It was my turn to make dinner at home. Rachel’s a vegetarian, so I had to chop some vegetables for the chili, but once I’d started the pot, I had a few minutes to work.
I started by calling G17 Security, where Eddie Bryght had worked. Northwest side address. I started out at the top—the CEO, Maurice Dwinn. I was surprised when the call center put me straight through to his office.
“Yes,, uh, Mr. Jurgen?” He sounded raspy. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s about one of your guards, Eddie Bryght. He was found this morning, uh, dead. The circumstances are, well, somewhat unusual.”
“Eddie . . .” Dwinn paused. I pictured him pulling up a file on his computer. “Yes. He worked for us. There was a car crash a few months back, and then he never showed up for work after that. I’m sorry to hear that he’s dead. But how can I help you?”
My basic assumption was that bring turned into a cyborg was related somehow to his security work. “I’d like to know what firms Mr. Bryght worked at for you. And dates, at least from the beginning of this year.” If that didn’t pan out, I’d have to find out whether his friends had any weird hobbies.
Another pause. “Our client list is confidential.”
I paused. “Well, the police are involved. They could probably get a court order.” I didn’t know if Delgado would back me up on this. But although I don’t play poker, I know how to bluff.
“No, no, wait.” Dwinn sighed. “There’s some discretion in the contract. I can forward a list of postings. Where are you going with this, anyway? What kind of circumstances are you talking about?”
Again I hesitated. I try to be truthful all the time, but something you have to be careful about saying too much. “Mr. Bryght’s body shows evidence of . . . unusual injury before his death.”
“What kind of injury?”
A reasonable question. “I think that Mrs. Bryght, his widow, would prefer to keep the details private. But it would help to know if one of your clients was involved.”
“We certainly don’t—I mean, I can’t imagine . . .” Dwinn took a deep breath. “I’ll instruct our HR department to forward the list. I hope you’ll keep me informed.”
“My client is Mrs. Bryght. I’ll come to you with more questions if I have them.”
“All right.” His voice rasped again. “Give me your email.”
I recited it. “Thank you. One more thing?”
I felt like Lt. Columbo on this series of 1970s movies Rachel and I sometimes watch on Netflix. Always “just one more thing.”
Dwinn stifled a groan. “Yes?”
“I wonder if you have any of Mr. Bryght’s personal effects? Since he disappeared three months ago?”
“They were sent to her. After a month. Standard procedure.”
We hung up. I sent a quick email to Virginia Bryght, and then I ran to the kitchen to make sure the chili wasn’t burning.
The next morning I fired up my computer, gulped my coffee, and clicked down the list of Eddie Bryght’s security work.
Most of the assignments were building management—condos, apartments, office buildings, mostly on the north side of Chicago. 3C Properties, Maitland Shores . . . A week here, a few days there, mostly standing at the door, buzzing deliveries in and keeping vagrants out. Plus, he’d worked a few Bears games.
Two companies caught my eye, though.
Whitworth Biotech. Up in Skokie. The banner at the top of its website, with a big wide-winged W, described the company as “The premier research source for biotechnology applications and future solutions.”
The line beneath offered links to products, partners, media, and a “Contact Us” button. It apparently manufactured prosthetics for the disabled. Which sounded very close to what I was looking for.
The “Contact Us” button linked to a page for jobseekers and media requests. I sent a quick email, then went on.
The next company, after Maitland Shores, was called Birdman AI. A cartoon figure of a man with the head of an eagle loomed at the top of the website. From what I could tell, the company designed software for commercial drones. Interesting.
Rachel came into our shared office in shorts and bare feet. I tried to keep my mind on business. “Getting anywhere?”
“A couple of leads. Maybe. Do you have time to take a quick look at these two sites?”
Rachel’s a visual designer, and she knows a lot about tech. More than me. I sent her the URLs, then started making some phone calls.
Whitworth’s CEO and founder was Jessica Whitworth. She took my call and agreed to meet with me later that afternoon. She didn’t recognize Eddie Bryght’s name, which wasn’t a surprise, but you never know when someone’s willing to talk—or wants to hide something by pretending to be friendly.
Cynical? Maybe. Being a reporter and a private eye does that to you.
The Birdman AI CEO, Guy Randall, was more difficult. He did take my call, after his assistant left me on hold for 10 minutes. I played solitaire online while waiting. “Mr. Jurgen? I don’t understand what this is about.”
“One of your security guards from G17 Security has been found dead. He had some unusual injuries—”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with me or my company. I contract with G17—why don’t you ask them?”
“I’m working down a number of leads on behalf of his widow. She’s rather . . . upset. Understandably.”
