[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Pressing keypads carefully, Justice Fish called up the secret, coded program that only he could summon
from the computer because only he knew the special code word that accessed it: PoLaris.
It was an astrology program, and the aging judge pecked at the keyboard, asking how he should decide the
case he would soon be judging. The computer blinked and hummed, then gave him an answer.
Justice Fish nodded, satisfied. Now he knew what his decision would be. Now he did not have to listen to
the evidence that the various lawyers would present over the next long, boring weeks. It was all decided.
Sifting evidence and weighing the slick arguments lawyers dished up to him was just a waste of time, he
felt. The stars told him what his decision would be, so he could relax and fantasize about the women in his
courtroom without the fear of making a wrong decision. Pleased, he shut down the computer and leaned
back in his chair for his morning nap.
MURDER SIX
DETECTIVE Lieutenant Jack Moriarty was not merely a good cop, he was a brave man. Brave in two
ways: he had physical courage, the ability to stand up to a man with a gun or a gang of street toughs; he
also had the courage of his convictions, the strength to play his hunches even when they seemed crazy.
Shortly after the murder of retired detective Miles Archer, several months earlier, Moriarty had come to
certain conclusions about the Retiree Murders. The computer records of each victim hinted at the
possibility of a motive that seemed so farfetched, so tenuous, that only a man as convinced of himself as
Moriarty would dare to act on it. But act he did. He bought stock in a multinational conglomerate
corporation called, of all things, Tarantula Enterprises.
It had not been an easy thing to do. Tarantula shares were expensive, more than $1OOO each. And the
stockbroker he had contacted told him that not much Tarantula stock was available on the open market.
"Most of it is held by other corporations," the broker had said, sniffling so much that Moriarty began to
look for traces of white powder on his fingertips. "The big boys hold it and sell it in enormous blocks. It's
not traded in onesy-twoseys very much."
Moriarty had assured him that he only wanted a few shares. He could not afford more; twenty shares
cleaned out his savings account.
For months he waited patiently, even buying single shares now and then as they became available.
Nothing had happened. His hunch had gone cold. The Retiree Murderer refused to strike at anyone, let
alone an active police detective who held a grand total of twenty-four shares of Tarantula Enterprises, Ltd.
On that same foggy, drizzly day in November, Moriarty learned that his hunch was right. At the cost of
his life.
He was on a routine call to question a witness to a liquor store holdup in the Village when it happened.
Moriarty stepped out of his vintage Pinto (the auto was his only discernible vice) in front of the liquor
store in question. The street was slick from the chilly rain. Only a few people were passing by, and they all
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were hidden beneath umbrellas. Bunching his tired old trenchcoat around his middle, Moriarty got as far
as the liquor store's front entrance.
He felt a sharp jab in his back, then a horrible burning sensation flamed through his whole body. He had
stopped breathing before he hit the sidewalk.
The umbrella-toting pedestrians stepped over his prostrate body and continued on their way.
TWENTY
That evening, the cold November rain gave way to the season's first snowfall. It was nothing much, as
snowstorms go, merely a half inch or less of wet mushy flakes that turned to black slush almost as soon as
it hit the streets. But the evening newscasts were agog with the story of the storm: coiffed and pancaked
anchorpersons quivered with excitement while reporters at various strategic locations around the city-the
airports, the train and bus terminals, the Department of Public Works headquarters, the major highway
bottlenecks-stood out in the wet snow and solemnly reported how the city almost had been hit by a crisis.
"Although the traffic appears to be flowing smoothly through the Lincoln Tunnel," said the bescarfed
young lady on Channel 4, "it wouldn't take much more snow to turn this evening's homeward rush into a
commuter's nightmare." Behind her, streams of buses proceeded without a hitch into the tunnel.
Channel 2's stalwart investigative reporter was at the airport offices of the U.S. Weather Service, where he
had collared a wimpy-looking meteorologist.
"Why didn't the Weather Bureau provide warnings of this potential disaster?" he demanded.
The wimp's eyebrows rose almost to his receding hairline. "What disaster? You call a half-inch snow a
disaster? The Blizzard of '88 this ain't!"
Still, all the channels buzzed with stories about the snow, the most inventive being a satellite report from [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl rafalstec.xlx.pl
Pressing keypads carefully, Justice Fish called up the secret, coded program that only he could summon
from the computer because only he knew the special code word that accessed it: PoLaris.
