“Don’t worry,” Gray said, and he sighed. “It is.”
He sat idling in the parking lot until he saw Angie come out the front doors of the hotel, dressed in a pretty black Sola Lange sweater dress, leggings, and ankle boots. The look was very retro – a hundred years or so ago, it would have been aggressively chic, and by virtue of that fact the look had come full circle again. She carried a small backpack on one shoulder, and her expression coming out was one of slight confusion and even some anger as she walked across the traffic circle toward the lot. Gray flashed the Vectra’s headlights at her, and she adjusted course to approach him. He unlocked the doors as she drew close so that she could get in.
Angie was silent when she got into the car, and remained so after she closed the passenger door. Gray felt himself squirming inside. “So,” he said after maybe half a minute’s quiet, “How was your evening?”
“Oh, you know,” she said in a voice full of measured terseness, “You know. Took my clothes off, danced around. Made some money.” She looked straight ahead.
Gray hated this. He knew she was upset, wasn’t entirely certain why – well, he could guess – and she wasn’t going to share easily. She was going to make him dig a bit and then blow up at him. Well, he might as well get his shovel. “You do all right?”
“Mmmhmm. Thousand bucks or so.”
“Ah. Good.” Jesus, he’d forgotten how much a good stripper could make in this town. “So…yeah. Are, are you all right?”
“Oh, sure.” Angie looked aside, checking her nails. Gray looked at them too, the short points painted soft lavender metallic. “I’m just waiting.”
“Waiting?” Here it comes.
“Waiting for you to tell me what this is all about. It sounds to me like you’re ashamed of being with a stripper outside of a club, big promotion and all. Since, you know, Maya Frail can’t shut up about you.” Her voice was flat now, laced with hurt. “I’d like to think you were better than that.”
Gray let out a deep breath. Oh, that fucker. He’d make Moody pay one way or another for this. “Baby,” he said, and he reached out to take Angie’s hand, “No. That isn’t it. Not even a little.”
She looked up at him with her green eyes big and shining with a strange sadness. “I…that’s how it is, you know. I mean it always happens.”
“No.” He said it forcefully now, and he turned in his seat to take her other hand, squeezing them both gently. “Listen, that’s not it. I promise you, I am not embarrassed of being with you.”
“Then why didn’t you come up to the club?” She made a little bit of a face, pouting. “Even my worst boyfriends would do that.”
Gray heaved another sigh and shook his head. “Okay,” he said. “Listen to me.”
He told her all about it, meeting Moody in the bar, what he wanted, what he’d said. He told her about Moody’s reputation as well, since Angie didn’t seem to know who he was. Angie listened carefully with her hands in his, those bright green eyes tracking his the whole time. When he’d finished, however, her expression was one of understanding, missing any of the fear thathe might have expected. Instead, she looked confused and thoughtful.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Angie said, taking her hands out of his and setting them on her lap. “I’ve worked at the Heights for two years now, and I’ve never heard of Shard getting dealt out of there. I know the girls sure as hell don’t use it – you could see a spiderback from a mile away with her clothes off, the way those marks show up. Charlie doesn’t mind the girls using some, you know, substances…but nothing that would impair performance or leave obvious marks.”
Gray wrinkled his nose. “Well, why would he ask me to put you on as an informant?”
“I have no idea.” She leaned back in her seat. “Here, let’s drive home, huh? I’m positively guttered.”
He smiled at her way of expressing exhaustion, and he reached over to take hold of her chin. “Hey,” Gray said, his tone soft and tender, “You know I’m happy to be like this with you, huh?”
Angie smiled back at him. “Me, too,” she said, and winked. “I’m assuming you’re referring to the whole being with me thing, and not the crazy Vice cop asshole thing.”
“Definitely the former,” Gray said, and winked back at her. Angie laughed a little, and they turned toward the windshield in anticipation of the drive ahead.
