Ex-KOP

by Warren Hammond

  “Film? You call that smut film?”

  “Think whatever you want,” she said curtly.

  Now it was me who was getting under her skin. I resisted asking another question and stayed silent, knowing she wouldn't let it drop that easily.

  “You don't know what you're talking about,” she said. “If Yuri was an offworlder, he'd be directing major pictures. He has to make do with second-rate, no, third-rate equipment, and he doesn't have a whole staff of people working for him. He does it all by himself. He's a magician. He can make anything look real.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lots of filmmakers can generate false footage with holos, but I can always tell the difference. Can't you?”

  “I don't watch many movies.”

  She gave me a what's-wrong-with-you look. “What they do is they film live actors in order to generate high-quality holos, and then they use the holos for the stunt work and the action sequences. But when they're filming close-ups and emotional scenes they still use live actors most of the time. Holos are great in a lot of ways—you can make them jump, or fight, or fly, but they're no good for the dramatic work. Some low-budget filmmakers use them for everything, but they come off stiff. It's hard to capture nuanced emotion with holos. They're always superhappy or supersad. They look real, but they don't act real. They're always a little off, just enough that they don't seem human.”

  “Are you saying that all your movies were fakes?”

  “Not the early ones we made. Yuri didn't have the money to buy computer time at the beginning. But once the movies started selling, he was able to start incorporating more holographic elements.”

  “How many movies do you sell?”

  “I don't keep track.”

  “Who does?”

  She didn't answer.

  “Who funds the pictures?”

  “Horst.”

  “Why is a travel agent making porn?”

  “It helps business.”

  “How?”

  She sipped her brandy. “Horst sells the vids offworld. He uses them as advertisements.”

  “Most tour companies show pictures of the hotel, maybe a pool.”

  She shrugged.

  “Does Horst organize sex tours?”

  She shrugged again and gave me a look that said next question.

  “So tell me what was fake.”

  “Did you see Liz Lagarto Gets Licked?”

  “Was that the one where you were wearing the tiger skin?”

  “That's the one. I still have that costume, you know. Maybe I'll model it for you.”

  Again I was flushing, and again she was enjoying it. I took a sip of my brandy and wasn't surprised to see it was almost gone.

  She pulled her legs up under her and reclined into the chair's cushions. “Do you remember the scene where the jungle girl has sex with the rich plantation owner?”

  I said, “Yes,” even though I didn't remember it specifically. In my mind the movies had all mingled together into an all-out orgy of pumping skin.

  “That entire scene was holographic. That was Yuri's first all-holo work. It was the kind of thing any hack could do—there's not much need for nuanced human emotion in pornography—but it was still an achievement for somebody with no formal training.”

  “What else has he done?”

  “He can't afford any serious computer time, so he mostly makes shorts. You know, little five-minute movies, but if you saw them, you'd swear they were real. He did one with a married couple in a restaurant, and it starts with the woman asking for a divorce. You can see the emotions running through her husband: surprise, anger, sadness … and it looks real. Live actors couldn't do any better.”

  I was beginning to understand how Ian had gotten a confession out of “Adela.” Liz was right. Yuri had to be some kind of genius to pull that off. How did he know how to do her eyes? They were perfect. Perfect enough for me to believe she did it. Perfect enough for me to grill her. Damn it to hell. We had to get her out of there.

  “But why not use actors in his movies?” I asked. “Wouldn't it be easier?”

  “I told you at the beginning, Yuri's an artist, a filmmaker. If he uses holos, he can make a film that is one hundred percent his vision. When he makes his shorts, they're his movies and his alone. Regular directors have to collaborate with their actors and accept their actors' interpretations of the script. Using holos, Yuri can truly implement his vision—from script, to set design, to acting, the whole thing. From beginning to end it's his.”

  “And you think he's the best in the system?”

  “I don't know of anybody better.”

  “So if he wanted to film somebody getting murdered, he could?”

  “Sure. I think he could do just about anything.”

  “Has he?”

  Liz turned instantly wary. “Has he what?”

  “Filmed a murder. Your murder.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I watched you die, Liz. I watched some bastard use your back as an ashtray. I watched him slit your throat. What's the matter, Liz? You don't look too good.”

  “I'm just surprised, that's all.”

  “About what?”

  “I'm surprised that you saw that one. It was distributed to a very exclusive clientele.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Really, I don't know. And neither does Yuri. We just make the movies.”

  “Does Ian know?”

  Liz looked away. “Maybe it's time for you to go.”

  I put my drink down and stood up with a little brandy-induced wobble. I wasn't about to leave. I stalked over to her and looked down on her with the authority of an enforcer. “Not until I get answers,” I ordered. “I want to know who you made that movie for. I don't want to hear any more of this crap about Horst being a travel agent. I want to know what he's really into. I want to know who Horst's customers are. I want names, Liz. And you're going to tell me about Ian. I want to know where he fits in, and I'm not talking about between your legs.”

  “Ooh, is it interrogation time?” Liz turned on her “Liz Lagarto: Porn Star” persona. “I don't know anything about any of that, offither.” She little-girl lisped the word officer.

