Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Dredd characters, places, etc.
A/N: This is a bit of a shorter chapter but the next one will make up for it, I promise. :)
Chapter 7: Informant
Jack had offered to come as back up but there were more protests and a couple of riots to handle so Dredd sent him off to answer calls for back up and assistance. At the moment Dredd was idling outside the Sun Dial building, one of the most recognizable buildings in all of Mega City One. It was a beacon of finance and power, taller than the Hall of Justice by a dizzying fifty stories that rose above some of the low lying clouds on rainy days. The top fifty stories were dedicated to conventions, fundraisers, and accommodations for foreign dignitaries and top businessmen. And on the top floor was the Blue Swallow, the most famous restaurant in the city.
Before this Dredd had never had cause to enter this place. He'd barely even ridden past it, located as it was in one of the nicest parts of the city. It was almost eight o'clock. As evening set in it began to cool, not to the bitter, frigid chill of the Cursed Earth of his so recent experience but the cool of a pleasant evening. Within the city there were so many bodies and so many buildings that warmth lingered.
"Judge Dredd?" came a voice through his helmet.
"Roger Ognibene," he answered to the specialized Tek Rosenberg had introduced into his recent search.
"I've narrowed your search down quite a bit into Sector eighteen. Its slow going right now. After that building blew it flagged the system and I've had to rework the algorithms and...let me just say its become more difficult. I'm still working to isolate the feed through assorted dummies but I wanted to update you."
"Keep at it. I'm working the pavement end," Dredd replied.
"Sir. I'll keep you updated."
The comm link went down and Dredd dismounted form his Lawmaster. He'd parked a few blocks away from the Sun Dial itself so he might not tip off Stanley Fergus' informant, Mr. Normal. Lawmasters weren't an uncommon sight but there was no sense in any extra tip off. As he started slowly for the building he thought about Miss Del Monte inviting him to tea at three tomorrow. Whatever happened he intended fully to go in ready for a fight. She had seemed to know something was up and he doubted the man watching her would let their meeting go without incident.
The lobby of the Sun Dial was arranged with all sorts of plants and running water features. The floor was polished to a high gloss, a pinkish sort of stone that threw back the light so it was warm and inviting without losing the edge of posh. Dredd's steps made a crisp sound as he walked through the businessmen lounging on ornate couches, tumblers of dark liquid sweating in their grip. The dark wood bar at one end displayed its license prominently and he'd no need to check. There were routine inspections. The Sun Dial was notorious for its adherence to regulation. After all, Goodman herself visited this establishment for many of her political dealings. Cal, Slocum, Ecks, and the rest of the council and even Hunt and the division chiefs were not unusual guests. Business happened here.
"Welcome Judge," smiled a pristine young woman at the front desk. Her skin was so perfect she could have been a statue, a creamy shade of peach without so much as a blemish, her features arranged in a way that would have made the Greek Gods themselves weep for their classical beauty and symmetry. Buffed, waxed, polished, she was everything a man could want. The counterpart to her left was of the same cut with darker coloring, and a woman several more stations down was the absolute depiction of an African Queen.
Ah the wonders of surgery.
"I'm looking for a reservation under 'Normal' or 'Fergus' for the Blue Swallow," Dredd informed her. She tapped little mother of pearl nails on her computer and gave him a dazzling smile edged in regret.
"I don't have either of those names sir," she replied.
"Pull up a list of all the reservations at 8 pm," he changed course. She obliged and turned the screen towards him. He skimmed the list and almost smirked. Of the eighty seven reservations one was 'Colligere'. It was Latin for "collect".
"Has Mr. Colligere arrived?" Dredd asked. She turned the screen around and gave him a nod. He nodded to her in turn as she passed him a key card allowing access to that floor.
"Judge Dredd," she called his attention back as he turned to go. "Eight years ago you were working a case on trafficking." He waited for her to elaborate. "Thank you, sir. More than just finding us, you made certain we didn't get lost in the system." She lowered her head in almost a bow.
"Its the duty of a Judge."
"No sir, you did more than the law entailed. You made sure we had some way back out of the dark."
"What's your name?" he asked.
"I'm Camellia now, but you took my statement as Morgan Carillo."
