Duty and the Beast

by Chelsea Field

  16

  Hunt found us mere minutes after Cox had been led back to his cell. Which meant I’d been mere minutes away from having my big closing argument ruined by the commander dragging me out of the interrogation room and throwing me into a cell next to Stanley’s.

  It was one thing to begrudgingly allow me to tag along with Connor, but civilians did not ask the questions.

  However, since he’d missed all that, Hunt gave Connor a nod, ignored me, and made no mention of Etta’s missing niece. Instead, he said, “The tech team has finally cracked some of the encrypted files on Mr. Anand’s computer. You’re going to want to see this.”

  He led us up a flight of stairs to the second floor I’d never been on. To my disappointment, it was furbished decidedly similarly to the first floor, except with dark brown carpet instead of tiles. The ceiling might have been a handspan higher as well. We walked down a corridor of closed doors and stopped at one that had POLICE COMMANDER W. HUNT in the cheap plastic nameplate. Hunt pulled a key from his utility belt and unlocked it.

  The office within was small, cramped, and dusty as if it hadn’t been used in a while but offered a privacy his desk in the open office didn’t. He woke the computer—which was sleek, modern, and out of place, so I assumed it must have belonged to Isaac—and pointed at its screen. “What do you make of this?”

  The image in question was an engineer’s drawing of some kind of robot. It had a combination of wheels and legs, some sort of rectangular object mounted on its back, and a canister type thing attached to a… Was that a syringe? I checked the scale of the drawing and realized this robot taking up the size of the computer monitor was actually the size of a housefly.

  My stomach dropped.

  “What’s it for?” I had to force the question out. Could it be designed for something innocent like administering medicines to save a nurse doing it? But then why make it so small?

  Hunt folded his arms. “Good question. The tech team told me microrobotics is a field of almost limitless potential, most of it still untapped. But when I noticed the syringe, I pretended it was a classified military project and confiscated it. I didn’t want them thinking too hard about the applications for obvious reasons—and who knows what else the decryption will uncover? It’s going to take hours or even days to finish decrypting everything, but they said it’s on autopilot now and shouldn’t need anyone from the tech department looking at it again.”

  Connor straightened from where he’d been bent over the desk. “Depending on this thing’s capabilities, it has dozens of potential uses. Spyware. Assassinations. Medicinal—”

  “And the professional poisoner’s wet dream,” Hunt finished.

  After six months of being a Shade, my mind had leaped to the same place as Hunt’s, and I was terrified at the implications.

  But Connor only nodded. “You’re right. The Taste Society will need to be informed about this.”

  Hunt grunted. I got the feeling it wasn’t his main concern, but I was too caught up in my own concerns to speculate further.

  This kind of technology could revolutionize the poison industry. It would render Shades ineffective. Powerless. And as vulnerable as any untrained person without the genetic mutation. Which in turn would leave everyone defenseless against poison as a method of murder and sabotage. The robots would be widely available and almost impossible to trace back to their owners or operators, making them the ideal tool for the perfect crime. It would be a living nightmare.

  “Not quite,” Connor corrected, and I realized I’d been thinking aloud. “As soon as this device became available on any scale, tech would be designed to protect against it. The only way to gain a true edge would be to keep it secret and restricted to a select few.”

  That was somewhat reassuring. But all the same, I wondered what the world might’ve been like if we’d spent more time pursuing mutual well-being instead of new ways to kill. “What the hell was compassionate Isaac doing developing something like this? And how would it make his parents and grandma proud the way he claimed?”

  Connor shrugged. “It’d have other potential uses too. Imagine sending these robots into dangerous or rural locations to provide medicine to those that need it. A modified version might be able to administer vaccinations in developing countries. And in developed countries, it could be useful in catastrophes where the infrastructure can’t cope with the number of victims, like if there was an infectious outbreak or a biological attack, the robots could allow health professionals to remotely assist without risk of contamination.”

  Wow. It wasn’t often Connor saw the positive possibilities before I did, but he was right. The miniature injecty robot thingy could be used as easily for good as bad. But what had it been intended for? And what did it mean for the case?

  I caught myself chewing a fingernail and stopped. “Okay. But if this tech is what Isaac was killed for, our murderer was most likely interested in its darker uses rather than those altruistic ones. And if secrecy is critical to its effectiveness as a weapon, then that certainly increases the motive for murder a whole lot.” My thoughts ran into another roadblock. “Except why would anyone think Rick knew about the injecty robot thing?”

  Our discussion of the implications of Isaac’s invention was cut short. Connor had a meeting he needed to get to, and Hunt wasn’t about to humor me without him present.

  We were hustling our way out of the police station when we ran into—almost but not quite literally—Lyle Knightley just outside. The lines on his distinguished face appeared deeper than a week ago, and I discovered that the upwelling of sympathy I felt for Mrs. Anand overflowed to him. Even if he had blamed me for his son’s death.

  “I was hoping to catch you here,” he said. “Please accept my apology for my behavior the other day. It was a… difficult time.”

  Despite the fact that I was the one he’d been accusing and threatening, he directed the words to Connor. He knew who was in charge and was in professional negotiator mode.