While they drove home, they talked about the situation with Moody. Like Angie had said, it made sense to Gray that she would know if someone was dealing out of the back of her own club – but assuming that she didn’t, how the hell would she get into it? Gray thought that if there was a drug operation, she’d be a perfect method of introducing it, if not using it herself. She was pretty, she was popular, and she danced for a lot of VIPs; why wouldn’t she be the one to provide guests with such refreshments?
No, they both agreed that something else had to be going on here. They couldn’t lie and say that there was something going on, but Angie surprised him by saying that she would volunteer to serve as an agent for Vice anyway. “Wait,” Gray had said at that, “Why would you do that? If there’s no Shard, there’s no Shard. We don’t have to fucking deal with it.”
She snorted. “If this guy is like you say he is,” Angie said, “You know he’s going to want something to go away. I’m sure I can find something else going on. That club might not be a Shard den, but it’s not like it’s clean. Some of the girls turn tricks, I mean, and of course there’s the lighter drug use. I’m pretty sure Hannah’s boy is dealing stims to whoever wants ‘em, too.”
“Yeah,” Gray said with a shake of his head. “I don’t know what he’s doing. Maybe he’s just trying to set me up as a resource, and he’s using you to do it. I wish I could’ve just walked away, or…”
As they pulled into the parking structure adjacent to his building and found a spot to park in, Angie laid her hand on his thigh. “Dan,” she said softly. “Honey.”
Gray killed the ignition and looked at her. She looked back at him, her green eyes so beautiful, her scent filling him up like the finest of perfumes. Nobody had this kind of effect on him, not ever. “Yeah,” he said, letting his gaze drop away from her. “I’m here.”
“I want you to stop worrying about it tonight.” Angie leaned over a little, brought her hand from his thigh to his face; she brushed the back of it across his cheek, and it was as if she brushed his troubles from him. He felt at peace, something that was very rare on the best of days. “I want you to come upstairs with me, take a shower, and let’s go to bed. And then you’re gonna go to work, and things are going to get better. Believe me.”
Gray took one last deep breath, pushing the rest of his doubt away, and smiled. “All right,” he said. “I believe you. Let’s go.”
She was so good for him. He never believed that he’d be so lucky, so fast – and despite all common sense, he knew that this was going to work.
Gray slept without dreaming that night, in his bed, with Angie curled up beside him. They had not made love – again – but he didn’t mind. It was strange, because he still burned for her, yet when she was near there was always some kind of a crisis and he found himself wanting her scent, her presence, close to him over sweating it out with her on the sheets. Angie was more than that to him. She was…peace, really. He needed that much more than sex at the moment.
He felt her stir beside him in the night, rousing him. His eyes opened in the dark, saw the alarm clock with its softly glowing holographic display. It read three-thirty. In the feeble light given off by the clock display, he could see her dim silhouette, her body outlined in a faint halo picked up from the white sheets. She was so beautiful. He sighed to himself, looking at the sweep of her back; he figured that he would do most anything for her, right now. It was irrational, it was dangerous – but it was how he felt, though he couldn’t say just why. He would have to be careful not to tell her that, for both their sakes.
He closed his eyes again, trying to go back to sleep. H
e breathed in her scent, the wonderful perfume of her, and found that he was able. She did so much for him, and all she had to do was be there. It made no sense. It was amazing. And that’s when he thought to himself that despite everything – good sense, logic, a sense of professional preservation – he was in love with Angie Velasquez. She just got under his skin.
Not a bad perk, really. Not a bad perk at all.
When he woke again it was a little after six, and there was no going back to sleep. Even the sight of Angie’s body tangled in the sheets did nothing for it. He got up carefully so as not to wake her, then went into the living room and closed the door behind him. That should do for the sound.