"Still sing?" he asked as his memory widened out her cheek bones and jaw line, made her silky blond hair frizzy and put a little crick in her nose. Camellia's face shot through with a rosy blush and smiled so wide it crinkled the skin on her nose and around her eyes girlishly.
"Sometimes, later in the evening with the pianist," she nodded towards the bar and the grand piano on its raised platform.
"Good."
"Tuesday nights," she looked down bashfully. "Every Tuesday night from ten to eleven." He gave her a decisive nod and turned towards the elevator.
He would never have admitted it aloud, but he felt an unusual flash of pride. There were days when he felt nothing but evil occurred in this city, that he was fighting to even keep the city barely functional. Terrified little Morgan Carillo singing to soothe her shell shocked fellow victims was something that would live in his memory forever, huddled as they were in a corner of an interrogation room at his Sector Thirteen station as child services made their way there in the middle of the night. Her smokey fifteen year old voice came straight out of a nineteen twenties night club, shading and coloring lullabies and children's songs into soothing, poignant recollections of innocence lost. He remembered standing outside the door with a bag of rations and a case of water just listening, wishing his perps had opened fire on him so he could have splattered them across the pavement for their crimes. Lives were lost, just not the sort that satisfied the requirements of a death sentence.
And now Morgan Carillo stood with her fantastically sculpted features and treated skin and hair as Camellia, successful and working someplace respectable. She was smiling and there was yet sweetness left in her, warmth in her eyes. Her life was not forever broken. Different, no doubt a struggle, but she was alive and thriving. Still singing.
Good could be done. It was done every day, every shift, with every perp he captured.
With that lifting his spirits he got into the elevator and passed the card over the sensor pad. The doors closed without a sound and began pulling him towards the top floor with the soft sound of machinery in the background.
Weariness was lurking just below his thoughts. Rather than nap he'd tried to catch up on a few reports and get a start on the pieces Anderson couldn't write about the Cursed Earth. When he could get some rest would depend on what Max Normal had to say. He would have to get at least a few hours of sleep before seeing Del Monte tomorrow, particularly if he was expecting trouble. Or he could take an adrenalin shot if he had to. Sleep could be worked around, at least a while longer.
The doors opened into a vast room of windows and soft light. The orange gold light of the city at night was thrown out across the horizon like a spilled treasure trove. Vastly outgunned the distant stars, breathtaking in true darkness, were reduced to a few defiant specks of light in the purplish black above. Seated at various tables were men and women as perfectly polished as Camellia downstairs. They were clad in garments made of real fibers rather than synthetic, the women adorned in so many gems they were themselves like miniature versions of a proper starry night. Up here they drank bottles of wine from before the Atomic War, ate actual meat rather than synthetic variants, and made deals and talked business involving unimaginable sums of money.
"Judge," greeted a sculpted young man in the likeness of Adonis with his golden curls and fathomless blue eyes.
"Colligere," Dredd replied. The host glanced down at his stand.
"This way Judge," he motioned for Dredd to follow. Dredd followed, feeling people glance at him but their attention didn't linger.
The host brought him to a table by the window where a man sat with his back to them, a pinstripe jacket hung behind him with a bowler hat balanced on one corner of the chair. As the host pulled the chair back the man turned with a pleasant smile on his middle aged face, black hair smoothed back against his scalp in an old fashioned style. The lips beneath his pencil mustache quickly pressed into a line and wariness filled his dark eyes.
"Judge," he greeted. Dredd sat down across from him, lacing his fingers and placing them on the table.
"Mr. Normal," he greeted. Mr. Normal's complexion paled but he gamely took a sip of his wine and then straightened his cuff links. He cut a trim figure if not handsome in his fitted vest with its red tie to stand out from its charcoal color and the white of his shirt.
"Call me Max, Judge Dredd," he answered after glancing at Dredd's badge. "What can I do for you this evening? I was expecting another guest about now."
"Fergus has another appointment with the Cubes," Dredd answered.
"Those sorts of appointments are difficult to avoid," Max gave a rueful smile tinged in resignation.
"You should be careful or you might find yourself with one," Dredd nodded. "What can you tell me about Rourke Kenny?"