  Connor stared at him, unmoved, and I had a good idea about how this conversation was going to go down.

  “Please. I need to know what’s happening with my son’s case. The papers are full of contradictory information. Have you caught the person responsible or not?”

  “We’re not at liberty to share details of the ongoing investigation,” Connor said.

  “Ongoing? That means you haven’t caught him, doesn’t it? But didn’t someone confess?”

  Connor’s lips compressed into a flat line.

  Lyle must have understood it was all the answer he was going to get.

  “Come on, man. We’re talking about my only son here. Surely you can tell me something…”

  It was strange to feel pity for a man like Lyle Knightley, but pity was what I was feeling. I shot Connor a pleading look, but he didn’t see it.

  “No, Mr. Knightley, we can’t. Now if you’ll excuse—”

  “Please, Ms. Avery.” Lyle must’ve caught the look I’d sent Connor and switched targets. “You know how much my son meant to me.”

  Crap.

  But no matter what my empathy prodded me to do, Connor had entrusted me with taking lead on the case. I needed to stick to the rules.

  Ugh. Who knew being a hard-ass was so much work?

  “We’re doing everything we can to make sure the right person goes to prison for this, but I can’t tell you anything other than what you’ve seen in the media.”

  Lyle’s demeanor changed, hardened. He stepped closer. Not a threat but a definite power play. “Don’t give me that garbage. You’re not a member of the LAPD. You’re working for me!”

  Connor placed a hand on Lyle’s arm in warning. “We’re partnering with the LAPD, and we’re following their protocols.”

  “My son has been killed, and you’re talking about protocols?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Knightley. Because no one, no matter how sympathetic, rich, or powerful, is above the rules.”

  Lyle jerked away from
Connor’s hand and spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ve heard enough. You’re just like every other disloyal lowlife out there who sees the Knightley family weakened and uses it to your advantage. Well, take it from me, the Knightley name still has some bite left, and you can be sure your boss will be hearing about this.”

  Had he been a less polished man, he might have spat his fury at our feet, but instead, he glared at us each in turn, then spun on his heel and stalked away.

  Connor checked his watch. “Now I’m late.” He resumed his fast pace toward the car, and I scuttled to keep up. “I have to get to this meeting, but the Taste Society needs to hear about Isaac Anand’s invention immediately in case there are prototypes already out there. Are you okay to give the details to your handler?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Make it clear it’s too classified to speak about over the phone.”

  “Got it.” I paused outside his SUV. “Did you want me to catch an Uber to save you dropping me home?”

  “No. Your apartment is mostly on the way.”

  I scrambled into my seat, clipped my seat belt on, and called Jim, waiting for him to answer with, “State your ID” like he always did.

  Instead, he said, “Don’t identify yourself or anyone else. With the high-tech complications of this case, your employer doesn’t want anything conveyed over the phone.”

  “Wait, you know who I am before I even give you my ID number? Why make me say it then? Do you have any idea how long it took me to memorize?”

  He ignored my question completely. No surprise there. “Why did you call? And try answering that without giving me any explicit details.”

  “Um, I have important… news that, uh, my colleague suggested our employer should know immediately.”

  Man, conveying information without specifics was hard. I was not cut out to be a spy.

  “Are you sure it’s important?”

  He asked the question the way my Aunt Alice used to ask if I was sure I needed the toilet twenty minutes into a road trip.

  “Yes.”

  Jim sighed. “Then I know I’m going to regret this, but meet me at the Thirsty Pig at eight o’clock tonight. I’ll find you.”

  He hung up.

  Any irritation I might’ve had about him not bothering to check whether the time and location suited me was overruled by my curiosity to meet the man the Taste Society had assigned as my handler. He seemed to have been chosen for his complete inability to connect. Don’t want secret colleagues to get too chummy, I guess.

  That reminded me. The view out the window showed we were nearing my apartment, and I glanced over at Connor. On the topic of secret colleagues getting too chummy… I needed to give him that letter.

  I dug through my bag to find it and kept it hidden until the car was idling at the curb. Then I all but threw it at him.

  “Read this when you have a spare minute tonight. It’s not about robots or anything, but it’s important too.”

  Since the point of meeting in a singles bar was to avoid attracting attention, I figured I’d better dress right for the occasion. Somehow I didn’t think Jim would appreciate my efforts. But I had given up trying to impress him and lowered my once-lofty goal to merely keeping his irritation to a minimum (I’d adopted a similar strategy with Hunt). Or, if I was feeling less cooperative, seeing how many pencils I could get him to snap.

  What I hadn’t wagered on was other patrons of the singles bar appreciating my efforts. The Thirsty Pig was the kind of establishment that was popular for cheap drinks rather than the decor. Come to think of it, the place smelled similar to how I’d imagine an alcoholic pig would smell too.

  I found an empty table close to the entrance so I’d be easy to spot and hadn’t even warmed up the seat before a guy with slicked-back hair and a Dodgers T-shirt strutted up to me.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Seeing as I had no idea what Jim looked like, I hedged my bets. “That depends. Are you Jim?”

