by Mel Odom
"There's not much I can tell you." Skater volunteered.
The man nodded and reached for one of the three remaining chairs at the table. "That's what I've heard." He dropped a portable microcam on the table. "We're going to go through it again, though. I'm Lance Paulson, you can think of me as an investigating officer." He jerked a thumb toward the troll. "And this is Nina, you can think of her as my partner."
The troll was only a few centimeters shorter than Elvis. Her horns were oiled and polished a jet-black, framing coarse hair that had been shaved into a six centimeter tall mohawk done in chartreuse tipped platinum. For a troll, she had curves. Skater figured Elvis would have been impressed, until he found out she was a cop.
"That much thinking," Skater said, "I'm liable to get confused."
"What I thought." Paulson nodded agreeably. He leaned over the portable microcam and switched it on. "That's why I brought datapics."
"Are you guys as high up as I go at Lone Star?" Skater asked.
"If you're referring to the way you've stone-walled everyone from the arresting Knight Errant team to the uniforms down in Booking," Nina said, "then, yes. We're it. From here you go to a lawyer and a trial, as soon as they can get it on the docket. With no help from you regarding your possible innocence, and your reluctance to say anything in your behalf, I doubt you'll make bail. And with the way the courts are jammed these days, you probably won't make your first appearance for three or four months. Gives you a long time to play with the other socially maladjusted drekheads in lock-up."
"A gloomy proposition," Paulson said. He relaxed in his chair with his hands folded behind his head. A smile curved his thin lips under the shadow of his hooked nose. "On the other hand, you can still talk to us."
"The cuffs?" Skater asked.
Pauison looked at Nina, who referred to a noteputer she took from inside her jacket.
"Boosted reflexes," she read. "Bone reinforcements in both arms and one leg. Eyes. Commlink IV. No implanted hardware that slices or dices."
"So that probably means no magic." Paulson said.
"Came back negative."
"Going in kind of naked for a shadowrunner, ain't you?" Paulson asked.
"I'm no gillette," Skater replied. "And I'm not a shadowrunner.”
"Sure." Paulson got out of his chair and fished a key out of his pocket. "But let's get something straight before I unlock you: you do not want to try to slot me over when you're loose. I gave up original equipment a long time ago, but I wouldn't need chrome to get over on a guy like you in the first place. The ankle bracelets are staying on."
Once his wrists were free. Skater massaged them, trying to get circulation restored without all the pain.
"File came back with the name Otto Franks when it scanned your retina-prints and fingerprints," Nina said. "Is that your name?"
Skater nodded.
"This is being recorded, Mr. Franks. Could you answer verbally?"
"Sure."
"So your name is Otto Franks?"
"Yes." The name was a cover Archangel had implanted into the SIN database. If he got loose. Skater knew that she could erase all trace of him again and assign him another idee of his choice. Almost two years ago, she'd gotten into the system and erased every vestige of Jack Skater.
"And what's your occupation, Mr. Franks?" Paulson asked.
"I'm an investment counselor." Skater replied.
"With boosted reflexes? I guess the stacks change pretty fragging fast these days, don't they?"
"I was mugged a few years ago." Skater knew that record was on file, too, courtesy of Archangel. She was very efficient when she wove one of her webs. It also explained the reinforced limbs and the surgeries necessary to correct the damage the Disassemblers had done. "After I got out of the hospital, I had the boosted reflexes added. Figured it would give me an edge if I ever got into that situation again."
Paulson laughed out loud in disbelief. "Well, chummer, you certainly got yourself into some deep drek this morning, didn't you?"
"What am I charged with?" Skater asked.
"Arson, for starters," Nina said. "Besides the criminal action, there'll be a civil suit on behalf of the Montgomery Building owners."
"Which happens to be a joint venture of real-estate developers hardboosted into the megaplex's political and economic high-rollers scene," Paulson said. "They're pretty slotted off at the moment."
"And murder," the troll said.
Skater made himself ask, "Who was killed?"
Paulson pointed at him. "Maybe you want to tell us."
"The only thing I flatlined was a hell hound."
