"It's not cheap."
"No. But you don't want a cheap hotel in Crittertown."
"That's all right. I know someone who said I should stay with her. I'll take her up on it."
I pulled out my phone. "Want to give her a ring?"
The cat hesitated.
I said, "If it's local, I won't even put the charge on your bill."
"No. She said to show up anytime."
Blake returned with a copbot in tow. The cat said, "You said police protection. You didn't say anything about a walking toaster."
Blake said, "Prof already checked this one. You can trust it."
The cat narrowed her eyes in doubt. Blake ignored that and handed me a computer and stylus. I signed a promise not to talk about this case until an arrest had been made or the department took it public. Then Zoe signed the same promise. Blake folded up the computer and put it in her pocket.
We left by the front door with the copbot bringing up the rear. I put myself between it and the cat, but that didn't seem to make her any more comfortable. I understood why Blake had pulled a bot for guard duty—a human would've expected time-and-a-half—but I wished she had found an alternative. At that moment, keeping the cat in police custody and letting me spend the next day alone on her case sounded pretty good to me.
A Personal Rapid Transit station was in front of police headquarters. Three or four perts sat on the station's side rail, waiting for someone to press the call button. Blake did just that. A pert rolled forward. She put a pass in the card slot, the door slid open, and she gestured for us to get in.
The cat and I shrugged at each other and took the forward-facing seats; Blake and the copbot, the rear-facing ones.
The car said, "Destination, please?"
Blake glanced at us. The cat said, "I'm in no hurry. You go first."
I pressed the talk button and said, "Lankershim and Vineland."
As the pert slid out onto the main rail, Blake said, "Crittertown?"
I nodded.
The cat said, "Hey! The person I'm staying with is just around the corner from there."
Blake said, "You're not getting a hotel room?"
"I'd rather not be alone."
"I thought you didn't know anyone here."
"I haven't met her. She's a friend of a friend."
"What's the address?"
"It's in my suitcase."
"Then what's her name?"
"Cyn Wharton. Only she's subletting."
"So how do you expect to find her?"
"My friend showed me a picture of her house. It's half a block from Lankershim, near Vineland. She said the neighborhood's total-hep."
I said, "It's cheap. Do Grove or Huston sound familiar?"
The cat said hopefully, "Huston?"
Blake sighed. "It's a nice night. Why shouldn't we spend it walking around Crittertown?"
I reached into my jacket for a pack of cigs. "Anyone mind if I smoke?"
"No," said Blake.
"Yes," said the cat.
"They're decarcinogized," I said.
"They stink," the cat said.
I checked my watch. Just under twenty-one hours to go.
Chapter Five
No one spoke for most of the trip to Crittertown. I was as content as anyone could be who desperately needed a nicotine fix.
I love cities when they slumber, when the streets are clear and quiet, and you can imagine what a place would be if its resources met the needs of its population. I love the PRT system, sliding along at seventy kilometers an hour, five meters above the ground, never slowing until you reach your destination. Riding a pert in daytime has its charms, especially at rush hour when you glide above the roofs of traffic-jammed commuters who think sitting alone in a steel box that you own is superior to public transportation that you use when you need it and someone else services and maintains. Of course, I might've felt differently if I could've afforded a steel box of my own.
Not everyone slept—cities may nap, but they never sleep. A kid in a second-floor bedroom waved as we passed, and the cat waved back. There are always at least a few cars on L.A.'s streets. One raced ahead of us to show its speed, only to stop and fall behind at a red light and never catch up again. Another pert joined our track, far ahead of us, then zipped away toward the Pacific. I had a pang of jealousy. If I wasn't on a case, I could've taken a pert up past Malibu and spent the night at a campground by the ocean.
We crossed the Santa Monicas, following the 101 Tollway past the dark ruins of Universal City, then scooted up Lankershim. I couldn't enjoy the ride as much as I normally would. I was tired, the unmoving presence of the copbot was distracting, and I had an ever-growing list of questions to ask the cat when no one else was listening.