  He lowered his voice to a sexy drawl. “Do you want me to be?”

  Oh boy. “Sorry, I bat for the other team.”

  His eyes widened. “You mean the Australia team? I thought you had an accent. But that’s great! I love baseball! My buddy and I were just debating this morning who’s the best hitter of all time. Who’s got your vote?”

  “Um…” It took three minutes to convince him I knew nothing about the game. He shuffled off looking like I’d ruined his night, and another man walked up to me. This one was tall, dark, and… wearing a dress. There was no way Jim was in touch enough with his feminine side to don a delicate pink Prada knockoff, so I shook my head. “Sorry, I’m meeting someone here.”

  He leaned close, giving me a front-row view to his beautifully waxed chest, and said, “Oh no, honey, you’re not my type. I just came over to let you know that your top’s inside out.”

  I glanced down and saw the telltale seam I’d failed to notice. Dammit. “Oh, thanks.”

  He gave me a toothy smile. “No problem, hon. Those of us wearing high heels and pantyhose have to look out for each other.”

  Okay, my heels weren’t high and I’d forgone the pantyhose, but I appreciated his point all the same. I slipped into the bathroom to correct my wardrobe malfunction and returned to my perch. Where the heck was Jim?

  Watching the eligible crowd prowl or prance around depending on their inclinations deepened my need to win Connor back. If I didn’t, I’d be forced to join the adult dating scene. Not appealing to a girl who’d prefer to spend her evenings curled up in bed with a fur-friend for company. On the flip side, I guessed that made me prime material for becoming a spinster cat lady. Except maybe I’d collect dogs and cats. Hmm…

  Thankfully, my musings were interrupted by the approach of a third man. “Isobel,” he said—no seductive vibes with this one—“I’m Jim.”

  Given his strict adherence to the Taste Society’s no-names policy, it was strange to hear that sentence come out of his mouth. I studied the man in front of me in open curiosity.

  For six months, I’d known him only as a voice at the other end of the phone. A rather grumpy voice. There was something in our limited conversations that made me think he’d seen what life had to offer him and wasn’t impressed. That he was fed up, but not motivated enough to change his cards nor depressed enough to give up altogether. And so it was that I’d always imagined Jim as your run-of-the-mill father of two point five children working a soul-sucking job because that’s what you had to do and quitting was for the weak.

  My mind had painted him with a well-lined face, ordinary brown eyes with dark pouches under them, two days of stubble out of convenience rather than fashion, and clothes that were serviceable but nothing special.

  Jim met every one of my expectations.

  Having said that, he was more attractive than I’d credited him for. His haircut was more interesting too—clipped shorter on the sides but a few inches long on top. That hair was unkempt now, but if he scrubbed himself up and changed his attire and attitude, it’d be like one of those high-school-loser-to-hottie transformations. Except with more wrinkles and less makeup.

  Jim didn’t show the same interest in assessing me before saying, “I’ll grab a drink to blend in, and then you can tell me what was so important.”

  “Sure.”

  I watched him push his way through to the bar and decided I kind of liked him. He reminded me of the gruff uncle or family friend that had no idea how to show affection but had a soft heart underneath. Except I wasn’t sure about the soft heart thing with Jim…

  I was sure he didn’t feel any such regard for me.

  He plonked the beer down and looked me over as if I were a towering pile of paperwork that needed doing.

  “Want me to check your drink?” I offered.

  The lines on his forehead furrowed. “You think I’m stupid enough to get it spiked? Or are you just trying to drink for free?”

  “Trying to stop you from dying, actually,
but now I can’t remember why I was going to the trouble.”

  He lifted his beer in salute. “That’s the spirit. Let’s keep this short, eh?”

  I was glad I hadn’t come to this singles bar tonight looking for love.

  “Is life really that bad?” I asked.

  “Course not. I got this way because it’s so fun.”

  Right then. Whatever else he’d done with his time on this earth, he’d mastered the art of sarcasm.

  I caught him up on everything that had happened, including the incredible tech discovery, expecting him to be shocked or surprised or something.

  But no, his expression was bored, bored, bored. Bored like I’d just told him a superlong story about how hard it was to find the right shade of nail polish to suit every role and appearance an actress would be starring in—a tale Adeline had blessed us with earlier in the day.

  Jim put his beer down. “Great. I’ll pass it on.”

  “Great? It’s not great. It could kill people, Jim. Surely even you care about that.”

  “Even me, hey? Nice to know what you really think.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that—”

  “Sure you didn’t. Just remember this moment the next time you’re asking me for a favor.”

  As if this guy would ever move an inch out of his way on my behalf. “I try very hard not to ask you any favors. I’m aware you don’t appreciate them much.”

  “Try harder then.”

  What a thoughtful suggestion. “You know, I think I’d prefer to stick to phone conversations in the future.”

  He didn’t bat an eyelid. “Well, hallelujah for that.”

  We stared at each other for a minute, then I got to my feet. “Right, if that’s all you need from me, I have a cat to cuddle.”

  Jim didn’t smirk or seem amused. He just looked bored.

  If I ever saw that man animated, I’d be convinced he’d been poisoned. Or I had.