city blues 02 - angel city blues

by Jeff Edwards

  Then the convoy came to a shuffling halt in front of a doorway with a biometric sensor array. I walked past as the lab coats queued up to present their palms and retinas for scanning.

  I kept walking, and took the next right turn in the corridor. About ten meters down, a shape on the left wall caught my eye. It was an information placard. I had passed at least fifteen just like it during my wanderings, but I got a better look at this one and stopped.

  It was a photoactive diagram of this building—or facility, or whatever it was—with a flashing man silhouette to show my current location and animated arrows illustrating the shortest routes to emergency exits.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh, or shoot myself. There were placards like this all over the damned place. I’d been ignoring them on the assumption that any signs would be in Kanji, or one of the other Japanese alphabets. It hadn’t occurred to me that safety markings are almost always iconic, for instant visual recognition when there is no time for reading.

  Some detective, huh? Not exactly Holmesian powers of observation.

  Well, I could beat myself up over it later. For the moment, I was busy memorizing my path to freedom.

  Two left turns later, I walked through a set of automatic double doors that marked the boundary between the industrial area and the office zone. Scarred plastic wall plating and mesh metal floors gave way to blonde wooden paneling and faun colored carpet.

  Now I began drawing stares, as I was clearly not dressed for the public sections of the building. Someone spoke to me in a peremptory tone, probably ordering me back to the industrial catacombs from which I had crawled.

  I began walking faster. Through another door, wooden this time, and into a large and beautifully appointed two story lobby, with several meticulously cultivated stands of bamboo and a freestanding waterfall.

  A liveried security guard spoke sharply and moved in my direction, but I was on a beeline for the beveled glass doors at the lobby’s main entrance. I was to the doors and through them before the security man caught up to me.

  I hit the front walkway at something just short of a trot, dropping the pipe, the hardhat and the safety goggles as I moved out into sunlight of the louvered sky. I hung onto the data pad. The security man didn’t follow me.

  I put at least fifty meters between me and the building before I looked back over my shoulder. The holographic sign above the main doors spelled out ‘Akimura Nanodyne,’ in a sliver-blue font that could have been designed in a wind tunnel.

  Then I was on the sidewalk, merging with the foot traffic, and steadily putting distance between myself and the building from which I had just escaped.

  Judging by the architecture and the prevailing standard of dress, I appeared to be in the Osaka district, the colony’s commercial and industrial sector. The crowd here was about forty-percent gaijin. If not for my canary yellow coveralls, I could have blended in seamlessly.

  There didn’t seem to be a lot of vehicles on the street. A smattering of taxis, a few hover-limos, and the occasional private sedan. Barely enough to make a decent traffic jam, even if you shoehorned them all into the same stretch of road at the same time.

  I found a corner coffee shop, where I ordered a pastry and a large cappuccino to go. While the counter boy was wrestling with the steamer, I slipped into the restroom and shucked the coveralls. The sleeping guard’s oversized pants had enough loose fabric for me to slip his gun into the front pocket. The bulge was noticeable, but not instantly identifiable as a weapon. The coveralls went into the trashcan, and then I went back out to face the world.

  The counter boy didn’t ask about my quick-change act. I rewarded his lack of curiosity with a generous tip. I paid with a credit chip from the guard’s wallet.

  The pastry and cappuccino went untouched into a trash receptacle a block down the street. I really wanted them both. I was hungry enough to eat my shoes, and I was badly in need of a heavy dose of caffeine. But I had gotten into this mess by accepting food and coffee in a public establishment.

  I was not in the mood for a repeat performance.

  CHAPTER 31

  Vivien opened the door. “Oh my god, where have you been?”

  “I came to ask for my job back,” I said. “Apparently, I’m not finished with this case yet. Or at least it’s not finished with me.”

