The Sensation

by Amanda Bridgeman

  “Yeah, and now they’re cleaning up their evidence. Dancer’s dead. Just like dad! That’s why they killed him!”

  “Shut your mouth, alright! Just shut it! Don’t you ever speak of this again, Lennie, or I swear to god!”

  Silence filled the line, then, before it was broken by what Salvi assumed was Lennie’s soft cries.

  Salvi stood there numb at what she’d just heard.

  “Riverton?” she got her mouth to move in time with her brain, which was now racing. “Riverton!”

  “Yes, detective?”

  “Upload that recording to the Trident case file.”

  “Yes, detective. Underway.”

  “And see what you can find out about this Dancer guy. End request.”

  “Yes, detective.”

  Salvi knew the soundbite would not be admissible in court, nor was its use encouraged by the department – especially without the appropriate warrant, but that didn’t stop cops from using the tech every now and then to give them a helping hand with their investigations. Her move was risky, but her gut had been right, and now she had herself a very strong lead to follow: this neural tech designer known as Dancer.

  Salvi stood at the windows of her temporary apartment and looked over the city as dusk fell and the lights began to glow below. Her lenses clouded silver as Ford filled her vision.

  “Myki Natashi gave me nothing,” she said. “She just said they went to the club for drinks. She’s definitely scared. I did find out something of interest, however.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. When I went to her apartment, it was empty. Seems she’s moved out. Guess where she is now?”

  “Where?”

  “She’s back living with Francis Mellon.”

  “No shit?” Salvi said turning away from the windows.

  “No shit. You think she was in on Barker’s murder?”

  Salvi exhaled heavily. “I don’t know… If she was, she was a good actress. I believed her.”

  “But you liked Mellon for this didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. It was possible Mellon ordered the hit, but if he did, surely Myki would know that. And if he didn’t order the hit, then maybe she’s back with Mellon because she thinks he can protect her from whoever did this.”

  “Possibly,” Ford said. “If this is a turf war, then I guess we need to wait and see if someone guns for Mellon. That’ll let us know which side he’s on, Floor to Ceiling or Bounce.”

  “It could be a turf war, but I’m starting to think it’s just someone cleaning house.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I went for a walk today in the Transmission. I paid a visit to Randy’s Retrotech.” She heard a noise and looked up to see Bronte emerging from his room with a concentrated look on his face as he stared at her.

  “Why’d you go there? That’s Hernandez and Bronte’s case,” Ford said.

  “I know, but we think these cases might be linked, right? I just wanted to take a look myself.”

  “So? You found something?”

  “I spoke to the victim’s daughter, Lennie. She was edgy.”

  “Tell me you didn’t tell her you were a cop.”

  “No. She asked if I was one, but I think I deflected enough that she wasn’t sure who I was. Hopefully she just took me for a nosy journalist. Either way, she was scared. I had Riverton do a soundbite after I left the store. She spoke to her brother. He must’ve been in the back of the store. They talked about a friend of theirs, Dancer, who is apparently the best neural tech game designer they know, and who’s fallen off the grid. Apparently, he disappeared around the same time their father was killed.”

  “So you think he put the tech on the streets, and they sold it from the store?”

  “I’m not sure yet. The brother said that Dancer wouldn’t have the ability to mass produce anything, so if he was behind the design, then someone else financed him.”

  “So why’d the father get killed then?” Bronte asked, moving to stand in front of her.

  Salvi switched her call to hologram, projecting Ford’s image to make it accessible to Bronte. “I’m not sure, but I know the goods in the store had changed from what you and Hernandez saw when you hit the crime scene. I checked Riverton’s list. I saw a whole cabinet of DIY headwear that was not on Riverton’s logs. They got rid of it before you came and put it back out after you left.”

  “So they were selling it in the store,” Ford reiterated.

  “Maybe,” Salvi said, “but if they were, they wouldn’t have put it out in the cabinets like that. It would be sold through the back door. I think they just moved the other headwear to avoid us thinking they sold any at all.”

  “They might’ve just sold the original,” Bronte said, thinking aloud. “Dancer made the original, probably did a few more to order before word spread and someone put him in their employ.”

  “And killing the owner of Randy’s Retrotech was a way of erasing evidence and giving his kids a warning to keep their mouths shut,” Salvi said.

  “Alright,” Ford said, “did Riverton upload the soundbite to the files?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ok, then leave it with me. I’ll work on it. You focus on getting Lance Chaney’s attention. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Brentt?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What you found out today was good stuff, but if you risk blowing your cover again, I’m gonna pull you out so goddamn fast you’ll be dizzy for a month. Do you understand me?”

  “I’m sorry, I was just trying to work all the angles.”

  “Your job right now is to get close to Chaney and into the Ceiling, Brentt,” Ford said firmly, “because right now, you’re not a cop, remember? You’re a young, rich, artist looking for fun. I catch you working the street again, I’m going to be pissed! Get off the street and leave that to the rest of us. Got it? That’s an order.”

  “I’m sorry. I got it. I’m just not good at sitting around doing nothing. We gotta find Caine’s killer and the Chief’s daughter. I want to narrow down our suspects and find the spider who’s running this web.”

