“Elise,” he said, moving on.
Chapter 8
We were barely outside the market when my phone rang. The screen lit up with the name of the young woman from the Shakespeare Playhouse. For a brief moment, I hoped Theresa had good news.
“Jackson?” came the strained voice. “He’s here.”
“The guy that was looking for Angela is there?” I asked, making eye contact with Cassdan.
“He came in about five minutes ago. He’s drunk and throwing things.”
“We’re on the way.”
A taxi wasn’t going to be possible with the clogged roads. Thankfully, we were only a few blocks from the theatre. I increased from a walk to a jog. Cassdan followed close behind.
Five minutes passed as we dodged between slow moving pedestrians on the sidewalk. I let my hood fall back so the rain could wash away the light sweat causing my scalp to itch. Where the crowd allowed it, I lengthened my stride to make up for lost time.
Rounding a final corner, the theatre came into view. More than fifty people stood on the sidewalk outside. As I drew closer, I realized that their faces didn’t carry looks of joy as they eagerly awaited a dramatic tale of social commentary, but rather worry and uncertainty. I slowed as I came to the front door. Not knowing exactly how the situation inside had first developed or since progressed, I didn’t want to barge in.
With Cassdan behind me, I pressed the door open. “The show goes on, eh?” came the slurred words in a man’s voice. “Not one of you has the talent she had!” The sound of a shattering mug punctuated the statement.
The downward slope of the front entrance didn’t give much cover, but for the moment the man we were here to see was busy screaming at the employees and throwing souvenir cups. He stood just under six feet tall with a cleanly shaven face, red with anger and alcohol. His black hair was trimmed into a crew cut, which seemed to stay orderly despite the rainwater that dripped from it. The young man with the ponytail and beard ducked behind the register as the intruder picked up another mug to hurl.
“Jackson!” came a tense whisper from the shadows of a narrow stairwell to our left.
Theresa crouched there, leaning out from the safety of the railing. I kept my steps light as I quickly moved to her. Cassdan kept me between himself and the violent intruder.
“How long has he been here?” I asked her.
“Just a few minutes,” she said. “He came in drunk and cussing. He keeps talking about Angela. I don’t want to call the cops, but I don’t know what else to do.”
“Give me a chance to talk to him,” I said. “If he pulls a gun on me, then you call the cops.” I looked to Cassdan, who was putting on his eyepiece. “Hang back. Keep a safe distance. If he doesn’t know you knew her, let’s keep it that way.”
I made my way down the slope into the gift shop. The man had his back to me, arguing with a larger actress in full costume that was ordering him to leave. It gave me a chance to approach without being seen.
As I drew close, I reached out my bionic hand to take hold of his upper arm, but he must have been more alert than he looked. He jerked his arm suddenly, pulling away from me, right out of my bionic grip.
He spun around to face me, his eyes meeting mine briefly before moving down to take in my mechanical hand. They went wide with surprise before narrowing in anger. His fist clenched, ready to fight, but instead of swinging he backed away with two quick steps.
Without another word, he darted wide around me, making for the door. I thought about reaching for him again, forcing him to talk, but I didn’t want to cause any more problems for Angela’s friends. That didn’t stop me from following him, though.
I let him get to the door before I moved, sprinting up the slope. The crowd outside had grown thicker. People shuffled and huffed, eager to get in. If they had noticed a potential murderer running through, they were giving no indication.
I pushed past them into the street. Neon light reflected off the wet pavement, illuminating the deepening night. Ripples followed after the man’s strides, trailing behind him. He was already half a block away, moving quickly but without running. I pulled up my collar against the cool breeze and rain, and picked up my pace.
He rounded a corner into an alley, placing a hand on the wall for stability. In his drunken state, he seemed to be having trouble redirecting his momentum. I hoped he was looking for a spot to sit down. Either way, a narrow alley was a good enough place to catch up with him.
As I stepped into the dark of the alley, I reached into my pocket. I had just put my hand on the small flashlight I kept on me when I felt something heavy slam into my stomach, agonizing my bullet bruises and driving the breath from my lungs. My abdominal muscles seized, reflexively trying to protect the damaged flesh. I dropped to a knee, raising my bionic hand to protect my head from further attack.
“Are you the one?” he snarled in the dark. “Are you the one she was fooling around on me with?”
I took a deep, noisy breath. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“She flirted with me and complimented me, but she was just using me. We never even slept together. There had to be someone else!”
My eyes were just beginning to adjust to the darkness when I heard footsteps behind me. A beam of light came around the corner, shining onto the man’s face. He winced at the brightness, lifting his hand to shield his eyes. I lunged for him, but even drunk and half blinded he had good instincts. He jumped back away from me, dodging the grab.
He stumbled briefly, but recovered quickly and sprinted for the far end of the alley. With my abs aching, I had no chance of keeping up with him. Instead, I turned to thank my rescuer.
“What the hell happened?” Cassdan asked, switching off the light on his eyepiece. “I thought you had him.”
“In the theatre, I thought I did to. He just jerked right out of my hand.”
“He didn’t look bionic. Maybe you just didn’t have a good grip on him.”