“Well . . .” He seemed to bite off a curse. “All right. I can see you at 1:30. For 15 minutes.”
My appointment at Whitworth was at 3 p.m. up in Skokie. Birdman AI was farther north, in Northfield. I could just manage both, especially if Randall held me to 15 minutes—and I didn’t find anything that would keep me there longer. “Very good. Thanks, Mr. Randall.”
We hung up. I closed my card game. “Anything, Rach?”
“They both look legit.” She turned in her chair. “Whitworth makes prosthetics. It’s endorsed by a lot of major rehab centers. Birdman doesn’t manufacture drones, but it programs software for them to fly independently. No idea who buys them, but a little clicking around and it looks like it’s not strictly commercial use.”
I frowned. “Government? Military?”
“Independent contractors who supply the military. I mean, I can’t find anything that says directly that they’re selling them to the CIA or anything, but—hey, what are you looking at?”
“Sorry.” Rachel’s legs in shorts can be distracting. “Thanks.” I turned and made a note to add her work as a line item on my invoice. It was only fair.
I felt her hand on my shoulder. “What time do you have to go?”
I checked my clock radio. It was only 9:30. “Not for a few hours. Do you have work?”
“Nothing that can’t wait. You?”
I turned my chair with a grin. “I guess not.” We kissed.
Did I mention she’s pretty hot?
Guy Randall had a short, Tony Stark goatee and wore a blue blazer. No necktie, top button loose. “Okay, what can I do for you, Mr. Jurgen?” He folded his hands on top of his desk.
I took out my phone. I had Eddie Bryght’s ID photo—Virginia had sent it to me. “This is Eddie Bryght. Do you recognize him?”
He squinted. “Yes, okay. I remember seeing him around. What is this about? We do lots of high-security work, we need to make sure that nobody who’s not authorized gets in here.”
I’d had to go through two checkpoints myself before getting to Randall’s office. “Of course.” I clicked to the next photo—the one I’d taken at the morgue. “This is what he looks like now.”
I was taking a chance. So far the media hadn’t picked up the story—but it would before long, despite any efforts by Delgado or the CPD to lock it down.
So I watched his reaction. Would he recognize the implants? Or reject the photo as a fake?
But Randall’s eye grew wide. “What is this?”
“It’s Eddie Bryght. After being missing for three months. He was found this morning.”
Randall picked up my phone and held it at different angles. “It’s—fascinating. I don’t know much about this kind of technology. I wish . . .” Then he set the phone down. “It looks like a fake.”
“It’s not. I took it yesterday.”
He took a breath. “I don’t know what to say. Yeah, maybe some of—somebody would be interested in this kind of tech, but it’s nothing like what we do. I’m . . . sorry about Eddie. But I just don’t know what I can tell you.”
Then his eyes narrowed. “You’re not trying to build some kind of bullshit case against me, are you? I’ve got the best lawyers in the state—”
I stood up and pocketed my phone. “Not at all, Mr. Randall. I just have to run down every potential lead. Thanks for your time.” I dropped a business card on his desk. “Call me if you think of anything else.”
He looked like he wanted to rip the card into shreds. Then he nodded. “I hope—I mean, I didn’t know Eddie, but I hope you can help his wife.”
I did too. “Thank you.”
I was driving toward Skokie when my phone buzzed. I managed to answer it without causing an accident.
Delgado. “Jurgen? You there?”
I peered at the road. “I’m driving. So I’m trying not to break any laws about phone use on the road. You’re a cop. You might understand.”
“Screw that. We found another one.”
“Hang on.” I steered off the road toward a McDonald’s. Suddenly I felt hungry. “Okay.” I turned the car off. “What kind of another one?”
“Another cyborg, or whatever you call it. Fished out of the lake. You getting anywhere with this?”
“How did he die?”
“It’s a her.” Delgado sighed. “No ID yet. One leg replaced, the other arm—opposite side. Face covered up in a plastic plate. She’s in the morgue.”
Shit. What the hell was going on? “Okay. I don’t have much yet. I’m running down some leads. You might want to look at a company called Birdman AI. They do drones. But right now . . .”
I started my car again. “I’m heading to another lead. I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait! Hang on—”
I hung up and hit Rachel’s number. “Hi, there—”
“Hey, you jerk! I’m working here. I lost a lot of time this morning when you . . . well, okay.” She giggled. “That was fun. Coming home soon?”
“I hope so.” I headed back onto the road. “I’m going to Whitworth. But the cops found another dead cyborg. A female this time. I’m not sure what it means, but—”
“Remember, Whitworth does prosthetics. That might be part of it.”
“Yeah.” Birdman AI looked like a dead end. But you never knew.
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