by Matt Doyle
Devin laughs again, and says, “Yeah, I do that. I just wanna hear you say it.” He leans forward and takes another swig of his bourbon. “C’mon, darlin’, entertain me.”
“Fine. I want to borrow one of your false IDs to use as a client name. An easily verifiable one, not one of those backdoor, underground ones that make you look like an ex-con.”
“Huh. Well now, I didn’t hear the magic word.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No please, no ID. Politeness don’t cost ya anything, Caz.”
I glare at Devin, and he flicks his eyebrows expectantly. I grit my teeth and manage, “Please,” and he starts laughing again.
“See? Now, was that so hard?” he asks, downing his remaining drink. “Sure, you can borrow one. I reckon that Mike Frost should be fine for what you’re wanting. I’ll get the details sent to your normal e-mail in an hour or so. Just don’t go getting the poor guy dragged into anything too unsavoury. He’s a nice guy.”
“Great,” I groan.
“Relax, darlin’. I only dick around with ya because I like ya. Believe it or not, unless you do something stupid, you’re on my no-kill list.”
“Good to know,” I reply and get to my feet. “As it is, you’re on my don’t-be-stupid-enough-to-try-to-arrest list.”
Devin smiles and shakes his head. “Hey, Caz. We ain’t friends, you don’t get those in my line of work, but you’re about as close as you can get with me, so I’ll tell ya this one for free. I’m glad you’ve got a case to work on right now. Do yourself a favour and concentrate on it. Don’t take on anything too big for a few days. There’re rumblings way down below that things could get real messy for a while. I know that things tend to snowball around you, so try to not to get caught in any avalanches, yeah?”
I raise a curious eyebrow at Devin, but I can see that I won’t get anything else out of him. His eyes are stony, and his jawline is too relaxed, which means he’s locked that particular door. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll see myself out.”
MORE COFFEE AND a light dinner in a local takeaway means that I make it back to my apartment a little before eight. Once I get the door open, I am greeted immediately by Bert, whose “caw” of a welcome essentially translates to “Oh, it’s you. And what time do you call this?” Judging by the way his eyes are flashing, I can put Bert’s apparent grumpiness down to him being low on battery, so I set him to sleep mode and plug him in to charge in the living room.
I noticed that I had both a missed call from Kitsune and a new voice message the moment I left Devin’s place, but looking at the time, there was no point calling Kitsune back as they’d probably be doing their final prep work for tonight’s show. I could have checked the message there and then but decided against it. If I hadn’t been stupid enough to knock my cell onto silent after calling Kitsune earlier, I would have heard when they called and happily discussed things in public. Listening to messages, though? I’ll only do that if it’s absolutely necessary. When I’m talking, I step almost entirely into work mode. In this case, that would have meant being very careful with my wording so as not to attract the wrong kind of attention. When I’m just listening, I start trying to pick out anyone who may be listening in, which distracts me from the message and leads me to having to repeat the task. Multiple times.
Now that I’m alone, though, I have no qualms with hitting the speed dial for voice mail.
“You have one new message,” I grumble, mocking the automated voice that precedes my inbox raid.
“Please confirm next action,” the voice says.
“Play message.”
“Hi, it’s Kitsune, just returning your call. I guess you’re busy at the moment. You’re right. I know Northfleet Apartments because a charming old lady dumps some water out front every morning and always gives Fish a fuss. I think she leaves the water in the sink overnight to soak some bowls or something, but I guess you don’t need to know that. I didn’t notice the music store, but I definitely head up by Cross Street to get to the park. We walk right through and out the other end, eat at Cartwright’s, then come back the same way. I’d go sightseeing, but I’m not great with directions. Symptom of the work, right? I’m never in any one place long enough to learn the best routes, so I tend to find one route and stick to it both ways. Anyway, sorry, I’m babbling. If you need anything else, let me know.” The recording goes silent for a few seconds, bar some light static, then Kitsune adds, “Bye.”
