by S J Hunter
“You don’t have a family member or a friend or co-worker he can stay with?
A year is a long time in a dog’s life; perhaps more so if the dog is especially intelligent,” he added, not unkindly.
Andrews was shaking his head again and his jaw had taken on a stubborn cast, although his eyes portrayed nothing but anxiety.
“Look, I know LLE has a reputation for being heartless,” Chris said, “but I’m not trying to get you to implicate someone else. We need to find a place to take the dog.”
“My wife and son died two years ago in a car accident. There’s no one else. You won’t let him be destroyed? You can’t. That’s just not right. We can’t have come to that yet. Louie’s just a good, smart dog,” Andrews said again.
The dog was standing there, looking Chris straight in the eye with that non-sentimental trust that seemed to be their unique gift. His tail was waving slowly as though caught in a breeze.
“Take him, please. He’s smart about people and he obviously trusts you. Please. I don’t care about the rest of what happens to me. I knew the consequences. Just take care of Louie. He’s a good dog.”
At the final mention of his name, Louie leaned forward and placed his head on his owner’s knee, pushing Andrews one step closer to the precipice of a complete break-down. Suddenly, Chris had had enough of this case. A hermit, yes, but a benign, idealistic hermit who had probably been doing research on something geared to save mankind from itself and whose only concern now was for his dog. On an uncharacteristic impulse, and with a premonition that he was unsealing a whole can of heartache, Chris opened his mouth and let the words out.
“All right. I’ll see to Louie. Don’t worry about him.”
After that, Andrews pulled himself together and stumbled around his tiny efficiency, eagerly bestowing Louie’s bed and bowls and leash, and pulling a huge half-empty bag of kibble out of a closet.
“He gets two scoops twice a day. And one of the dental treats after each meal.”
Which is how, when they finally all got down to the curb, while Chris stood there with his arms full of dog accessories and Louie on a leash bedside him, as the uniforms assisted Andrews and dumped an evidence pack full of memotabs with molebiol notes into their car, for the first time in Chris’ almost 80 years as a cop the last words from the prisoner just before the door slid closed were a sincere “Thank you.” Andrew’s eyes met Chris’ and then, lingeringly, Louie’s. The car locked onto the glassene strip and silently merged into traffic.
Chp. 2 New Partners (Monday)
Last night, arriving at his own small efficiency with Louie and all of the dog supplies in hand, Chris looked at the place with fresh, slightly bemused eyes. It was a disturbing experience. His efficiency was not much bigger than Andrews’ and was similarly piled with notes, although most of them were concentrated on the large table that dominated the room and served Chris as a desk. Only the corner of the table closest to the kitchenette was clear so he could use it for dining when he occasionally sat down to eat. Otherwise, anything beyond the minimal necessities were remnants of Karen’s occupancy: her antique books and a few little things that had meant something to her. It had been a long time since he’d had any visitors. He took a moment to calculate. It had been several decades since he’d had any visitors.
Louie had spent the first few minutes scouting the place and then gone over to an open space near the door, yawned loudly with kind of a tenor sigh, and sprawled on the rug with his head on his forepaws. He stared at Chris for another two minutes before falling asleep.
Now, are you going on instinct alone or have you figured out something that’s still eluding me? Look around you. Do I look like someone who should have a dog? Chris remembered thinking, and he’d gone back to his notes at the working end of the table. As he acquired new information he frequently reviewed the contents in his files with the hope that some juxtaposition of the data would yield an insight or a pattern.
The particular case file he had been shuffling last night had been an intermittent preoccupation for over 3 years, not from any special concern for the victim, whose death had been ruled accidental, but because Chris was convinced there was something more going on, something that was a matter for LLE. So far he couldn’t even find evidence that the death wasn’t accidental, other than his unshakable conviction that the victim’s father, one John Bedford, was a total slopswad. As sometimes happened, he had finally fallen asleep with his head on the table resting on a memotab.
This morning Louie was back at the door.
“There’s housebroken and there’s housebroken. Which one are you?”
At Chris’ question Louie pawed at the two deadbolts, only one of which yielded to the pressure, and then put his paw flat on the palm plate.
“Ah. That kind,” Chris said slowly, impressed in spite of himself. “Just a little problem with sensor incompatibility. And tough luck, missing that opposable thumb.”
A brisk, productive walk, a quick breakfast, and Louie was back at the door, sitting and waiting. Chris, whose morning rituals were a little more numerous and time-consuming, found himself the focus of a lot of patient observation as he caught up. He studied Louie’s expression. There was expectancy there; he wasn’t imagining it.
So much of his work dealt with bringing the hammer down on relatively harmless people like Andrews. Now he’d complicated his uncomplicated life by bringing this very bright dog into his home and he couldn’t fool himself by thinking that throwing Louie a few chew toys before he went off to work for twelve hours or more was going to cut it. Andrews had probably taken Louie everywhere and discussed molebiol research with him.
“Louie, I’ve got to go to work.”
The expectancy didn’t falter, and Louie’s ears swiveled forward with the word “work.”
Chris sighed. He was already talking to the dog. “Look, all I can do is kick it out there and see how far it goes.”