She had curled up in her seat as if to sleep, but when we passed a street light, I saw that she watched everything through slitted lids. What did she make of the city she saw? What sort of city would cat people make, if left to themselves?
I shifted my glance to Kris Blake. She also watched the city slip by. Shadows fell softly across her cheekbones and neck like a lover's caress. The top two buttons of her shirt were open. I admired the hollow of her throat, the rise and fall of her chest. She flicked her eyes in my direction, saw me looking at her, and smiled.
"The night's so clear," she said, and it was. A slight ocean haze had dimmed the downtown sky, but it hadn't climbed the Santa Monicas.
"One benefit of life in the Valley," I agreed.
"You like living here?"
I nodded. "I saw two owls on Ventura Boulevard a few weeks ago. A movie crew had cleared the street for a night shoot, and the owls were sitting up on a drugstore roof, just waiting to see if we were going to give the city back to them."
"They must've been disappointed when the shoot ended."
"Owls are patient."
"Would you like that? To give the city back to the wild?"
I shook my head. "I like cities, so long as there are plenty of parks in them. Give me clumps of cities and clumps of wilderness over global suburbia any day."
"Thomas Jefferson thought we should be a nation of farmers."
"He had his share of odd notions."
"Like being opposed to slavery, and never freeing his own slaves?"
"That's one."
"It's hard to have the courage of your convictions."
"If you can't act on them, what kind of convictions are they?"
Blake shook her head. "You set yourself a hard moral code."
The cat said, "Name an easy one."
Blake glanced at her as the pert switched to the Lankershim-Vineland side rail and slowed to a stop. The door opened. Since I was closest, I stepped out first and tapped a nic stick from its pack.
A couple of chimera kids waited on the platform. They were dressed nice, he in an iridescent red suit, she in an off-white gown. They must've danced until Pied Piper's had closed. Their faces were decorated with complex black and red designs that framed their forehead IDs—the law may've forced one tattoo on them, but it didn't stop them from getting more. The monkeyboy's face was fairly furry and semi-simian—his extra tats merely emphasized that he knew what he was. The doggirl had very human features—so far as I could tell, only her eyes would have prevented her from passing. Her extra tats let everyone know she had chosen her side.
I see kids who are passionate, arrogant, and optimistic, and I feel nostalgic. I smiled as I brought my cig to my lips. The doggirl must've thought I was being condescending. And maybe I was, a little bit. She scowled. The monkeyboy caught her arm. She said something dismissive about "skins," and that might've been the end of it.
But the cat was next out of our pert. The doggirl saw her, then glared at me. "Fucking furry!"
I shook my head and removed the cig. "Congratulations. That's inaccurate and redundant."
The monkeyboy told his date, "Leave it."
She told the cat, "Cousin, don't whore for skins."
Blake got out. "W
hat's going on?"
I said, "It's just the welcome wagon."
The doggirl said, "Skins aren't welcome—" She stopped when she saw the copbot, last to leave the pert. "Forget it." We stepped aside so she and the monkeyboy could take the pert, but I knew that didn't make her feel any better. When you're sure the world's against you, it's hard for the world to prove it doesn't know you exist.
I pulled out my Swiss Army knife, clicked the lighter, and saw the cat looking at me. "Mind if I smoke outdoors?"
"Yes."
"Then walk upwind." I brought the flame to the tobacco and inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with sweet relief.
Blake, watching the chimera kids leave in the pert, said, "You get that often?"
I laughed. "Relax. We're going on four years without a riot in Crittertown. We just ran into one of the human-looking ones who—" I noticed the cat watching, realized I was halfway through one of my less diplomatic observations, and figured the best I could do was finish it. "—needed to prove she's more critter than thou."
