Bug Park by James P. Hogan

“I see. Thank you.”

“Would you like me to fax you copies of the death certificate and autopsy report?”

“Yes, if you would, please.”

“The company is Prettis and Lang, you said? What is the fax number there? . . .”

* * * G

In movies and things like that, yes. But movies were made to escape into from unadventure and uniformity. Things like this didn’t happen in real life.

“. . . is it, Heber?”

Kevin shook himself back to real life. “Excuse me? . . . Oh, I’m sorry. What? . . .” Somebody with terminal-phase brain atrophy giggled at the back of the classroom.

“Jazz” Jarrold spread his hands, turned his eyes imploringly toward the ceiling, and went through his mime of mock martyrdom that always made Kevin feel that he’d missed his historical niche and should have been around at the time of the old silent movies.

“Heber, what is it? I work hard, I try. . . . I do my best to discharge the mission that the taxpayers of this fine Evergreen State of Washington have entrusted me with. What do I have to do to get your attention?” Kevin thought of saying, “how about making the subject interesting instead of trying to be the subject”; or, “project something we’d be motivated to want to emulate, instead of acting like an ass.” Instead, he conceded with a weak grin and showed a hand apologetically. Jarrold took a step to stage left and turned with a flourish. “Oscar Wilde said that we live in a society that is overworked and undereducated. I’m trying to make a humble contribution to correcting that deplorable situation, and I would appreciate what measure of cooperation it is in your power to muster, particularly since you are the intended beneficiary of the endeavor. We were discussing the works of the Baroque composers. Where were you—lost in computerdom again? So, could I have a little of that attention? Forget code and think coda, bass and not Basic. . . .” Jarrold paused, his eyes gleaming evilly with some inner inspiration that had just struck him. “In fact, you could say . . .” he was visibly fighting rising excitement as he strove to string the words coherently together, “it’s the way to avoid growing up with . . .” Kevin saw it coming in its full awfulness a split-second before its triumphal delivery: “your Bach being worse than your byte!”

At least the rest of the class had the graciousness to groan with him.

“Good morning, this is the Ramada Inn, Patrice speaking. How may I direct your call?”

“Hello, Patrice. My name is Michelle Lang. I’m an attorney with the Prettis and Lang law offices. Could I talk to the general manager, please?”

“That’s Mr. Willens. . . . He’s not in his office. Just one second. I’ll have to page him.”

“Thank you.” . . .

“Guy Willens here.”

“Mr. Willens, my name is Michelle Lang, with the Prettis and Lang law offices here in Seattle. I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment about an incident that happened at the hotel about two months ago.”

“What incident was that?”

“A man was found dead in one of your rooms. His name was Anastole, John Anastole.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“I’m trying to check some details as to the circumstances in which he was found—who made the registration; if anyone else was using the room; whether the door was secured internally. That kind of thing.”

“I couldn’t release any information like that. I’d have to refer you to the police department.”

“Would it be possible to tell from your registration records if—”

“You have to talk to the police. We have a set policy with such matters. I’m sorry, but I can’t help.”

“I understand. Well, thanks for talking, anyhow.”

“You’re welcome. Have a nice day, ma’am.”

It should have been obvious. What was she trying to do anyway, for heaven’s sake? She wasn’t that kind of attorney.

“Michelle.”

“Yes, Wendy?”

“I’ve got Joe Skerrill at Neurodyne. He’s on the other line now. . . .”

The yellow Ford was signaling to move in ahead, crossing right for the approaching exit ramp. Vanessa accelerated into the gap, forcing it to slow down and pull in behind. “My lane, lady,” she murmured.