"Judge Dredd," Max opened his mouth to begin with some reason why he shouldn't have any idea what he was talking about. He promptly shut it again and heaved a sigh. "May I preface this by saying I did not acquire this information in any sort of illegal fashion? My trade is banking. I just happen to be the sort of man to whom people confess or gossip." Dredd said nothing and just stared.
"Alright, with that hopefully weighing on your thoughts, I will tell you that Mr. Fergus did ask me if I might perhaps keep my ear peeled for news of a certain Rourke Kenny. It so happens that I managed to learn that Rourke Kenny is an alias for one David Brigg, former student at the Academy of Law before being thrown out for hacking." Max seemed like he was about to say something else with a wry smirk before he caught himself. "At any rate, he's taken up with a rather unsavory crowd of late. I was going to tell Mr. Fergus he would have to forget his money, and while you have quite a bit of clout yourself my good Judge, you are not the sort of man who can go toe to toe with these people and win."
"These people?"
"Moderna Robotics," Max seemed to warm to his subject. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "Mr. Brigg has gone to work for them."
"A company's not above the law any more than a man," Dredd replied.
"I admire your dedication sir but let me assure you that this one is. Do you know who owns the company?"
"That doesn't matter," Dredd replied. "What is Brigg doing there and why would he care about Eliza Del Monte's campaign for Robot Rights?"
Max sat back surprised now. He finished his glass of wine and poured himself another from the bottle chilling to one side. He stared out the window for a long moment.
"That was a piece I had not heard, but it makes absolute sense now. I have heard, my good Judge, that Moderna has been at the forefront of developing AI with such precision it could be used to possibly replace a person. And that is not why Madame Del Monte stands against them. Rather she is advocating the rights of Robots, and there are rumors of darker purposes. Games and dark fantasies," Max lowered his voice. "Blood sport, a chance to beat and brutalize living things not classified as living...such stories," the man shivered.
"Where do I find these events?" Dredd growled. Max blinked.
"Even I do not have that information, Judge Dredd. That is the sort of thing that is invitation only, and one only receives an invitation if they know the right people. My circles do not even come close to those ones."
"Make them," Dredd leaned forward.
"The money, the time, the...the danger!" Max objected, his color gone.
"You either get me that info or find me someone who can or you'll find yourself with a cell right next to Fergus'."
"For what?" Max squawked.
"Collusion and conspiracy at least, as Fergus was looking to get his money back for illegal services."
Max was silent for a long several moments as he twisted the stem of his wine glass. He watched the light filter through the faintly saffron liquid. Finally he looked up.
"If I am to put myself in such danger, I will be compensated. And do not scoff at it Judge. I am not trained in martial arts, nor do I have the inclination or health to be so. These men...these are dangerous men with power the likes of which the Judges can't hope to compare. You will pay me fair for my troubles as an informant. And I will not be an informant to the Hall of Justice, I am your informant. The fewer Judges I have badgering me the better my credibility will remain."
"Done," Dredd nodded.
"I will call you when I have some information. Is there a number?"
Dredd slid a card to his new protege. He'd never particularly bothered with an informant before, but this might work to his advantage. Max studied it, shot Dredd with a ferocious look, and then hunched over his wine.
"As I've nothing to report may I ask for the rest of my night back? I will have to consider my options and I would like to brood some. That is something that seems more appropriate in solitude, you know. And here, before you ask. My card," he held it out with two fingers. Dredd accepted it as he stood.
"I'll be in touch," Dredd both promised and threatened.
"Not before I am or I'm not worth my salt," Max sniffed.
"One last thing. Where can I find Brigg?"
"My suggestion, and as your informant it should weigh on your decisions, is to leave him alone until I get you the information you desire. He is in Moderna Robotics' company housing and going by the name of Silas Greene. Rouse Moderna's suspicion and you will lose your chance to nail them. Leave Brigg alone." The slender informant pointed at Dredd with such a serious expression it made the Judge pause to appreciate the warning.
"Three days," Dredd nodded.
"Beginning tomorrow morning?"
"As of right now."
"Lord saddle me with a Mafia Don any day," Max sighed.