I concentrated on smoking after that. It was a fine, fine cigarette. I had waited for it long enough, and it didn't disappoint me. I should've given it a name, say, Luscious Lucinda. Sometimes it's easier to remember a smoke or a meal than a person you once loved, badly, madly, sadly. Maybe the best times I had had with my wife were when we sat smoking together.
The old white-furred catman at the newstand saw me and called, "Hey, Max, that copbot following you 'cause you had too good a time?"
"That copbot, Felix? It's not following me. Must be after you. Aren't you Mr. Goodtimes?"
He laughed. "That's me, all right. Mr. Goodtimes, uh-huh." He winked at my client. "That young skin get tuckered out, you come find me here, Missy. In all my years, I never heard a complaint."
"That's because you're selectively deaf," I said.
Felix cupped his ear. "You say something, Max?"
We all laughed. I waved and said, "Not me. See you later, Mr. Goodtimes."
"Everybody does. I'm the Eighth Wonder of the modern world."
We walked up toward Huston Street. Blake said, "Quite a character."
"Uh huh," said the cat. "A regular Uncle Tomcat."
"Ah," I said. "A real chimera would've arranged to be kept by a rich human, I suppose."
She gave me a cool smile. "I'm not going to fire you, Mr. Maxwell."
"Damn."
As the four of us trudged north, I hoped the cat would find this house of a friend of a friend quickly. She looked at the park and frowned. I wondered what she saw, but the only things there were trees, benches, a playground, and several hundred people sleeping on the grass.
"What's so interesting?" I asked.
"Homeless humans. But no homeless critters."
"There are stray critters around. But they aren't going to sleep where they can be rounded up easily."
"Why doesn't anyone round up the humans?"
I couldn't tell if that was a joke. I said, "Because they're free."
"Free to die of hunger or exposure."
"That's freedom."
"And the rich are free to keep all they can grab."
"That's part of freedom, too." I nodded at the camp of sleepers. "They own their bodies. The healthy ones can sell a kidney or a lung, or indenture themselves for a few years."
"You think that's right?"
"Right doesn't have much to do with the way the world is." I liked the sound of that line, but she kept looking at me. "What?"
"Nothing." She turned away with a grimace, as if she had bitten into something disgusting. I checked my watch. Twenty hours, twenty minutes. I would never go into debt on three kings again.
At Huston, we turned right. When we walked half a block, the cat said, "Hey. I knew this street sounded familiar."
She was looking at a small pink stucco house with a gravel walkway going around back. All of its lights were out.
Blake said, "Looks like your hostess went to bed."
The cat started toward the door. "Cyn said she might be out tonight. But she hid a key by the back door."
I said, "I'll walk you up."
The cat shook her head. "If she's in, you'll wake her. Leave Mister Transistor on the porch. I'll be fine."
Blake nodded. "We'll wait until you're in."
"I don't want to turn on the lights if she's asleep. I'll wave when I find the key."
I said, "Call me in the morning. First thing."
The cat said, "Don't worry. I'll get my money's worth."
The copbot followed her up to the porch as Blake and I watched. The cat told it, "Stay," and walked around back. The bot took a sentry's stance by the porch.
A moment later, the cat stepped out from the back of the house, waved once, then ducked back out of sight.
I said, "That's a relief."
Blake glanced at me. "You don't like your client?"
"I don't like a lot of them."
"I like her."
I blinked at that. "You do?"
"I'm always a sucker for a smart-ass." She smiled as if she didn't have any particular smart-ass in mind.
I began to believe this might be a great night after all. "I was going to say you didn't have to stick around. But if you'd like a cup of coffee—"
"Tea?"
"An excellent choice. Maxwell's All-night Cafe serves the best cup of tea that you can find in the Valley at—" I checked my watch. "Two-thirty-three a.m."
She cranked the smile up another notch. "Perfect."
Heading for my apartment, I asked, "Mind if I smoke?"
"Not at all."