  “And we’re doing that, but you know as well as I do that cases don’t build themselves overnight. They can take months, years, and if you blow this it’s not just me that’ll come down hard on you, it’s Sorensen and Noble. Their divisions have been working on this longer than we have. And I don’t even need to mention the Chief in all of this, do I? So, one more time, cease and desist!”

  Ford ended the call and Salvi sighed and stared at Bronte.

  “You were checking up on my case?” he asked her, brow furrowed.

  “This is Taskforce Trident, Bronte. It’s everyone’s case.”

  Salvi went to The Dream Bar again, but Lance Chaney was nowhere to be seen. She’d chatted for a while to the barman, Dante, again, but decided to call it a night when he started suggesting she was coming to the bar to see him and not Chaney. He offered to show her the back room, and as tempted as Salvi was to poke around Chaney’s business, fending off the amorous barman wasn’t on her list of things to do. So, she cut her losses and came back to her apartment to see if Riverton had updated the Trident case files with any new information.

  It had. A profile had been lodged on this guy known as Dancer, a.k.a. Dancell Marks. From the photo he looked young, maybe early 20s, with pale skin, short dark hair that was shaved at the sides, and a tattoo on the side of his face that Riverton had identified as a gamer symbol: a circle with a compass dissecting it. The north point was a triangle, the south a square, the west a hexagon and the east another circle. Dancer was on the shorter side, around 5’8, and weighed about 120lbs. His rap sheet was small, covering minor drug offences to black market tech busts. From what Salvi could tell, the latter were all tech enhancements for gaming. Neural devices, yes, but for the pursuit of a more VR gaming experience. From what she saw on file the tech may have been DIY, but it still looked pretty sophisticated. He definitely ha
d talent. So, the question was, had the guy turned entrepreneur, or had someone harnessed his skills for their own use?

  She thought of the older case that Riverton had linked to the Trident Taskforce, the ex-security guy who had fallen off the grid for two years, then turned up dead. Had he been involved with this underground drug-tech movement? Is that where Dancer was now? Or was Dancer dead and they just hadn’t found his body yet?

  Based on the soundbite, Ford had asked the AI to process a warrant to take a closer look at Randy’s Retrotech. Though Riverton found no rap sheets for the brother and sister who now owned the store, it had found discrepancies in its sales data. Earnings reported did not match recorded sales, which led Riverton to calculate that stock was missing from the inventory. It didn’t appear to have been erased, it was simply never officially recorded in the first place.

  So the question remained: had Randy’s Retrotech been selling Dancer’s neural tech, and was that what had gotten their father killed? And, if so, who wanted to cover their tracks so badly they had to erase any knowledge of this neural drug-tech ever being in existence?

  Further updates to the Trident file from Sorensen confirmed that so far this drug-tech experience had still not shown up in other cities, which was good, Salvi thought. It lent weight to the idea that whoever was behind this was based right here in San Francisco, or at least, Silicon Valley and surrounds, and it meant the purveyors of this drug-tech experience wanted to contain it here. At least for now. If this grew to a national network, it would be that much harder to stop; akin to stopping an electric bicycle versus a Cylin train.

  Noble had confirmed they were still unable to trace the tech and reiterated once more they needed to get their hands on one of the devices. One of his undercover agents, a detective by the name of Preston, had found a contact who’d offered to take him to a known source of supply, but the neural device he was sold was not the same as the ones they sought. Preston had to buy the tech anyway and let the guy go so as not to blow his cover.

  It was a long, slow process. They were chipping away at this case, but for every piece of information they revealed, just as many dead ends arose. She sighed and moved over to the apartment’s windows, glancing down at her own a few blocks away. How much longer would she be stuck here? Away from her home, away from the hub, away from Mitch. Just when she’d restarted things with him, they’d been forced to stop again. Still, it was hard for her to think about her own situation when she thought of the Chief’s missing daughter, and of Caine, strung up on that wheel, tortured. Whoever had done that to him was a sick fuck, and they needed to be taken off the streets.

  A message sounded on her burner phone, startling her. She moved back to the table and grabbed it.

  It was from Chaney. She straightened.

  “I hear I missed you tonight. Sorry about that. I’ll be popping by The Dream Bar tomorrow night if you want to buy me that drink.”

  She smiled and immediately contacted Ford.

  Salvi entered The Dream Bar in a slinky, form fitting dress that instantly drew the required attention. She didn’t want to be too obvious, so she didn’t sit at the bar, and instead took a seat at one of the sunken tables. If Chaney was interested, he’d find her.

  She ordered an exotic cocktail from an attractive young woman, then sat back and glanced about at the clientele at the nearby tables. She saw a few business suits, some well-dressed couples and a group of guys laughing at something they were viewing on their enhanced glasses.

  Salvi drank slowly, leveraging every ounce of her patience, waiting for him. It took a little under two hours before Chaney showed. He stepped down into the sunken enclosure and sat opposite her; handsome, suave.

  “Not at the bar,” he observed. “Are you waiting for someone?”