  Vivien shooed me into the room, and closed the door behind me. Her voice held a note of concern that I’d never heard from her before. “Where the hell did you go? You walked into the shuttle terminal, and it was like you stepped into a black hole. You went in, but you didn’t come out. You didn’t catch a flight. You were just gone…”

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “And I need something to eat. I’m so hungry that I’m nearly cross-eyed.”

  “Would you like something in particular?”

  “Anything, please. A sandwich. Soup. Pizza. Road kill. Anything with calories.”

  Vivien ordered a plate of club sandwiches from the hotel’s AI, while I emptied the stolen contents of my stolen pockets. I laid the sleeping guard’s pistol, wallet, and phone on a sideboard, along with the data pad I had stolen from the locker room.

  Vivien came up behind me and looked over my shoulder to survey the little collection. “Is this going to be a pattern? Every time you show up, you’ve got a new gun and somebody else’s wallet and phone.”

  She tugged at the fabric of my oversized shirt. “And someone else’s clothes, this time.”

  “Apparently, I’m developing a klepto streak,” I said. “Can I have my job back?”

  Vivien snuggled up to my back and wrapped her arms around my waist. Her breath was warm against my neck. “That depends… Will you apologize?”

  “Sure,” I said. “If you want me to.”

  She pretended to consider this. “Hmmm… I have a counter proposal. How about I apologize to you, and then we celebrate with an hour of mind-blowing make-up sex?”

  I smiled. “I have a counter proposal to your counter proposal. How about we both apologize, and then we celebrate with two and a half minutes of lackluster make-up sex, before I fall over from exhaustion?”

  Vivien relinquished her hold on my waist, and reached around my body to begin unbuttoning the pilfered shirt. I could hear the smile in her voice. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Stalin.”

  There was a chime, and an automated serving cart rolled into the room, the top laden with covered dishes.

  “You missed your chance,” I said. “The sandwiches are here.”

  The sex lasted longer than the sandwiches, but not by much.

  Afterwards, I had a long shower, followed by an even longer soak in that wonderful sunken Japanese bath.

  Vivien curled up on her favorite couch/chaise lounge, keeping me company through the open sliding doors that separated the bath area from the main room.

  I lazed in the chest-high tub, bringing her up to date on my adventures in SCAPE land while the hot water and steamy air nudged me back toward something resembling human form.

  I told her everything I knew, including the parts about Dancer’s Turing Scion, and what little I’d been able to glean about Rhiarra’s private research project.

  The intensity of Vivien’s interest shot up several notches when I got to that part. “So this Rhiarra figured out how to identify the point of view subject in a SCAPE recording?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s how I understand it.”

  “Meaning that she could implicate the perpetrator in any recording that involves criminal activity…”

  I nodded. “Maybe not a solid enough ID to get a conviction in court, but more than adequate to justify police surveillance and search warrants.”

  “And her technique (or procedure, or whatever) was in the prototype stages. Which means that it would continue to improve with additional research and more refined methods.”

  “I think it was some kind of software-based algorithm,” I said. “But yeah, it would almost certainly become more powerful
and more accurate with time. That seems to be the nature of new technologies.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Vivien said. “So in six months or a year, this algorithm could easily be advanced enough to support convictions in court.”

  I nodded again.

  The confusion was plain on Vivien’s face. “I don’t think I understand… This algorithm sounds like a police wet dream. It’s the kind of investigative tool that cops fantasize about. Why would LAPD suppress this line of research?”

  “Not just the research,” I said. “They suppressed the researcher too.”

  Vivien held up a hand. “Whoa, back up there. You’re not suggesting that LAPD had something to do with that woman’s death?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” I said. “But Rhiarra Dancer’s pet research project was about to unmask the perpetrators of every SCAPE crime ever committed. Instead of supporting her work, LAPD chopped off her funding. Then, she was suddenly and conveniently dead, and someone high up in the food chain made sure that her death got handled as a routine sex crime.”

  “That’s not exactly proof,” Vivien said.

