Read The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book Page 46
“Shakespeare,” Milly growled at the head of VBI security, no relation to his more famous namesake, “you have let us down.” The chastised, eponymous corporate cop had no explanation as to how his six man security detail could have been so easily sidelined. His suspicions tended to the coffee they had regularly delivered to them at their makeshift headquarters in the small coach house about 50 meters to the side of the main house. But the blood tests had not detected any drugs. The men had simply dropped off, one by one, to remain unconscious for over five hours. This meant that a drug did not have to be administered all at once; over two four hour shifts would have been sufficient to ensure that everyone did take at least one coffee. Shakespeare had no other explanation. He did promise to review the security personnel eating and drinking habits, to which Milly did not respond kindly. They were by then back in Montreal and Shakespeare had already spent the previous night going over what the surveillance cameras had captured during the fateful moments.
“There was something odd,” Shakespeare dared to interrupt Milly’s ruminations; largely to do with the fathomless contempt he had for his security chief’s competence. When Milly did finally give Shakespeare his attention, it was with plain derision. “Mr. Bush,” he continued, “stopped to examine each body. I didn’t see anything happen with the two he killed in front of everyone, except when he took out the photograph and tossed into the fireplace, but there was something that interested him greatly with the headless body in the entrance hall. I got a close up made for you.” He handed the picture to Milly and waited a moment before daring to point out the obvious.
“I see it, Shakespeare,” Milly said icily, wondering whether he should strike him. “There are some things even my tiny brain can pick out as important. So, what does that little crooked cross tell you?”
“I’ve got somebody looking into it, going through museums, police files, stolen artifacts and anything else that might give us a lead.”
“I hope he is more competent than you,” Milly said scornfully.
“It’s a she, Maude Cumber.”
“Also,” apprehension now coursing through Shakespeare’s voice, “there’s a cop, a Detective Sanschagrin, who is now on this case here Montreal, who will be here this afternoon to see you and Abelard.”
“That was to be expected. Dead people don’t go unnoticed in our society. On your way out, ask Molly to send in Abelard. And, Shakespeare, destroy the original surveillance tapes but, and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, make copies. Good day.”
Shakespeare lost no time leaving the office. He had always worked for men like Milly; whether as a soldier, as a mercenary or private bodyguard. He knew better than to sulk at the insults, react angrily or even to quit; people who employed people like him hate such feedback. They were tough, often unfair and very vengeful and Shakespeare understood that when they threw garbage it was best to just duck, smile and forget.