“Maybe not, but he certainly had some damn good reflexes, and probably hand to hand training.”
“I think I can explain that,” he said, lifting up his arm to show me his computer.
On the screen was displayed a news article from four years ago, describing a raid on a Humanity First shelter that went down on the north end of the city. A picture just under the headline showed the aftermath, dead bodies littering the ground, surrounded by spent bullet casings. Several officers in S.W.A.T. gear stood in relaxed positions, checking their equipment or just appearing to talk. One had his helmet off, his arm halfway raised to wipe his brow. The face was unmistakably our suspect.
“He’s a cop,” Cassdan said. “I scanned his face in the gift shop. One simple net search later, and we have a new lead. I don’t suppose you have any contacts on the police force, do you?”
“Cops and I don’t typically get along,” I said, “but I may know someone who can help.”
Chapter 9
“Jackson!” she called out as the door slid open.
In the brightness of her Skyway level apartment, Jennifer Nadee’s hair shined like raven feathers and her brown eyes took on a reddish hue. A smile spread across her face, amplifying her high cheekbones and making little creases at the corners of her eyes. Standing at five-foot-five, her head pressed into my chest as she wrapped her arms around me.
It caught me off guard, leaving me too surprised to hug her back.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling back.
“No, it’s okay.” The hug had been unexpected, but not unwelcome. “When two people save each other’s lives a few times, I think a hug or two is pretty normal.” I stepped aside in the small alcove. “Cassdan, you remember Jennifer Nadee.”
He reached out a hand to shake hers. “How’s the corporate investigation business?”
“Not bad,” she responded, giving his hand a quick grip. “Pretty quiet the last week. How’s the hacking?”
“Too busy, lately, and too dangerous.”
&nbs
p; “This is a job?” she asked, looking back at me. “You finally call me back and it’s about a case?”
I twisted up my mouth and scratched the back of my head. “Uh...”
She grinned at my half-feigned sheepishness. “Get inside.”
The apartment hadn’t changed much since the last time I was there. The high ceiling and bare white walls gave the circular room a kind of minimalist opulence. To the right was a kitchen area with counter, sink, and a food printer that could make dinner for nine. To the left was a king size storage bed, its frame made of smooth, molded plastic. Across from us was a window spanning a fourth of the apartment’s outer wall, and at its center sat a curved couch, the only new addition to the room. Despite the fact that four copies of my place could have fit inside this space, recent experience had taught me that to Uppers this was more like a low rent studio apartment, a rich person’s idea of blue collar living.
A gentle hum filled the room as the food printer made dinner. Through the glass front door of the machine, I could see four jointed arms laying down layers of liquid meat. As each layer stacked onto the last, it quickly cooked and solidified. When the final layer was in place, a fifth arm deployed, spraying the meat with a fine mist of oil as the oven’s temperature rose to fry it.
“You caught me in the middle of making dinner,” Jennifer said. “It’s spicy Chettinad fish fry. Would you like some? I made plenty.”
The printer played a happy little tune as the glass panel slid open. A mixture of garlic, cumin, black pepper, and lemon wafted out into the room, carried by the flow of warm air.
“Maybe just a bite,” I said, “to keep my energy up.”
She retrieved plates and silverware and started dividing up the crisp fish steaks. “Cassdan, how about you?”
Cassdan was already busy on his computer again. “Hmm? Sure.”
When we each had a full plate in hand, she led us to the couch. A slight tap of her foot raised an oval panel from the floor. On hinged arms, the top flipped over to sit close enough to the couch to create a comfortable dinner table.
“First things first,” Jennifer said. “How’s the arm doing? Are you used to the weight of it, yet?”
“I’m just about used to it,” I said, taking a bite of the spicy fish. “Wright’s people do good work.”
“No problems?”
“I haven’t found any. For a prototype, it’s pretty solid.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said, taking in a mouthful.
“How are the kittens doing?” I asked.
As if on cue, the sound of claws picking at cloth accompanied a long haired cat climbing up from behind the couch to cock its head at us. Mostly black with spots of white, the little creature was no more than a year old and had yet to develop any sense of modesty or restraint. He took two quick licks of his back paw, then proceeded to pointedly pass his gaze from me, to my food, and then back again.
Jennifer pulled a small bag of treats out of the pocket of her grey cardigan. “I think they’re settling in pretty well.” She gave one treat a good toss across the room, and the kitten shot after it. “George is as energetic as always.” She dropped another treat on the floor next to the couch. A white knuckled paw moved like lightning, snatching the small treat to steal it away into the safe darkness under the furniture. “Laney is going to take some time, but she did sit on the bed with me the other day, for a second or two.”
“They’re siblings?” Cassdan asked.
“Yeah. Apparently, George is the only one Laney has ever trusted.”
Cassdan cleared his throat and went back to poking at his fish while reading something on his small monitor.
“So, what kind of business brought you two here tonight?”
“A friend of Cassdan’s was murdered. Somebody threw her out the window of her penthouse apartment. Police and the media are already calling it a suicide, but we know better.”