Nina looked at Paulson, who shrugged. "Crime Scene Unit reported a big dog. Forensics hasn't taken a whack at it yet. Could be."
"What about the desk clerk and the Knight Errant sec-guard working the lobby?" the troll asked.
"They were dead when I got there."
"When did you get there?"
"A little after four a.m."
"How much after?"
'Ten, fifteen minutes."
"Can anyone verify that?" Nina asked.
Skater thought of the cabby who'd taken him there, then dismissed the possibility. The driver was an ork. "An elderly couple let me in."
"That so?" Paulson stood and started pacing.
Skater knew the motion was purely to rattle him. His lies were all going to be simple, things he could easily remember. Nothing that would lead too far astray.
"How much money did you make last year, Mr. Franks?" Paulson asked.
"Check my tax return. I'm sure it's listed there." Archangel took care of those details, too.
"Oh, I have."
"Then why ask me?"
"To see if you knew. You don't. I find that interesting."
"My line of work," Skater said, "you do a lot of number-crunching."
"Give me a guess."
Skater remained quiet. His cover was holding, which was frustrating the detective team.
"I was playing the markets," Paulson went on, "could you recommend me a good buy at morning's open?"
"Maybe you could give us a client list," Nina said.
"Maybe I could get a lawyer in here." Skater said, "before we continue this discussion."
"What were you doing at the Montgomery?" Paulson asked.
"I went there to see someone."
"You normally do business at four in the morning?"
"A lot of my clients have strange schedules," Skater answered. "I don't mind working around their needs."
"Larisa Hartsinger was a client?" Nina asked.
"No."
"But you went there to see her?"
"Yes." By giving them part of the truth. Skater figured he could keep them off-balance, and bring the lies back on-line.
"Why?" Paulson queried.
"Personal reasons."
Paulson resumed his seat and put his hands behind his head again. "What kind of personal reasons?"
"She was a dancer at a club."
Paulson nodded. "SybreSpace. We've already talked to proprietress Amanda Silvereyes and some of Hartsinger's co-workers."
"Why were you interested in her?" the troll asked.
"I liked the way she danced."
"Hoping to get lucky?" Paulson asked.
Skater shrugged.
Nina punched up a new page in her noteputer. "According to Ms. Silvereyes, Larisa Hartsinger hadn't worked at the club in almost three months. Why pick now to try to see her?"
"I didn't want to put it off any longer," Skater said. It was also the truth.
"Let me tell you a story," Paulson said. "Stop me if you've heard this one before. But my partner and I thought it was great. This guy goes into SybreSpace tonight at about two-thirty. His name is Jack."
Skater knew then that they'd leaned on Aggie and she'd rolled over on him to save her own skin. He didn't blame her; she had no investment in the biz and everything to lose.
"We talked to one of the dancers, who says
that two hard guys picked up on this Jack. She's not sure of their names, but she knows one's a troll." Paulson leaned forward and spoke with more animation. "Now don't lose it yet, because it gets funnier. See, there's a dust-up just outside the club, next street over, and one of the gillettes goes down. Turns out it's an electro-bodyware freak named Shayx who's known for low-level wetwork down in the Barrens. Nobody's talking about what he's doing up in Seattle, but word is he's a connected guy now. Oh, and did I mention that he was a troll?"
Skater remained silent, listening to the guy drive the nails into the box.
"We can't find Jack or the other hitman. After we dig a little more, we find out Larisa Hartsinger had an old boyfriend named Jack-we never got a last name-who may have been running the shadows for fun and profit. In the process, we turn up a snitch who's working for some yaks looking for three people, one of whom looks a lot like you."
Paulson tapped buttons on the microcam. The monitor rippled with color for just a moment, then produced a grainy black and white datapic of Skater. It had been shot somewhere on the street. In the holopic. Skater had his arm around Larisa.
He gazed at the image, remembering when it had been shot. It was no more than a month or two before Larisa had told him she didn't want to see him anymore. He studied the datapic, the pregnancy still on his mind. But he couldn't tell if she was or not. In the holopic, she wore her hair long, but the black and white didn't do justice to her coppery red hair and almond-shaped emerald green eyes. She was beautiful, her elven features looking chiseled and clean.