  I reeled from another sudden change. “Stop calling me officer.”

  “Yes, offither.” She pouted.

  What the fuck? Just a few seconds ago she was talking normal, like a regular person who had a passionate interest in film. But now she'd shifted into this naughty kitten with semipuckered lips. She was looking up at me from her seat. She had her arms squeezed tight against her sides to give her tits maximum lift. I was paralyzed. I had no idea what to do. How do you intimidate somebody who's into it? “Stop it, Liz.”

  She hiked her dress up over her knees. She pulled her shoulder straps off, baring her breasts. “Maybe you need to teach me a lethon, offither.”

  I felt weak as I took in her parted lips, her jasmine-smelling hair, her erect nipples. … “I said stop it.” The words came out limp, as another part of me was becoming anything but.

  “Make me.” She said it like a five-year-old.

  “Jesus Christ, Liz. Just tell me what I want to know, and I'll go.”

  “Make me,” she repeated in a nanny-nanny-boo-boo way.

  “Dammit, Liz!” I yelled as I shook her shoulders.

  Her hands were on me. My zipper dropped, and her fingers were inside. I sank the fingers of my good hand into her hair and grabbed hold. I yanked her head back hard, hard enough that I felt roots pulling free. She sucked in a sharp breath and a broad smile broke across her face. “Yeth, offither,” she baby-talked as her fingers picked up the pace.

  She was still looking up at me, her copper skin tinting red on her cheeks and down her neck to her chest, a flaming flag of desire. Her hands moved up to the snap on my pants. I stepped back, pulling free from her hair and her manipulating fingers. I
kept my left fist closed and walked out, leaving her high, but not so dry.

  I pounded my way down the stairs with heavy steps that echoed my throbbing heart. I hit the bottom of the stairs and stopped before entering the kitchen, waiting for another throbbing to subside so I could zip my fly.

  I didn't want to loosen my left fist, so when the time came, I fumbled my zipper back up with my shaky splinted fingers. I paced through the kitchen, and then through the dining room, resisting a stop at the bar. Maggie entered the restaurant a few seconds before I reached the door.

  “I was just coming to find you,” she said. “You were supposed to stay by the window. I got worried.”

  “I'm okay,” I said as we stepped out together.

  She kept the rest of her unasked questions to herself as we double-timed away from the neighborhood of KOP station before Ian and crew came down on us. We had to assume that Liz called him even before I hit the stairs. We slowed our pace once we entered the warren of shop-lined alleys called the Phra Kaew market area.

  Maggie and I took a serpentine path deep into the market, feeling safer and safer with every turn we made in the mazelike district.

  “Come in with me,” I said to Maggie as I ducked into a spice shop, nothing more than a walk-in closet with shelving all around packed tight with glass jars brimming with aromatic spice. I asked the woman behind the counter for a baggie.

  I told Maggie to take the baggie. “Now help me bag this up,” I said as I held up my closed left fist for her to see, long strands of black hair pinched between my fingers, white DNA-filled roots hanging on the ends.

  twenty

  MAGGIE and I found a Phra Kaew fish counter and took two of the four stools. I called Abdul, who was working late again, elbow deep in a fresh cadaver. I told him to come meet us when he was done—we had some DNA that needed analyzing. Maggie said she felt bad making him walk all the way down here, but we had little choice. We both knew there was no way we could set foot in KOP station, which was fine by me. I had no interest in going there ever again. The last time I was there was the day Diego Banks pulled off his coup. He had me arrested and kept me locked down while he and his coconspirators murdered Paul Chang and seized control. Then, once his takeover was complete, he took my badge and let me go. The SOB didn't even respect me enough to kill me.

  Maggie and I ordered up a couple fish bowls and waited for Abdul. It didn't take long. Our fish was still frying when he came shuffling down the walk with a rickety gait that didn't seem to slow him down any. Abdul climbed up onto the stool next to mine and leaned heavily on the counter as he adjusted his shaky position until he found the right balance. I knew better than to offer any help. Abdul didn't need any, and he wasn't shy about letting you know.

  “We already ordered,” I said.

  “I'll have whatever they're having,” he said to the cook, who dropped another filet into the fryer.

  Maggie reached around me to pass him the baggie of hair. “We need a rush job on this, Abdul.”

  “No problem,” he said, and he took the baggy with his craggy hand and slid it into a shirt pocket. “I'll take care of it as soon as I get back to my office. I was glad to get your message, Juno. I've been trying to call you.”

  “I had to ditch my phone.”

  “They're looking for you,” he said.

  “I know. Ian's not too happy with me.”

  “It's not just Ian. He put out the word to all of KOP that you're wanted for questioning in a homicide.”

  “Great,” I said, knowing full well that “questioning” was enforcer code for beating a confession out of somebody. “Whose homicide?”

  “Gupta. Raj Gupta. That's the cadaver I was just working on.”

  Maggie swore under her breath. Just then, the cook set a bowl of steamy fish and noodles in front of me, my knotted stomach rebelling at the sight of it.

  Maggie asked, “What's Ian's reason for questioning Juno?”

  Abdul looked at me with his spectacled eyes. “He says he has a witness who saw Juno in the area at the time of the murder.”