I tapped out another—I confess, I don't remember the sister as well as Lucious Lucinda, but she still took good care of me. After that first puff of heaven, I said, "Thanks for stopping the headless horselessman."
"You're funny."
"There's something a guy likes to hear."
"And you're fishing for compliments."
I shrugged, a little embarrassed at being caught out.
She laughed and relented. "It would've been a shame if the bot damaged that nose."
"That's more like it. Why're you a cop?"
"A recruiter approached me in college. I liked the idea of using my computer skills to help people. That sounds hokey."
"Not at all. I'm glad you're staying for tea."
She grinned. "Hey, part of my job is making sure you haven't had unexpected company."
"No one's tried to kill me lately."
"Oh? What about the critters at Wonderland?"
"They just play rough. Dead men don't pay debts."
"Someone might think the cat passed you the earring."
"You think that's what this is about?"
"Could be."
"Maybe the earring's evidence of another crime."
"Such as?"
I shrugged. "Maybe we'll find out." I pointed at my building, a classic California two-story complete with a dingbat on the front. "Home, sweet home."
I let her go upstairs first. Gentlemen say this puts you in position to catch the lady if she falls. Gentleman know this puts you in position to admire the lady's butt. Kris Blake's was well worth admiring.
At my door, I said, "You really think there's cause for concern?"
"Better safe than sorry."
"True." My SIG leaped from the Pocket into my hand.
She stepped back in surprise, then laughed. "You're trying to make me jealous."
"Anything to impress the girls."
"Isn't that a bit scary—opening a Pocket so close to you?"
"I only open it when something else is scarier. And there's a cut-off to shut it down if living flesh is too near the field."
She drew her pistol from a shoulder holster. I almost admitted that I had fantasies about women with shoulder holsters, but discretion or embarrassment won out. She showed me hers. "Eleven-millimeter Vetterli Dual-Chamber Recoilless. Sleep darts in one chamber, explosives in the other."
"Could've us
ed explosives on Doyle's body."
"Wouldn't have left much to study." She shrugged, a rather charming action. "Not that what I did was much of an improvement."
"You stopped it. I won't quibble about your method."
She smiled, then nodded at my SIG. "I hear Infinite Pockets are standard issue for UNSEC special forces."
"Mine was a blue light special at K-Mart."
She said more quietly, "Anyone inside will know we're coming."
I doubted anyone was in my apartment. If someone had opened a door or window since I left, a tiny red indicator light was supposed to glow on the access plate. But anyone who could tamper with copbots would laugh at a consumer home security system.
"I was giving them time to change their minds and leave." I gestured for her to back away, squatted down, then touched my left thumb to the access plate. The door slid open. Still crouching, I peeked in, gripping the SIG firmly in both hands and scanning over its sight.
I only saw familiar furniture. None of it threatened more than my reputation for good taste. I stepped in. Blake followed, Vetterli extended. We would've made a great instruction video for how to enter a potentially dangerous environment, but no one was there to admire our style.
I tapped the light switch twice to bring on every light in the house. Darkness would've been an asset against amateurs, but amateurs wouldn't have gotten past the security system.
The combination living and dining room (are there people who really think that living and dining are separate things?) was clean and almost bare—which was why it was clean. It held a wood-frame futon couch, a shelf unit full of research discs, an end table with a lamp and a couple of sailing magazines, and a folding kitchen table with two chairs. I liked knowing I could move out in an hour.
I waved for Blake to check the balcony while I glanced in the apartment's tiny kitchen. You would've had to send nanotech assassins to hide anything dangerous in there.
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and turned fast. It was Blake, reflected in the glass door of the microwave. I let my breath out, caught her eye, and indicated the hall. She nodded and followed.
I gave the bathroom a glance, then jerked my chin toward it to let Blake check the shower stall while I peeked in the hall closet. That put me in position to enter the bedroom first, which would let me pick up any dirty underwear I might've left on the floor.
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