. But Jesus, it was an investment firm. There were dozens in lower Manhattan, though his instinct told him it had to be Janefield . The voice of caution pushed its way forward. Was he looking for more in this than there was? Maybe he worked for an investment firm and maybe it was just a suicide; some guy who’d grown fed up with life enough to end it all.
    That voice nagged at him though, the one that had driven him onward last time in the face of such opposition. Now it had returned, hankering for answers.
    Gutterson had one more option. He paid a small retainer to an assistant at the morgue in case he ever needed information. He hadn’t used him yet, but now was the perfect time to test his investment.
    He scrolled through the contacts list on his screen and found the number, hidden under the name of a friend from junior high. He connected his internal audio device to the screen, and swiped the icon to dial.
    “Ronald? It’s John Gutterson, over at the Midtown precinct.”
    “Detective Gutterson. Wondered when I might hear from you.”
    He didn’t bother informing Ronald he was no longer a detective. “Listen, Ronald, I need to know if you’ve got a body down there; a male by the name of Dominic Curwood. Came in a day or two ago. Suicide, Lower Manhattan.”
    “Gimme a minute.” Gutterson rested an unsteady hand on the old desk. His pulse thumped. His throat was dry. After a minute, a noise sounded from the end of the line. “You still there?”
    “Yeah.”
    “We have the body. Autopsy is complete. There were some…” Gutterson imagined him scrunching his nose and narrowing his eyes, “Inconsistencies with an overdose.”
    “Like what?”
    “A cerebral contusion.”
    “Bruising on the brain? Isn’t that severe?”
    “Yes. Police officer claims to have found the man lying on the floor, so it might have occurred during a fall, if it were—as you say—severe enough.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Internal swelling of the throat.”
    “What would cause that?”
    “Any number of things.”
    “Forcing something down someone’s throat?”
    “Possibly. And he had a broken nose.”
    An image formed in Gutterson’s mind. “They squeezed his nose closed.” Ronald was silent. “Okay, Ronald. That’s great, thank you. Anything else there you might be able to tell me?”
    “Ah, nothing to do with the victim’s condition. Just a few personal details.”
    “Anything about his employer?” Time slowed down. It was a long shot, but he’d rue himself for not asking.
    “Yeah. Janefield Investments in Lower Manhattan.”
    And there it was.