  “How was Raj killed?”

  “Knifed.”

  “Was the knife recovered from the scene?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not.”

  We all knew what that meant. Ian would still have the knife, probably on his person. He'd be carrying it around so he could plant it on me once he found me. I wished I could say I was surprised to find myself wanted for murder, but I could hardly expect Ian to sit still while Maggie and I cranked up our investigation. What really had me going was the fact that I used to run KOP. All those cops had been in my control, mine and Paul's. All those years of running the show, and all it took to get the force turned against me was for Ian to say he wanted to question me. It was like I'd never been there.

  Based on the way Maggie had started shoveling through her bowl, I assumed it was good fish, yet I couldn't stomach it. I picked around the fish, pulling noodles from underneath and twirling them onto my fork. I swallowed down a mouthful, not tasting anything.

  “Oh, I have something else for you,” said Abdul as he pulled out a data chip and passed it to Maggie. “Another barge murder. I though you might be interested.”

  “Thanks, Abdul.”

  “And I have something for you, too, Juno.”

  “What?”

  I didn't like the way he paused before talking, a signal that he was about to lay something heavy on me. Finally, he said, “Niki called me.”

  “Christ.” I dropped my fork into my bowl.

  “Hear me out.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “She's in a bad way, Juno.”

  “It's none of your business, Abdul.”

  “The hell it's not. She's my friend, and so are you.”

  I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but seeing him looking at me with his eyes magnified to giant size under his superthick lenses, I couldn't do it. “What did she tell you?”

  “She asked me to pull the plug, Juno. She said you wouldn't do it, so she asked me.”

  I felt Maggie's hand on my other shoulder. I resisted the urge to yank my shoulder away. “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her I'd think about it.”

  “Christ.”

  “I think it's the right thing, Juno.”

  I didn't know what to say. I picked up my fork and started pushing my noodles around.

  Abdul ignored the bowl the cook set in front of him. “She wants to die.”

  “You think I don't know that?”

  “I know you want to save her, but you can't. She'll just do it again. She'll never get over it.”

  “Get over what?” Maggie wanted to know.

  Abdul asked me, “She doesn't know?”

  I shook my head.

  “Can I tell her?”

  I kept pushing my noodles around as I mumbled a yes.

  Abdul took off his glasses, and his eyes shrank to normal size. “Niki's father was abusive, Maggie. Sexually abusive. And one day Niki must've had enough, because she killed her parents. She killed them both in their sleep.”

  “I had no idea,” Maggie whispered.

  “Juno covered it up for her, and I helped him.”

  Now it was Maggie who had no idea what to say. In her head, she was probably replaying the conversation she and I had on the barge, when she'd referred to Adela saying, “What kind of girl kills her parents?”

  The cook came in from the back and asked how our food was, clearly concerned that none of us were eating. I took a bite of fish and swallowed it down, again tasting nothing. Maggie and Abdul started picking through their bowls, and the cook went back to unpacking a crate of noodles.

  Maggie asked, “Has she seen a psychiatrist?”

  “Three.” I admitted.

  “What did they say?”

  “What does it matter? What do some shrinks know about my wife?”

  “What did they say, Juno?”

  I dropped my fork again, letting it clang against
the bowl. “They said she wanted to be taken off of life support. And they said she was of sound mind.”

  “How come they didn't do it? Don't they have to follow her wishes?”

  “I talked them out of it.”

  “And how did you do that?”

  “I was persuasive,” I said.

  “Isn't it illegal to keep her alive against her will?”

  “That law doesn't make any sense,” I snapped.

  The shrinks had already tried to give me their little lecture on the law. They showed me old pictures of maimed freaks and brains in jars that had been kept alive for centuries before the Unified Worlds made it illegal to forcibly keep somebody alive against their will. They showed me bodies so atrophied that they looked like skeletons with shrink-wrap skin. All three of those asshole shrinks put me through the same shit, picture after picture of nothing but desperate, drooling, diapered shells of former humans. And then, when they thought I'd had enough, they came at me with their neutral speaking tones and their phony feel-my-pain faces, asking me, “Now is that what you really want for Niki?”

  But those pics they showed me, they weren't Niki. She was fixable. I'd already replaced everything but the spine. They were wrong about me. I wasn't one of those selfish monsters they'd showed me, like the mother who rejuved her stillborn baby and kept dressing him in cute little ducky PJs even when the brain-dead sap was thirty years old. I wasn't so afraid to let go of Niki that I'd imprison her. I'd never hurt her. That wasn't me. They were wrong, all three of them, and I used my enforcer talents to make them see the goddamned light.

  Abdul's put his hand on my shoulder again. “You shouldn't be so quick to dismiss the psychiatrists.”

  “She's not terminal, dammit. There won't be anything wrong with her when she gets her spine.”

  “There won't?”

  “Listen, Abdul, I know she's depressed, but that'll change when she gets patched up.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “You'd be depressed, too, if you couldn't move.”

  “C'mon, Juno, you know better than that. You know she was depressed before she broke her neck. She's always been depressed.”

  “Things will be different this time,” I said defiantly.