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spots." He shook his head diffidently. "I don't know why. I could use some nonmechanical help, and it
can get lonely down here." The smile returned. "But it pays well." And with that, he returned to his
sweeping.
Still on the alert for murderous airborne mechanicals, Cardenas walked back to the ramp and peered
upward. Nothing flew in at him, nor was there a downward charge of mataros, security guards, ninjacs,
or anything else. Nor were representatives of the Inzini, the Ooze from Oz, or any other malevolent
organization waiting in the bathroom to monitor and sponge off his progress. Except for the old man
preoccupied with his cleaning and the meticulous floor robots, he was alone in the sanctum.
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"Do you happen to know," he inquired carefully, "where I might find The Mock?"
Halting his sweeping, the grizzled senior leaned on his broom and regarded the visitor. "I guess you really
do not know. Not if you are trying to make a personal delivery to him. Siryore Mockerkin died three
months ago." His elderly expression wrinkled with remembrance. "I think it was three months." With a
shrug, he resumed his sweeping. "It might have been three and a half."
Standing in the center of the underwater command center, surrounded by dynamic online consoles and
multiple readouts burning bright, Cardenas gaped at the custodian. The old man's reply was, to say the
least, not what he had expected to hear.
"What do you mean he's dead? He can't be dead."
Rodrigo kept working as he spoke. "We can all of us be dead, siryore. I was told about it by Ms.
Larrimore, who worked in here. Mr. Mockerkin was coming out of the Brazos Mall in Harlingen after
doing some shopping. He was with two other employees when they were hit by a bus that had gone out
of control. Mr. Mockerkin and one of the other men were killed immediately. The other went to
hospital." The maintenance man scratched at his thinning gray-brown hair. "I think he got out last month,
but I am not sure."
Cardenas's thoughts were churning furiously. "Would Mr. Chanay, the supervisor of the warehouse
upstairs, know about this?"
The custodian shrugged again. "I do not know. You would have to ask him. I never see the people who
worked down here and the ones who work in the import-export place mix with each other. I believe they
are different businesses. But I do not know. I am only a janitor." He smiled easily, Cardenas noted. "I do
the cleaning."
"What about the other people who do work down here?" The Inspector indicated the empty chairs that
faced the multiple consoles.
"I don'tknow, siryore. It's not my business. I don't concern myself with such things." He looked
contemplative. "I suppose they are working when I am not here. Or maybe they were told to stay away
for a while, after Mr. Mockerkin was killed. I really don't know."
Was killed,Cardenas found himself repeating. Months ago. This was crazy! It made no sense. If Cleator
Mockerkin had really perished in an accident on the streets of Harlingen, then who the hell these past
several months had been furiously, even ferociously, directing the ongoing effort to abduct Katla
Mockerkin, and who had continued the hunt that had resulted in her mother's murder?
"Might someone besidesyourself show up here today?"
Rodrigo was beginning to sound tired. "Please, siryore. I do not know. You would probably know
better than I."
Cardenas nodded slowly. "All right. I won't bother you anymore, Go ahead and finish your work."
Rodrigo was patently grateful. Cardenas waited until the janitor had finished sweeping the floor and
airdusting the softly humming electronics. As he was preparing to leave, the old man looked back at him
from the bottom of the ramp.
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"Are you going to wait here, siryore?"
"Yes," Cardenas told him. "Yes, I think I'll wait for a while longer, to see if anyone shows up. If you
don't mind, that is." He smiled engagingly.
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