*****
This is the man, Livvy thought. Has to be. Having been introduced to the rest of the D.C. LLE squad by the Chief, she’d been waiting nearly fifteen minutes when a tall, trim man with gray eyes, tousled brown hair, and the sculpted face of a 35-year-old walked in. Had to be Chris McGregor.
In San Francisco, where attractiveness-boosting enhancements were almost de rigueur for those who could afford them, he would be considered good-looking enough but relatively non-descript. The standards there were pretty high. What was interesting this morning was that his demeanor, which she would otherwise describe as flinty – although perhaps what Mike had told her was seriously coloring her first impression – was seriously mellowed by the fact that he entered the room with a dog placidly trotting at his heels.
Mike hadn’t told her about the dog. What he had told her was directly responsible for her ending up on this bench outside the Chief’s office.
“If you’re serious, really serious about transferring to LLE, you should go to D.C. and learn from one of the best. Although why you want to work in LLE I’ll never understand. Most of their work is just shutting down hotlabs and rescuing kidnapped practitioners. And it’s hardly a stepping-stone to anything better. Once someone goes into LLE, they’re untouchable. They’re never seen again in real police work. You’re in Homicide. You get to put monsters away,” Mike had said. “So why do you want to transfer?”
“It’s all good stuff, putting away monsters, I know,” she’d said. “But it’s not like I’m saving civilization.”
“Saving civilization, huh? You started out in Tactical so I suppose you never went out as a uniform on a clean-up crew after LLE did their own tactical work. It’s more like destroying civilization, if you ask me. That’s how I first met McGregor.”
“He’s one of the best you mentioned?”
“The best,” Mike had said, smiling wickedly. “A legend.”
She knew that smile. “Okay, so why do I feel like I’m being set up? A self-made legend, huh? Thanks for the tip.”
“Oh
no. A legitimate legend.” He was still smiling. “He was married to Karen DeVoe, too.”
“That name sounds familiar.”
“If you want to work LLE, it should,” Mike said. “She was one of the key designers who worked on the Laws. A bioethicist. She died in an accident a few years later.”
“Sad. All right, what’s the catch? I’m still feeling the suspicion.”
Mike raised his eyebrows and managed to look hurt.
“I’m a detective. Sensitivity to being jerked around is essential to the work,” Livvy added.
“He doesn’t take partners anymore. Hasn’t for 30 years.”
“Why not? One of those long-lifers who’s gone asocial?”
“Not that I ever noticed. Pleasant enough when I was a uniform on clean-up crew and the few times I actually consulted with him on homicide cases after I made the grade. Always seemed like a nice guy. Dedicated. Driven, even, but you’d expect that, or he wouldn’t have stayed in LLE over 50 years,” Mike said. He was still enjoying the conversation way too much, which meant that she was definitely being played, but she hadn’t heard the hook yet.
“Michael, me darlin’, if you don’t tell me now why you want me to try to work with this man I’ll put your preserved head in my little rock garden as a planter.”
“The consensus was that he didn’t take partners anymore because they couldn’t keep up with him.”
So of course, here she was, sitting on a bench outside the Chief’s office, in a squad room that had gone preternaturally quiet and expectant, at 8:30 AM on a Monday morning. She’d used her family’s influence to get here, too, which she’d never done before and which she’d loathed somewhat more than she had undergoing her emergency appendectomy. But if she hadn’t tapped the family power pipeline, she wouldn’t have gotten close. Damn the man, she thought. Damn them both.
*****
There was an unnatural silence in LLE when Chris arrived. That was never good. He looked first towards the Chief’s office and thought he found the source decorating the bench outside the door. She had to be one of the most stunningly beautiful women he’d ever seen, thanks to shoulder-length auburn hair and eyes of a startling blue-green in a face with the kind of flawless skin that would do for the embodiment of a Renaissance portrait. The effect was lovely and somewhat ethereal, a strange combination if she was a professional. At an absolute minimum, the eye color and the skin tones had to be enhancements. None of that was illegal, but given the effort and expense she’d put into the visual effect, Chris suspected she hadn’t been able to resist crossing the line on an enticing chem- or neuro-enhancement. Certainly she had generated some serious silence in the normally rowdy squad.
It wasn’t usual for people who had had black market work done to make deals with LLE by giving information on whoever had done the work for them, which was probably why she was here. High class, based on her looks and her relatively stylish but conservative clothing, but still a snitch and a pro. The visual work was very good, subtle. The illegal stuff probably was too. From across the room he couldn’t detect a perfume, but the range wouldn’t matter. Some of the new skin-level stimulants the illegal labs were putting out for high-class professional women were remarkably potent yet completely undetectable without chemsensors. As long as the developer didn’t call them a pheromone (this term alone was enough to put them in felony range), the penalties weren’t enough to discourage them for long. Chris looked around for a legal stick or for a clue as to who might have brought her in, but other than the expectant silence and some surreptitious looks from Williams and Agnew, whose desks were closest, no one was paying attention to her. Except, at the moment, Louie. Louie had made a beeline for the woman and was standing there wagging his tail as she stroked his ears. Either he was more susceptible, or he had detected something hinky. Or he was totally nondiscriminating.