  “I agree. But it’s also interesting that Rhiarra’s wife was shoved through the entire justice pipeline in only eighteen days. That’s how long it took to get her safely out of the way. Eighteen days, from arrest to brainlock.”

  “That’s impossible,” Vivien said. “I spent enough time campaigning with my husband to know something about the criminal justice system. It just isn’t designed to work that fast. It can’t work that fast. There are too many safeguards in place, to protect the rights of the accused.”

  “Rules have a way of getting bent,” I said. “Especially when someone with power starts applying pressure. You should know that better than anyone.”

  Vivien lifted her head and gave me a steely look. “Meaning what exactly?”

  “Get your fur down,” I said. “That wasn’t intended as an insult. But I haven’t forgotten the night you twisted Detective Bruhn’s tail. Remember that? In the parking lot of Leanda’s building. You made one phone call, and brought down the finger of God.”

  Vivien smiled and let her head drop back to the cushion. “I remember.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. The ironclad rules of criminal procedure become awfully damned flexible when money and power enter the equation.”

  “I think you’re overstating things,” Vivien said. “And I still don’t believe that a former police detective could go from conviction to brainlock in only eighteen days.”

  “Look up the case yourself,” I said. “Make one of your famous phone calls, and request the details. Last name Dancer, first name Priscilla. I can’t remember her middle name, but I doubt there was more than one Priscilla Dancer on the LAPD payroll. Don’t be surprised if you don’t get much in the way of details, though. I’ll bet you a hundred-thousand marks that the computer files have been mysteriously corrupted, or destroyed by a virus, or sealed by order of some anonymous judge.”

  “Do you actually have a hundred-thousand marks?”

  I shook my head. “Not even close. I’ll have to ask you to stake my end of the bet.”

  This brought another tiny smile from Vivien, but it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “Even assuming that you’re right, it doesn’t prove anything.”

  “I’m not talking about proof,” I said. “I’m telling you why I’m not in favor of showing all of our cards to LAPD right now.”

  “Maybe what happened to Detective Dancer is a coincidence. We can’t be sure that it has anything to what happened to my daughter.”

  I stood up and reached for a towel. “We used to have an old saying in the Army. ‘Once is an accident. Twice is coincidence. Three times is an enemy action.’”

  Vivien stretched languidly. “Can you translate that into Civilianese?”

  I climbed out of the bath and started toweling myself off. “Come to think of it, the Army may have cribbed that line from an Ian Fleming novel. But the basic point is still valid… Coincidence should be regarded with suspicion.”

  “So there’s no room for coincidence?”

  I tied the towel around my waist. “Of course there’s room for coincidence. We’ve just got a little too much of it in this investigation, and it’s starting to smell funny.”

  Vivien said nothing, so I walked into the main room and stood within her field of vision. I held up my right hand and started using my fingers to tick off the facts.

  First finger. “A police forensics tech figures out a way to ID the perpetrators of SCAPE crimes. Her funding gets cut, and no one in the LAPD hierarchy is interested in pursuing her research, despite the fact that it’s got all the markings of a prime investigative tool.”

  Second finger. “The police tech leaks the story to an investigative reporter. Within a few days, the tech is dead, and your daughter disappears from the face of the Earth.”

  Third finger. “Instead of going balls-out to investigate the murder of one of their own people, LAPD sweeps the murder of Rhiarra Dancer under the rug.”

  Fourth finger. “Rhiarra’s wife, who happens to be a Los Angeles police detective in good standing, goes after the killers. She gets brainlocked so fast that it nearly defies the laws of physics.”

  Fifth finger. “You and the senator are wealthy and imminently connected. But your daughter’s disappearance gets foisted off on a missing persons detective who can barely find her own shoes. And when you manage to get Detective Hollis booted off the case, she’s replaced by Bruhn: a hard-nosed asshole who hoards information and does everything in his power to keep you the hell away from the investigation.”