“End of message. Please confirm next action.”
“Save message to online storage folder Case Retrieval.”
“Message saved,” the phone replies, and I hang up before it can ask me to confirm any more actions. The way I understand it, voice-activated phone menus used to be awful, especially if you had an accent. Modern tech has improved the functionality, but the menu voices are pretty damn annoying. I wouldn’t mind the emotionless tones if it wasn’t so obviously a simulated voice. I mean, I get removing the accents and natural vocal quirks makes it easier to understand, but it’s so ridiculously cold and tinny. I’d honestly rather they used some bored person under orders to monotone everything in slow, clear sentences. But hey, I’m not exactly the poster girl for embracing all things new and modern. Hell, I even prefer text messages to online messenger services, though that at least is because people tend to hack the messenger streams but don’t bother so much with text. The funny thing is texts are technically less secure than the messengers these days, but because of that, people avoid sending too much by text and hackers don’t bother wasting their time with them. Using that as a reason to use text more makes me feel like I’m getting one up on any potential personal-life-privacy-invaders. I’m using my own paranoia to justify using their beliefs about potential content against them. That makes me smile.
I make a quick coffee and head past the office, or rather the desk reserved for work and sometimes breakfast, that divides my kitchen and living room, and lower myself onto the coach with a groan. Kitsune using the same route there and back means it’ll be a bit easier to figure out which cameras to use. I should start deciding so I can figure out how many warrants I’ll need… No. This mess with Lori has been eating at me all day. Plus, this case is supposed to allow me some time off, so I think I can justify spending some time trying to fix things with my girlfriend rather than working myself to… Girlfriend ? Have I actually called her that before?
I shake my head and give Lori a quick call because talking about this over a distance is cowardly but more comfortable. The phone rings once, twice, three times, which is when she normally answers, then rings a fourth and fifth time before a scraping sound cuts in and Lori slurs, “Hi Cassie! How’s the case going?”
I laugh without thinking and comment, “You’re drunk.”
“I am not,” Lori replies indignantly. Someone in the background asks something and Lori tells them, “She thinks I’m drunk… I am not! You are… are … Jane thinks I’m drunk. Can you believe that?”
“Really? I don’t know what gave her that idea.”
“Yeah, see? Cassie doesn’t think I’m drunk, and she’s a detective, so she can tell these things.” I can hear Jane laugh in the background and Lori whispers into the phone, “Ignore her. She just doesn’t want to be the only one that’s in-ib-ri-at-ed.” She pauses then says, “I’m doing it, I’m doing it. I was talking to Jane, and she was saying some stuff, and I was wondering if you’re free tomorrow? I kinda need to talk and stuff.”
“Yeah, I don’t see why not. It’d have to be in the evening though. Is that okay? Maybe seven or eight?”
“The evening. Yes. I’ll be here.”
“Well, I was only calling to say hi,” I lie. “I’ll let you get back to your evening. Say hi to Jane for me.”
“Cassie says hi,” Lori says, her voice slightly muffled. She comes back to normal volume then and says, “Jane says hi too.”
“You two have fun.”
“We will. G’night, Cassie.”
“Good night, L
ori,” I reply and hang up the phone, a big grin on my face. That’s the first time I’ve spoken to Lori while she’s drunk, and I for one am glad to see she’s every bit as bad as she said I was on our first date. While I would have preferred to sort this mess out tonight, Lori is in no fit state to talk things through right now, and that in itself is enough of a convenient excuse for me to run away and try to talk another day. Face-to-face is a better way to do it anyway, even if it means having to stew on it tomorrow if I fail to suitably distract myself. If neither of us ended up hanging up on the other, I was going to ask her about how the servicing went after the potential argument, but that can wait until tomorrow too. In this state, she’d probably fall into an endless cycle of double entendres.
“Well, I guess I better get back to work.”