  “No, I’m solo tonight,” she smiled.

  “Just tonight? Don’t tell me you’ve given him another chance?”

  She laughed and finished her cocktail. “No. He won’t be getting another chance.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “So, I owe you a few drinks,” she said.

  “I said they were on the house.” His eyes shone at hers.

  “I like to pay my way. I’m good for it,” she winked.

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “So, what are you having?” She hit the service button on her table.

  The young, attractive waitress came back over.

  “Oh, hi, Lance,” the waitress smiled.

  “Jamie,” he greeted her, then nodded to Salvi. “What are you drinking?”

  “I already have another of these coming,” she held up her cocktail, then looked at him. “But he’ll have a…?”

  “Scotch on the rocks,” he relented.

  “On my account,” Salvi said quickly.

  Jamie looked to Lance to confirm it and he nodded.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said, sitting back in her seat. “So tell me, where do you find so many good-looking humans?” She threw a glance to a passing waiter.

  He laughed. “Oh, they’re mostly models and actors, but there are some among them who are studying to be lawyers and doctors and future presidents. They just need to afford their tuition and playtime hobbies.”

  Salvi nodded. “So what about you? What’s your story? Single, married, complicated?”

  He smiled. “Two of the above.”

  “Hmm,” Salvi mused. “My guess is single and complicated.”

  “How very astute.”

  “Why complicated?”

  He shrugged. “I work a lot.”

  “I’m also complicated. And married.”

  He paused. “Married?”

  “That’s the complicated part. My husband and I, we have an open marriage. We… don’t adhere to the norms that most others do.”

  “I see. And where is he tonight?”

  She shrugged. “Working, or on a date. Who knows?”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  She smiled. “Not at all. We’re both independent. Sometimes we’re like ships passing in the night. Other times, we hang out.” She shrugged again. “Like I say, complicated. For others to understand, that is.”

  The drinks came and they took a sip.

  “So, what is it you look for in your boyfriends then?” he asked. “You’re obviously not having much luck.”

  She chuckled, then ruminated for a moment. “Well, I’ll tell you what I don’t like: these vanilla guys.”

  “Vanilla?”

  “You know the type. All they want is monogamy, marriage, missionary and motherhood. Let me tell you, those are the four most boring words in the English language. Never say an M word to me.”

  Chaney laughed. He was even more handsome when he did.

  She stared at him with her best sultry eyes. “I have to say, you’re the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in months.”

  “And what makes me interesting?”

  “You’re the first decent conversation I’ve had in this town, to start. No offence to Dante, of course. He is beautiful to look at.”

  Chaney laughed again. “So, what is your idea of fun?”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged, glancing around the club, before looking back at him. “Anything that gets my pulse racing. You?”

  “Pulse racing is good.”

  “I’m an artist,” she said, “who’s constantly looking for inspiration. If it’s been done before, I’m not interested. I like to seek existing boundaries and push right through them.”

  “Pushing boundaries is good.” He raised his glass to hers. She reciprocated.

  “I can see you like that,” she smiled. “That’s why I like this club. It’s…” she glanced around, then looked back to him, “sexy. It’s sophisticated. It’s private. It has an exclusive feel to it. Tick, tick, tick and tick.”

  “It sounds like you’re a woman after my own heart.” His eyes shone in the dim lights as he sipped his drink again
. The silence sat as they stared at each other.

  “So,” she said, leaning forward on the table, “got any suggestions on what I can do for fun around here?”

  “You’re not from here?”

  She shook her head. “We moved from LA two months ago. I haven’t made many friends yet. I’m still learning the lay of the land here. So far it’s been… okay.”

  “I’m sure we can do better than okay. This is San Francisco.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Well, if you’re the outdoors type, there’s sailing, you can climb–”

  Salvi laughed. “Do I look like an outdoor sports kind of girl to you?”

  He smiled.

  “I’m an artist who likes to think outside the box. I need mental stimulation.”

  “What kind of art?”

  “I specialize in mixed media. The piece I’ve just finished is called Tech-Tronic.”

  “And what is it about?”

  “It speaks to the fallout from The Crash,” she replied, glancing about again. “About how these terrorists took away our liberties, how they forced us to surrender our neural tech, how we’re now prisoners because of this.”

  “Prisoners?”

  “Yeah. If I want to use neural tech and get out of my own headspace for a while, that’s my choice. Their attack forced the government to take away our choice. They’re keeping me prisoner from my choice of tech.”

  He nodded. “And have you seen the news lately? What do you think about the tech that’s spilling out onto the streets now?”

  “Well, I’m not across the whole thing, but these assholes need to be stopped.”

  Chaney stared at her, sipping his drink.

  “I mean,” Salvi said frankly, “the government isn’t going to drop these prohibitive laws with those idiots running around, are they? Using neural tech is no different from driving a racing car. You drive like an idiot, you’ll get hurt or hurt others. If you speed, but stay in control…” she smiled sexily, “it could be a wild ride.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” he said.

  She glanced around his club. “So… who does your decorating? I like their style.”

  “You looking for work?”

  “Are you in need of a mixed-media artist?”