Yok by Tim Davys Read Free Book Online

lead-reinforced car
through the dense morning traffic. “If you can’t catch them, numbers don’t help.
His father is José Bear?”
    Smithson had access to the same database as the
prosecutor.
    â€œSmall-timer,” Schleizinger stated. “I’m not going
to ask for more than three to six months. He seems to be the type who never
climbs up to the next division. He was arrested for lottery fraud. Not much to
make a fuss about.”
    â€œYou’ve never run into Antonio Ortega before? There
are no other connections?” Smithson asked.
    â€œThat remains to be found out,” Schleizinger
replied.
    They turned off the busy avenue and continued south
on deep blue Avinguda de Pedrables. Even though it was one of Yok’s biggest
throughways, it was noticeable how the pace of traffic decreased. In Mollisan
Town’s poorest district, car activity was sparse. Through its complicated
structure, the many dead ends, the recurring pirate attacks, plus the fact that
few stuffed animals in Yok could afford a car, bicycles, skateboards, and roller
skates were more common sights on the streets.
    The court in Sors was a gray, square concrete block
of a building with long rows of square windows. It was on vanilla white Amiral
Zee’s street, and outside the entrance the police had created a so-called
security zone to deter organized crime from rescue attempts. Personnel who
worked at the court used the garage to enter the building, and this also applied
to the prosecutor. The entry ramp was located a few blocks south, and
underground you drove back north, parked, and took the armored elevator up to
your floor.
    With three cross streets left to the garage,
Smithson Yak stopped at a light.
    They saw him at the same time.
    â€œAntonio Ortega!” Smithson Yak panted, pointing so
his colleague could see.
    â€œThe audacity!” Hawk Schleizinger exclaimed.
    On the sidewalk across from the court building,
outside a small Springergaast, stood Fox Antonio Ortega. He was peering at the
court’s main entrance.
    Even before the light turned green Smithson had
given his orders. Via the internal radio he contacted the guards at the entrance
to the court, and as the car with the prosecutor slowly passed Fox—who was on
the left side—Yak could see police officers storming out of the building on the
right.
    â€œI want him in the interrogation room as soon as
possible. Just call me; I’ll come down,” said Hawk.
    â€œUnderstood, sir,” Smithson replied.
    He turned right onto the ramp to the garage and saw
in the rearview mirror how Fox Antonio Ortega began running, with the police
after him.
    W hen
no word had come by lunchtime, Hawk summoned Smithson. The shame-faced yak,
after failing for the second time to capture the fox, had even sent animals to
Ortega’s latest known address, without success. Now he explained that he had not
wanted to submit a report because he didn’t consider the case over with.
    â€œI’ll continue to work on the fox this afternoon,”
the yak promised.
    That his own guards had not managed to capture the
fox last night was one thing, but that the police failed—with their cars,
motorcycles, and communications equipment—was worrisome. Hawk Schleizinger was
sincerely surprised.
    During the afternoon the prosecutor managed to
cross-examine a licorice troll indicted for having extorted money from his
sister by threatening to expose her extramarital connections, plus make a final
plea in the case of a drug-abusing locksmith, an argument that Hawk was
personally satisfied with. It ended with the locksmith being sentenced to four
years in King’s Cross, a sentence that Schleizinger would not appeal. After a
short visit to chambers to change shirt, vest, and bow tie, the prosecutor
hurried off to the elevators just in time for the Evening Weather and rode down
to the garage, where the car was waiting with the motor running. Behind