  I let my hand drop. “I don’t know what that sounds like to you, Vivien. But to me, all that doesn’t sound like coincidence. It sounds like somebody powerful is leaning hard on the Los Angeles Police Department.”

  I was about to say something else when I heard a series of melodic tones, like wind chimes in a light breeze. Vivien clearly heard it too, and we both looked around for the source of the interruption.

  The wind chimes repeated their little melody. My eyes went to the side table where the items from the guard’s pockets were laid out. His phone was ringing.

  I glanced at Vivien, and she gestured for me to pick it up.

  I examined the phone. The incoming call was marked as ‘voice only.’

  I thumbed the answer icon. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Stalin,” said a cultured Japanese voice. “So nice to speak with you again.”

  I recognized the caller instantly. This was the voice. The disembodied interrogator from the SCAPE construct.

  “I trust you made it back to your hotel safely,” the voice said.

  “Yes I did. Although I didn’t have a chance to thank you in person for your hospitality.”

  “No need,” the voice said. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Oh, but I insist,” I said. “It wouldn’t be polite for me not to reciprocate with equal generosity.”

  The caller chuckled. “Then perhaps we will be meeting again soon.”

  I kept my tone cordial. “You can count on that.”

  “While we’re exchanging pleasantries,” the voice said, “I have a message from my associate.”

  “I’m listening…”

  “He says to tell you that he would like his trousers back.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Tell him to come and get them.”

  I ended the call, and dropped the phone on the table.

  CHAPTER 32

  I tightened the sash on the brown kimono. “I need some clothes,” I said. “And some cigarettes. All of my stuff disappeared when I got snatched.”

  Vivien gave me a mock curtsey. “Of course, your majesty. Anything else?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Access to a computer.”

  “Take off the kimono,” Vivien said.

  I rolled my eyes at her. “I can’t be dropping my clothes every time you get an itch.”

 
; She made a face and stuck out her tongue. “I don’t have an itch. So drop the fucking kimono.”

  I loosened the sash and let it drop. I seemed to be spending a lot of time naked lately.

  Vivien raised her voice. “Shogun, do a full surface scan of Mr. Stalin, please. Convert all measurements to local clothing sizes.”

  The AI’s voice rumbled out of hidden speakers. “Of course, Vivien-san.”

  The surface of my body was suddenly covered by a grid of pale green lines. I didn’t even bother to look for the projector. Like everything else in this hotel, it would be perfectly concealed.

  “Raise your arms, please,” Shogun said.

  I did as asked.

  After about two seconds, the gridlines snapped off. “Thank you, Stalin-san.”

  I picked up the kimono and pulled it on.

  “You’ve seen Mr. Stalin’s clothes,” Vivien said. “Let’s have four or five outfits of the same general cut and colors. Good quality, but nothing flashy.”

  “Of course, Vivien-san,” the AI said.

  I retied the sash. “Computer access?”

  “The Shogun is a computer.”

  “Good point,” I said. “What about cigarettes?”

  “You’ll have to solve that problem yourself,” Vivien said. “Aren’t private detectives supposed to be resourceful?”

  “They are in the books and vids,” I said. “In real life, I think most of us fall a little short of the mark.”

  Vivien raised an eyebrow. “You’ll figure something out. Now, take off the kimono.”

  I sighed. “I thought you didn’t have an itch.”

  She loosened the sash of her own kimono, and let the silk garment slide to the floor. “I didn’t have an itch. But that was then. This is now.”

  “No,” I said. “I have work to do.”

  Vivien came into my arms. “You’re right about that,” she said. “You most certainly do.”

  Sometime later, Vivien and I settled onto the couch/lounge thing with my stolen data pad. A few minutes of determined fiddling yielded exactly nothing. The pad powered on without a hitch, but the menu structure came up blank. Evidently it had been programmed to act as a local peripheral device, slaved to the corporate data feed. The screen would probably light up with all kinds of useful information the second I walked back into the company facilities. But outside of its programmed operating area, the thing was useless.