I hold the power button for my tablet and it powers on with a cheerful, “Good evening, Cassandra.” I’ve got to hand it to Lori, the tech guy that she recommended worked wonders with the thing. It may not be as fast as some of the newer models the shops are trying to push on everyone, but it’s working a lot quicker now than it has in a long time. Without the frustrations of a slow-running system to contend with, I’ve also become more aware, while the audio is still clearly computerised, the developers of this system at least tried to get the machine to imitate some form of vocal emotion. It’s not quite authentic, but it’s a lot better than the phone company manages. I guess the telecommunications companies either have smaller budgets or simply don’t care about stuff like that.
I tap the voice command button and the machine asks, “How may I be of assistance?”
“Copy new files from primary folder phone link subfolder Case Retrieval to primary folder case files subfolder Kitsune. Verify when complete.”
The tablet flickers once and opens Kitsune’s electronic file, showing the audio file has copied successfully. I double tap the file and listen through it again to make sure it’s intact, then hold the voice command button again. After the standard question, I say, “Delete all files from primary folder phone link subfolder Case Retrieval. Verify when complete.”
The screen flickers again and opens the now empty folder for me.
A bright and cheery jingle from my phone draws my attention, and I’m surprised to see a message flash up confirming that I have a text from Jane. I met Jane while I was working Lori’s case and managed to put my foot in it with her pretty quickly. Despite our clashing a little at times, mostly due to a combination of her forward-yet-cheeky personality and my standoffish tendencies, I do like her. I open the message and read through it quickly.
Just calling to say hi, my ass. You be gentle with her tomorrow, Cassandra Tam. She knows what she did, and she wants to fix it. She’s a screw-up, but she means well. Especially when it comes to you. Remember that.
Okay, so she definitely does want to talk about the same thing. Well, doesn’t that just ramp up the pressure and take away the flee part of fight and flight? I rub my eyes and send a text back.
I know, and I want to fix things too. You two enjoy yourselves. I mean it.
I put my phone back down on the table, close the folder on the tablet screen, open up a new text file and start noting the key camera locations that I can remember. Nothing quite like work to distract you from your first real fight with a new partner, eh?
Chapter Four
HAVE YOU EVER noticed how the morning seems to just sneak up on you? I swear, one minute I was lying in bed listening to the quiet buzz of Bert’s charging dock in the next room, and the next thing I know I’m trying to blink the sleep out of my eyes while I listen to the quiet clack-clack of the now fully charged little gargoyle as he patrols the apartment for intruders. For him to be on patrol, something must have spooked him. If it had been film night, I’d say it was me crying in my sleep while my dream self runs away from some horrible monstrosity, but last night was a fairly tame mix of work and a short documentary about the sudden increase in numbers of the aptly named Vancouver Island wolf back home. No, I don’t remember any nightmares, and I can’t hear any death screams from elsewhere in the apartment, so it was probably just a car outside in the early hours.
I groan as the light of the morning creeping through the Venetian blinds finally penetrates my eyes, and I suddenly become aware of a few things. First, I seem to have managed to slide out from under the bedcovers at some point, and they’re now bunched up into a rough tube-like bulge next to me. If they’d been a person, they would currently be dealing with the ever-so-dignified position I’ve rolled into, which I can best describe as being akin to a face-down drooling starfish. Where work has been so hectic I’ve not been eating properly lately. I’ve lost a small amount of my pooch too, which has apparently resulted in my sleep shorts slipping halfway down my butt. All I need now is for the cami top to slip down too and I’d fit right in at the brothel I had to hunt through to find a suspect in a petty theft case two weeks ago.
“Real catch you are, aren’t you?” I grumble, pushing myself up into a sitting position.
And there goes one shoulder of the top.
Great .
BREAKFAST, SHOWER, DRESS and head out. It’s an easy, well-practised routine that only falters when I have to think seriously about whether to bring Bert with me. Today, it’s a simple decision to make. I have a few friends in the PD, and even those I don’t know personally are usually helpful in the end, so I have no desire to make it seem as though I want to intimidate them. And as for the CCTV footage? Business owners in that area don’t tend to fit into the category of “handle violently,” so I see no reason to make my first impression one of malicious intent.