Gray fired up the wallscreen and stretched out on the couch, ready to watch a little early news, when the mailbox indicator window appeared in the corner over the opening strains of the morning entertainment roundup. ‘All Access Asia’ was Jennie Hong’s show, Jennie being a bizarrely blonde Chinese woman with blue eyes and very straight, white teeth. She looked a bit like an albino porcelain doll, which always creeped him out a little when he looked at her. She wasn’t so creepy that he couldn’t watch her talk about the Aeroperfect Fashion Ball that went on the night before and the new lines for the summer season. Boleros and bare midriffs again, he thought, like his mother wore before she died. She never had gotten to get old; he was as old as she was now, in fact. Well, let the Fifties come again, he thought. Boleros, bare midriffs and asymmetrical tights, little heeled cuff boots. Monica Perez did always like to play with period couture – he remembered the dress that Angie had worn the night they went to dinner at the Nautical Star, how that had been a…seventy-six too, now that he thought about it. Winter collection. One of those rich fuckers giving her a present for grinding on him, or worse.
Well, no more of that. He’d have to surprise her come payday with something from that collection. He bet she’d look real nice in it on a cruise as Independence Day approached. He bet she looked good in blue.
Gray heaved a sigh and told the wallscreen to show the messages, of which there were three – one of them a repetition of his benefits package as a Tier Four, including a list of apartment upgrades if he wanted to give them a shot. Unused habitation credit was turned into cash, though, so he’d have to think about it. He wanted to give Angie the best he could. The second message was to inform him that he’d be able to turn in the Vectra for a brand new Honeywell Cerico, which made him sit up. The Cerico wasn’t a Tier Four ride; it was a Tier Five upgrade. The Cerico was a luxury model with ball tires and an upgraded armor and electronics package. It was a flashy option, a status ride.
Had he truly moved up so quickly? No, this had to be a reward for the scale of his discovery, finding Muller. Well, that was promotion for you, especially a media-friendly one. He’d count his blessings and turn the Vectra in to the motor pool when he got into work that morning. Gray smiled a bit to himself, trying to imagine himself behind the wheel of the machine. Then he called up the third message.
And froze.
The name in the header block read MAROWITZ, JAMES. Gray frowned at it for a moment. The source tag and time/date information had been stripped out, meaning it was a ghost message; normally the name would be stripped out as well, but whoever sent it wanted to get his immediate attention. Could it really be from the unfortunate Evidence tech? Gray stared at it for a moment, got up and got himself some coffee, then came back and told the telescreen to open the message. It read like this:
Detective,
I saw you on the news this past week. Good work catching that killer, I guess…but it really isn’t what this is all about, is it? I think maybe you should come and see me. I have some questions for you, and some information about Anderson that might interest you as well. It’s up to you. You know where I live, or you can get it from records. I need to at least talk to you, and it’s not like the company will listen to me now that I’ve been fired. — JM
Well. That wasn’t what he was expecting. Gray sat there sipping from his coffee, staring at the monitor. Then he looked at the ceiling, at whatever God was patently disbelieved in but on occasionally waved his imaginary ass at people. “Fucking great,” he muttered. “Like I need another crisis to think about.” He’d have to think about it. Yeah. Think about it. Meanwhile he dumped the message, closed his mailbox, and shook his head. He couldn’t deal with it now. Not now.
He’d made breakfast for Angie and went to work early, but he left a note telling her where he was off to – no worries, darling, just off to work, that sort of thing. It made him feel ridiculously domestic, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He drove himself, not bothering to use the autodrive. After all, it would be the last drive he’d have with the old whale; it gave him a faint pang of guilt and a little sentimentality when he drove the Vectra in for the last time, and logged in the ignition fob, but that was more than made up for when the motor tech took him down to the executive garage level and showed him the Cerico.
There it was, a muscular, sexy machine. While the Vectra was a whale, this was a completely different kind of sedan, a sleek creature of the road that reminded him more of one of Askew’s streamlined sculptures. The body was made so that it appeared to leaned forward, crouched low on ball tires made of gleaming white cermet and ringed with rows of tread such that they looked sort of like croquet balls. Its body was painted a graphite silver-gray, subtle but very fashionable. All business, but the kind of business that he’d been hoping to be doing for a very long time. A thrill of victory filled him as he unlocked the car and its driver’s side door swung open like a butterfly wing; he slid inside, smelling real leather, or at least a very very close printed-tissue facsimile of it, and grinned.
