Future Crimes Part 36

I arrived at her home, parked the air car on the pad, and walked to her door. The house was beautiful.

Maroon colored plasi-bricks lined the walkways and flawless ivy crawled up the chimney. I palmed the touch pad next to the door. A feminine-computer voice said, "Identify please."

Yep, I thought, definitely wealthy to afford this kind of security system.

"Bridges, Jacob R.," I said.

"Detective 1st cla.s.s, Omaha Police Department."

The pleasant, if slightly metallic, voice responded, "Please wait."

I stood there for a moment while the computer ran a check against my hand print and did a voice a.n.a.lysis.

Finally, "Ident.i.ty confirmed. Please stand by."

"Please come in, detective," Mrs. Foster said over the security speaker. Her voice automatically triggered the door locks.

I stepped through the doorway, and heard her say, "Come to the dining room please. Straight down the hallway on your right."

I followed her directions to the dining room and saw her standing, dry-eyed, next to the mahogany dining table. We stood there looking at each other, and I could see that she'd been crying earlier even if she wasn't now. She had a look of concentration in her large brown eyes as she absently fingered an overripe plum from the fruit basket on the table. A slight smile lingered around the corners of her mouth. I could tell she was a.s.sessing me, and I was suddenly reminded of a wild animal testing the air for signs of danger.

"Mrs. Foster, I'm Detective Bridges, Omaha P.D-."

I said, extending my hand.

"Yes, I know," she said.

"The security system said so, and I recognize your voice from your call earlier, of course."

"I see," I said.

"Mrs. Foster, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but--" She held up a hand.

"I know. Winston died in a hypertrain accident at approximately 8:13 this mo ming Her voice seemed rote, as though she were hypnotized or in a trance.

I nodded, having expected this. Still, I was curious.

"How did you find out?" I asked.

"Oh, there's no mystery there, detective. I know because I killed him."

I stood there, my jaw hanging somewhere between my belt and my knees.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked.

"I said I killed him," she repeated, sounding vaguely annoyed Trying to catch up, and a.s.suming that this was her grief talking, I said, "How did you do that, Mrs.

Foster?"

She waved her hands at me in exasperation.

"Listen, detective. Why don't we get down to bra.s.s tacks? This isn't me feeling guilty or upset that he's dead. I don't.

In fact, I'm relieved.

"The simple fact is that I killed him. Unfortunately, my confession is null and void because I could be grief-stricken right now. I don't have my attorney present. I couldn't possibly know what I'm saying.

All of which leads me to ask you something- Do you want to hear the story, or just take me downtown and have me released within the day?"

A lot of detective work depends on instinct and intuition. Trusting your gut feelings. At that moment, my gut had a sinking feeling in it that made me want to sit down and put my head between my knees. I took a deep breath and made an effort to control myself.

I could tell she was serious, but I could also tell she was scared. I shook my head in bewilderment.

How in the world, I thought, do you kill someone with a hypertrain? She must be delusional.

"Okay, Mrs. Foster, why don't you tell me the whole story?" I asked.

"I'm a Ms. now," she said.

"You may, if you choose, call me Fran."

"All right, Fran. I'll listen to what you have to say," I said.

"One condition," she said.

"After you've heard my story, you'll have to decide whether or not you want to arrest me. That means I want as fair a hearing from you as possible--meaning no interruptions, no questions, and," she pointed at me and tugged her earlobe, "no recordings. I know that police have a recording chip built in. If you understand what you hear, you file a report that clears me. If you don't, I'll come with you and confess for real."

She was one gutsy lady, I had to give her that. And I was intrigued.

I'd only heard of one other case of a car hitting a hypertrain, and that was because the driver had smashed into it on purpose. Normally, the automatic braking system would stop the vehicle before it even tapped the blocking bar to the tracks. If she really had kit ted him, how had she done it? Still, I couldn't promise the moon.

"Just a second, Fran. I'll agree to everything you said, but I can't promise not to arrest you. I'm a cop, not a judge, remember? But I'll listen to your story, and we'll go from there. And I have a condition, too," I added.

She looked at me suspiciously, and I realized that Frannie Foster knew all the rules of the game. She knew I had to file a report on what I'd learned. She also knew that sometimes, given a good enough reason, a cop would lie.

"What's that?" she asked.

I smiled at her.

"Call me Jacob," I said. I thought a soft touch interview would draw her out. If I scared her, she'd probably just freeze on me, and then I'd be stuck.

She nodded.

"I'll get us some coffee," she said, and turned away, heading for the kitchen area.

"I gave the servant the day off."

I took the opportunity to really a.s.sess her. The vision chip I use told me she was 5.531 feet tall and weighed 110.223 pounds in her current clothing. She was small, almost tiny compared to me. She carried herself in a defensive manner, as though at any moment she expected to be tackled. She was also, I thought, quite pretty. I really couldn't picture her plotting murder. But it's always the ones you least suspect, As she reentered the room, backing through the swinging part.i.tion between the kitchen and the dining room and holding a tray with two coffee cups on it, I attempted to ask a question.

Pulling out my palm top I said, "Fran, could I ask about Mr.--" She turned so quickly that she nearly spilled the coffee.

"I said 'no questions," and I meant it," she snapped, "Whoa, hold on a minute!" I said.

"You're going to have to give me a break here. First, I'm a cop, and that's part of my job. If I'm going to understand everything, I need some background."

Her shoulders sagged a little.

"You're right, of course," she said.

"I'm sorry, Jacob. It's just, well, I need to do this in my own way,"

She smiled ruefully and shrugged, "Ask your questions, then, but please be brief. I don't really know if I have the strength to tell this twice."

"No problem. I just wanted to clarify the events of this morning. Sort of set the end in sight, so I can see where we're going."

She shrugged again, and said, "Okay."

"Why don't you start by telling me a little about your husband? What was he like?" I asked.

She didn't say anything for nearly a full minute, but I waited. I didn't want to set her off again. I wanted her story, but I wanted it coherent. Her eyes were cast down and to the left, body language that told me she was remembering something.

Softly, so soft that her voice had changed almost entirely, she said, "Big."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked.

"He was big. A big man, very strong. Very smart.