I tell Bert to keep an eye on things and make my way to police station. Upon arrival, I take about three steps through the door and start glancing around for a familiar face, and in doing so, completely miss the short man in front of me. Given the pile of files that go flying, I think it’s safe to assume he wasn’t looking where he was going either, or he would have stepped around me. Yeah, let’s go with that.
“Jeez, Tam,” Corporal Devereaux groans, pushing his ill-fitting glasses back up his nose. “What am I, invisible now?”
“Please, Will, I’m like a giant next to you. But hey, it’s not the first time that you’ve missed something obvious, right?” I reply with a wink.
Devereaux smiles and pushes a short tch out through his teeth to let me know what he thought of my joke. He had been the original caseworker when the PD investigated Lori’s brother’s death, and he’d initially viewed my taking the case on as a dig at his own skills. I think he’d said something about me not being the only Canadian investigator around here, and that PIs needed to learn to trust the PD. When I then found that his initial conclusions had been wrong, that was it; I’d earned an enemy for life. Or until Captain Hoover stuck his nose in and set Devereaux straight, anyway. That’s experience for you, though. The young corporal hasn’t been out of the academy for long, and to have his first major case overturned was a real blow to him. Like Hoover said, or yelled more likely, William Devereaux needed to develop a thicker skin to last out in this job, and that started with trying to get along with the city’s most respected PI.
I can be nice sometimes, and I liked the sound of most respected , so I cut the kid some slack. I still remember how scary New Hopeland can be when you start out, even if you’ve had some experience already. The way we all balance the quirks of the city is a hard concept to grasp for bright-eyed and bushy-tailed newcomers. Devin sometimes calls the process the Politics of the Underground , and it’s a good way to think about it. So, we talked, we ranted, and we smoothed things over. Since then, we aren’t what you’d call close, but we are at least able to joke with each other and not be too obstructive. That being the case, I squat down and help gather the luckily sealed case files.
“Is Hoove about?” I ask.
“Nah, he’s at home today. I think his moustache got the flu. You needing something then?” he replies, dropping his guard and let
ting the thickness of his accent come through.
“Yeah, a couple of blank warrants.”
“Well, I can help you with that. Come on.” He walks towards his desk. I follow closely behind, and he asks, “So, whaddya working on?”
“Nothing too heavy this time. Missing dog.”
Devereaux raises his eyebrows behind his glasses. “Awful lot of them lately,” he comments and pats the stack of files that we picked up. “About a third of these are missing dogs.”
“Huh. Any suspects? Maybe our cases cross over.”
Devereaux shakes his head. “None. Even when we’ve got footage of someone taking the dogs, the culprit’s been careful to hide their identity. They certainly know where the cameras are, anyway, and they’ve got little ball things that fuzz the cameras.”
“Little…you mean frag balls?” Devereaux shrugs and I elaborate, “Little silver spheres, about an inch and a half in diameter. They explode and scramble the screen on photo and video equipment.”
“Sounds about right. Where’d they come from? Maybe I can get a lead from there?”
“I doubt it. They were kid’s toys a few years back. They were top sellers for a couple of months, but the stores were forced to take them off the shelves after some kid chucked them at a friend’s face. Kids plus small explosives equals hospital trip, who’d a thunk it? The fuzz only lasted two or three seconds, though, so I doubt they’d be much use here unless you’ve got Olympic sprinters running the dognappings.”
“These balls fuzz the screens for anything from thirty seconds to two minutes, so it sounds like they’re something slightly different. They could be new derivatives, though, so that’s a starting point. Thanks for that. Some of the dogs are probably runaways too, eh?”
“Probably. I don’t think mine is,” I say, taking the tablet Devereaux is now offering to me. I start filling out the form boxes on instinct. “Did you want to send me any photos you have for the dogs? If I come across them during my investigation, I can let you know?”