It was an astrology program, and the aging judge pecked at the keyboard, asking how he should decide the
case he would soon be judging. The computer blinked and hummed, then gave him an answer.
Justice Fish nodded, satisfied. Now he knew what his decision would be. Now he did not have to listen to
the evidence that the various lawyers would present over the next long, boring weeks. It was all decided.
Sifting evidence and weighing the slick arguments lawyers dished up to him was just a waste of time, he
felt. The stars told him what his decision would be, so he could relax and fantasize about the women in his
courtroom without the fear of making a wrong decision. Pleased, he shut down the computer and leaned
back in his chair for his morning nap.
MURDER SIX
DETECTIVE Lieutenant Jack Moriarty was not merely a good cop, he was a brave man. Brave in two
ways: he had physical courage, the ability to stand up to a man with a gun or a gang of street toughs; he
also had the courage of his convictions, the strength to play his hunches even when they seemed crazy.
Shortly after the murder of retired detective Miles Archer, several months earlier, Moriarty had come to
certain conclusions about the Retiree Murders. The computer records of each victim hinted at the
possibility of a motive that seemed so farfetched, so tenuous, that only a man as convinced of himself as
Moriarty would dare to act on it. But act he did. He bought stock in a multinational conglomerate
corporation called, of all things, Tarantula Enterprises.
It had not been an easy thing to do. Tarantula shares were expensive, more than $1OOO each. And the
stockbroker he had contacted told him that not much Tarantula stock was available on the open market.
"Most of it is held by other corporations," the broker had said, sniffling so much that Moriarty began to
look for traces of white powder on his fingertips. "The big boys hold it and sell it in enormous blocks. It's
not traded in onesy-twoseys very much."
Moriarty had assured him that he only wanted a few shares. He could not afford more; twenty shares
cleaned out his savings account.
For months he waited patiently, even buying single shares now and then as they became available.
Nothing had happened. His hunch had gone cold. The Retiree Murderer refused to strike at anyone, let
alone an active police detective who held a grand total of twenty-four shares of Tarantula Enterprises, Ltd.
On that same foggy, drizzly day in November, Moriarty learned that his hunch was right. At the cost of
his life.
He was on a routine call to question a witness to a liquor store holdup in the Village when it happened.
Moriarty stepped out of his vintage Pinto (the auto was his only discernible vice) in front of the liquor
store in question. The street was slick from the chilly rain. Only a few people were passing by, and they all
a
a
T
T
n
n
s
s
F
F
f
f
o
o
D
D
r
r
P
P
m
m
Y
Y
e
e
Y
Y
r
r
B
B
2
2
.
.
B
B
A
A
Click here to buy
Click here to buy
w
w
m
m
w
w
o
o
w
w
c
c
.
.
.
.
A
A
Y
Y
B
B
Y
Y
B
B
r r
were hidden beneath umbrellas. Bunching his tired old trenchcoat around his middle, Moriarty got as far
as the liquor store's front entrance.
He felt a sharp jab in his back, then a horrible burning sensation flamed through his whole body. He had
stopped breathing before he hit the sidewalk.
The umbrella-toting pedestrians stepped over his prostrate body and continued on their way.
TWENTY
That evening, the cold November rain gave way to the season's first snowfall. It was nothing much, as
snowstorms go, merely a half inch or less of wet mushy flakes that turned to black slush almost as soon as
it hit the streets. But the evening newscasts were agog with the story of the storm: coiffed and pancaked
anchorpersons quivered with excitement while reporters at various strategic locations around the city-the
airports, the train and bus terminals, the Department of Public Works headquarters, the major highway
bottlenecks-stood out in the wet snow and solemnly reported how the city almost had been hit by a crisis.
"Although the traffic appears to be flowing smoothly through the Lincoln Tunnel," said the bescarfed
young lady on Channel 4, "it wouldn't take much more snow to turn this evening's homeward rush into a
commuter's nightmare." Behind her, streams of buses proceeded without a hitch into the tunnel.
Channel 2's stalwart investigative reporter was at the airport offices of the U.S. Weather Service, where he
had collared a wimpy-looking meteorologist.
"Why didn't the Weather Bureau provide warnings of this potential disaster?" he demanded.
The wimp's eyebrows rose almost to his receding hairline. "What disaster? You call a half-inch snow a
disaster? The Blizzard of '88 this ain't!"
Still, all the channels buzzed with stories about the snow, the most inventive being a satellite report from [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]