The upholstery was a light slate color, and the interiors a combination of plastic and blond wood grain. The console was a new model with a paper-thin display worked into its surface and a superior audio system, and it had upgraded satellite uplink capabilities. He could connect to the Walleyes in orbit if need be. Rounding it out was a sensitive touch-shifter and – if the message from corporate was to be believed – a massive engine for pursuit if need be. It was strange; he wasn’t likely to be tooling around the Verge in this thing, but it sure as hell was built for speed. Gray slid his hands over the wheel and his grin grew wider. Hot damn, this was just too good! He reached for the sun visor and flipped it down, looking for his new garage pass, which was in its pocket next to an adhesive note that had been stuck to the visor.
Gray looked at it. The note simply said, ‘You’re welcome.’ Below it were the initials ‘B.M.’
Well, shit.
So Moody had reach in Homicide Services, or worse, Administration. That’s why Gray got a car like this; Moody had made it happen. It made a kind of sense, too. This thing was more like the kind of car that Vice officers drove, sleek and powerful to run down smugglers and worse before they could disappear into the Old City. Was that what Moody was up to? Trying to buy him into Vice? Whatever his intention, this was just one more message, and it said one thing very loud and clear: ‘I want what I want, and I can get to you if I need to.’
Gray shook his head and sagged against the driver’s seat, rubbing at his forehead. Marowitz, and now Moody again. Couldn’t he just enjoy his fucking promotion? Did it have to be so ridiculous? Didn’t he earn a break after running down a pair of chainsaw murderers?
No, said a voice inside himself. You don’t. Because you know that Jack is right.
Did he? Yeah, he supposed that he did. Marowitz said that he had information that would change Gray’s mind about things. Well, unless it was going to convince him that everything had been solved for the better and that all was tight and sealed, Jack would probably be very surprised. Well, then. He’d have to go in and see about the day’s paperwork, sit in his big fucking office and deal with his thoughts the whole day. Then he’d go see Jack Marowitz. Gray had better have himself one hell of a good story.
Gray spent the better part of the day holed
up in his office, just as he’d thought he would. Now that he was a Tier Four employee, he got some new perks. Food ordered in from the executive cantina, things like that. He allowed himself the luxury of a seafood salad with real lump crab meat and tank shrimp while he went over paperwork, going over reports from the lower-ranked Homicide detectives. Guys older than he was, Carter’s age even, doing the slum beat in the Verge. And there he was with his real meat salad safe in Central going over their reports.
There but for the grace of serial killers, he thought. Lovely.
There was something else in his inbox that he had seen, something that he had been dreading to look at all day. Given that he’d walked straight into a slaughterhouse the week before, Administration had guessed that Gray had been most likely having nightmares and generally experiencing symptoms of post-traumatic stress – which of course was accurate, as his little hallucination back at the Cyclops Lounge demonstrated – and requested that he go in for psychological evaluation. It was the kind of thing that happened any time that something major went down in the line of duty; if you saw a really bad crime scene, for example, or if you shot a suspect. Or maybe you saw someone die doing their job. Shit, Gray had seen all three. They couldn’t force you to do it, but if you didn’t they sure as hell paid closer attention to what you were doing when you were on the company clock. That being the case, for an ambitious boy like Gray it would make sense to just go talk to the shrinks.
Thing was, of course, talking to a psych tech just wasn’t going to make him feel any better. If anything it was just going to make him talk about the whole damned thing, and then the company was going to hear about it because ‘doctor-patient confidentiality’ was complete bullshit. They’d ask about Angie, they’d ask if he had any doubts concerning the murder case. They’d get a lot of answers they probably wouldn’t like, and then his chances holding on to his newly-won badge would instantly become a lot narrower. Even worse, if Moody could pull strings to get Gray a fucking Cerico, he could probably get his hands on psych data. That kind of leverage was something that Gray did not want him having. Call it paranoia, perhaps, but a tinfoil hat wasn’t a bad thing to invest in just now.
Bone Wires Page 17