“Hey, McGregor, excited about your new partner?” It was Williams. He jerked his head in the direction of Louie’s rump and grinned sardonically, sharing the joke with Agnew.
“His name is Louie. I take comfort from the fact that he’s probably a hell of a lot smarter than you two,” Chris said.
Both Williams and Agnew, the rookie, reacted to this with hilarity.
And that’s way more than that deserved, Chris thought as he continued on towards his desk. He was uncomfortably aware of a pair of unnatural turquoise eyes tracking him, and of Louie, still enjoying the ear rub. The Chief hailed him through the open door before he quite made it.
“McGregor, in here. Now. And bring the dog.”
“Louie,” Chris said as he crossed back in front of the woman. He snapped his fingers for emphasis and Louie fell into position at his left side.
“Close the door,” the Chief said. “Sit.”
He paused, considering Chris and Louie for a few seconds. The Chief was old school, meaning that although he went in for his regular resets, he believed that the appearance of age increased authority. He was several decades chrono younger than Chris, but looked a little older and even had some gray hair, which was almost unheard of among people plugged into Longevity. As far as Chris knew, it was genetic and premature, rather than an atypical enhancement.
“I got your report on Andrews this morning. This is the dog? Never mind, dumb question. Like you thought, our Forensics analysts figured out from the good doctor’s notes that he was working on research that might make Longevity more economical. His lawyer can use it to get him a better deal, but he’ll still have to face the minimum.”
The Chief studied Louie, who sat at Chris’ side and stared back at him.
“By the way, he went even further with the dog than he did with himself. I guess he didn’t worry about the memory loss, with the dog. They figure about a 50% enhancement, if it were done in a human. That seem right to you?”
“Who can tell?” Chris said, shrugging. “So far, he just seems like a very bright, normal dog. At 50% boost he’s well within the curve if he was a typical mutt to begin with. A significant boost if he was bright already.”
“Of course, since it’s only a dog, I don’t expect we need to worry about arranging a compulsory reversal,” the Chief said, losing interest.
“If there’s a problem, I’ll get an exemption,” Chris said.
There was a longer pause. “You’ve got something in mind?”
“I figure he’ll be an asset in the field,” Chris said.
The Chief picked up a stylus and started balancing it between his two index fingers and studying it. “We’ve worked together what, 40 years?’ he asked finally.
Something wasn’t adding up here, Chris thought, a little puzzled. While he knew there hadn’t been any canine units in LLE before, the Chief was seldom interested in rules or conformity. Chris hadn’t expected any discussion because Louie shouldn’t be this big of an issue. This first question was rhetorical and an obvious preamble to something more, so he didn’t bother to respond.
“You were already here when I came on board. I’ve respected that. It hasn’t always been smooth sailing but I think you could safely say that for the most part I’ve let you tack on your own.” The analogy was a bad sign. The Chief was an avid sailor, and it meant he was groping for a way to break some bad news.
“I promised Andrews I’d see to him, and he can’t sit around my apartment all day. He’ll go barking mad,” Chris said, still puzzled. “He’s pretty much of a natural. I think he already picked up on some chem- or neuro- issue with that pro sitting out there waiting for processing.”
“I’m not talking about the dog,” the Chief said, shifting forward in his chair. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything more, the young woman Chris had just piqued chose that moment to walk through the door.
“Sorry Chief, but I have excellent hearing. And no, it’s not enhanced. That would be illegal. You can have it tested if you wish.” This last was directed at Chris.
“Also, I was sitting right outside your door.” Back to the Chief
. “You can’t blame me for the city’s notion of soundproofing. I thought I should come in and introduce myself before Detective McGregor digs himself into a deeper hole.
“And to let you know that Louie is perfect for the team, as far as I’m concerned.” To Chris.
And back to the Chief, “Since you seemed to be worried about it.”
Chris stared at her extended hand, then shook it briefly. He shifted his gaze back up to the remarkable turquoise eyes, which showed the faintest of humor lines at the corners.
“I’m overwhelmed with relief,” the Chief said dryly to the newcomer, then shifted his attention back to Chris. “McGregor, meet Olivia Hutchins, your new partner.”
Chris had been mildly puzzled before. Now he turned his head sharply to give the Chief a full stare.
“I prefer Livvy.”
“Detective Hutchins transferred here from San Francisco specifically to work LLE with you as her partner. Something about ‘learning from the best.’ Clearly a mistake, but I’ve decided to let her find that out on her own,” the Chief said, looking at Livvy with no evident amusement.
“I’m not a training officer,” Chris said. “I’ve never been a training officer. Even when I was taking partners, you never gave me a rookie before.”
“There you go, still wielding that shovel,” Livvy said sotto voce.
“Detective Hutchins has 30 years experience, the last 10 in Homicide, and 20 before that in Tactical.”
“I haven’t had any partner in 30 years.”
“You’re letting Louie tag along with far less experience and, I can say with all modesty, far less to offer,” Livvy interjected.