Jennifer breathed a slow curse. “You’re talking about Angela Vidales.” It wasn’t a question. “You have a witness?”
“Not exactly. The apartment complex has an advanced A.I. computer named April. At the time of the attack on Angela, the A.I. was otherwise occupied getting hacked by the Zombie Queen.” Her eyes went wide and her lips parted with a sharp breath. “Apparently, the famous Zombie Queen was hired to retrieve some incriminating evidence Angela may have gathered in an amateur investigation.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Mistreated prison workers. People held longer than their sentences. Various other human rights abuses.”
“Is FIRN involved in this?”
“You know about them?”
She finished her last bite and started gathering the dishes. “It’s my job to know about these things. The big media outlets aren’t really reporting on it, but I like to keep up on the alternative news sources. Who are your suspects?”
“Just about everyone, but the only one standing out right now is a guy she met while moonlighting at a local playhouse. Turns out he’s a cop, and she may have somehow used him to get the evidence. We have a picture, but no name, background, or any way of getting more evidence against him.”
She loaded the plates and silverware into a slat on the side of her kitchen counter. “You want me to call up my friend in Internal Affairs?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“It’s late. He’s not going to be happy about it.” A moment after the last fork was dropped in, the slat closed and a gentle hum began. “Not that I’m encouraging illegal behavior, but couldn’t Cassdan just hack the police department’s records to get what you need?”
“It’d take me days to get into the city’s protected systems,” he said. “They’re more secure than most corporate mainframes. We don’t have that kind of time.”
“Then I’ll give Sammy a call.” With a light touch, she flipped the table back over and pressed it into the floor. “Angela worked for Marshall, didn’t she? Have you considered him as a suspect? He certainly had no issues trying to kill us.”
“Yes,” I said, scratching my cheek, “but there’s nothing to go on there. Surely he’d be upset if he found out what she was up to, but so far we don’t have anyone saying they’ve seen his security forces anywhere near this.”
“I suppose if he’d wanted her dead, he could have found a quieter way to do it. Throwing someone out a window feels an awful lot like a crime of passion.” She retook her seat beside me, stretching her arm across the back of the couch behind me. “Tell me more about this A.I.”
“She’s quite impressive. Designed by F.C.S., she’s an advanced algorithmic intelligence that operates as the building’s manager. She goes by the name April and interfaces via hologram created by images projected onto a curved sheet of reflective plastic, at least in Angela’s apartment. Talk to her for two minutes and you forget that she’s not really human.”
“Concave mirror hologram? How very retro. Is she a suspect?”
“We considered that, but frankly, she’s a victim, too. F.C.S. is planning on taking her apart to see what went wrong. If it turns out that April somehow became homicidal, I guess that problem is going to solve itself.”
“Well, send me the picture of your cop suspect. I’ll see what Sammy can do.”
“Emailing it to you now,” Cassdan announced.
“You just need contact information?” she asked.
“That should be it,” I said, “but I do have one more question for you.”
“What is it?”
“Is it possible to make bionics look like normal limbs? Not like the old rubber stuff, but like real skin.”
Her head slightly tilted to one side. “Well, it’s not a popular choice, but there are options. AlterBionics makes a synthetic skin so realistic that it has fingerprints, and a few years ago there was a research team experimenting with preserving natural skin over bionics. Obviously, most people prefer to show off their bionics, but there are some situations where it might be best to hide them. Why? Are
you planning on infiltrating the Humanity First movement?”
My brow lowered. “Um, is that supposed to be a joke?”
“Unfortunately, no. Since the ban on non-necessary bionics was lifted, intelligence reports say the HF splinter groups have been gaining numbers. There’s talk of reforming under the Humanity First banner.”
I flexed the artificial muscles of my forearm. “How active have these splinter groups been?”
“The Preachers and the Smashers are the most active. Preachers act like a religious group. They believe humanity should learn to accept their limitations and reject all bionics. Smashers are more dangerous, but less organized. We hear about attacks here and there, people with bionics getting assaulted, their artificial limbs damaged or destroyed. Several of these attacks were done at long range with explosive bullets. So far, the victims have all been left alive.”
“Humanity First never cared about leaving people alive. They were nothing more than terrorists.”
She placed a gentle hand on my forearm. “I know.”
“Maybe we should pay these Smashers a visit,” Cassdan offered.
“I know you’re a skilled hacker,” Jennifer answered, “but they have no central organization. You could spend the next week hunting them down one by one and still never turn up anything other than spoiled thirteen year olds running their mouths online.”
He sighed. “Fine, then. Let’s go regroup with April. Maybe she’s seen this cop before, or maybe dug up something out of her memory.”
Jennifer promised to call us as soon as she knew anything, and I thanked her for all of her help. As I gave her another hug and stepped out of her front door, I promised myself that the next time I called her it wouldn’t be for a job.
Chapter 10
When we returned to Angela’s apartment, the door opened for us without so much as a knock. Since Cassdan was in front, I assumed April must have put him in the system as having free access. I wondered if Angela had given her that authority, or if she had somehow taken it for herself.
Skyway Angel Page 6