"Care to comment?" Nina asked.
"He could be anybody," Skater answered.
Paulson tapped the microcam again, opening another window. This one held a datapic of Skater in the lobby of Larisa's old doss, walking in through the door. It was black and white, too. The resemblance was undeniable. "You think so?"
"What I think doesn't seem to matter," Skater said.
"No, it fragging well doesn't. Jack, or maybe I should call you Walter Dent." Paulson tapped the control buttons again, and more datapics followed, this time ones that had been taken inside the building. "You always go around carrying an unregistered piece?" He held up a hand and spoke sarcastically. "Right I forgot about you got mugged and all that slot."
"What happened to Larisa Hartsinger?" Skater asked.
"You tell me," Paulson challenged. "You went there to kill her."
"No."
"Sure you did. She dumped you."
"Yes."
There was a pause. "Yes what?" Paulson asked.
"Yes." Skater said. "She dumped me." It was another partial truth, and given just to keep them off-balance, unable to sort fact from fiction.
"Otto Franks or Jack somebody?"
"Where is she?"
"Give me a fragging name Jack."
Skater fought the urge to jump up and make an attempt to reach the Lone Star man. But the way he felt, with the chains around his feet, he knew the effort was doomed to failure.
"What were you doing there?" Nina asked in a softer
Skater knew it was pure good cop/bad cop, but he also knew he could use the ploy for his own purposes. He turned to face the troll. "I thought Larisa might be in danger."
Nina leaned in, giving the appearance of intense interest. For all Skater knew, it could have been real. "Why would you think that?"
He decided a small lie would work. 'The troll in the alley told me."
"Shayx?"
"I didn't get his name."
"Why was he a threat to Larisa Hartsinger?"
"He didn't say. Just that he was going to kill her when he found her."
"Why did he attack you?"
"Because I went there asking questions about her."
Paulson slapped the desk, looking incredulous. "And you dusted him because he might at some point stumble across her address? I'm saying this because he apparently didn't have it or else he'd already gone there."
"He didn't give me much choice, it was self-defense."
"His head shot up like Swiss cheese," Paulson said, "there was no other way I could figure it."
Skater said nothing, returning the man's gaze full measure.
Paulson was still looking at Skater when he touched the base of his skull. Skater knew the guy was answering a commlink call. "Paulson." He listened intently for a moment, then turned to look al Nina. 'That was the coroner. Thinks he identified that third body."
Nina looked the question.
"He says Larisa Hartsinger," Paulson said.
Skater kept his emotions from his face.
The Lone Star man turned to Skater. "So what do you think? Want to come take a look for yourself? A smart guy like you, maybe you'll see something we won't."
Skater kept his voice flat and neutral. "Sure." He had to see for himself.
9
The cold chill of death soaked into Jack Skater even as the elevator dropped through the Lone Star Security Services building to one of the basement levels. When the doors opened up, the stench of chemicals and blood surrounded him despite the efforts to cover it over with pine and lemon scents.
"Follow the purple line," Paulson ordered, giving him a shove to get him started.
Skater glanced at (he floor and found a thin rainbow of colors traced across the linoleum. Locating the purple one near the center of the dozen or so colors, he started forward. The tile was cold underfoot, and the air was chill, crisp.
Men and women, human and meta, passed him in the hall, all dressed in white lab coats over their street clothes. Only a few gave him a second look. The orange jumpsuit made him stand out in the sterile environment. He flexed his cuffed hands behind his back in an effort to keep the circulation going.
He followed two lefts, then a right, ending up at a door as black as obsidian. The small lettering in the upper-right corner announced Richard Means, Ph.D., Forensics.
Nina swiped her passcard through the maglock and the door opened.
"Go," Paulson said, shoving again.
Skater went with it. He was deep inside himself, holding tight where no emotions could touch him. Maybe he'd already accepted Larisa's death; he wasn't sure. Maybe it was just that too much had happened. The numbness felt permanent, like nerve-death.
A small anteroom held a short black female who barely gave them a glance when they entered. She was studying diagrams on a deck. "Hello, Lance, Nina: Doc's inside waiting on you.
The smell filling the room was cloying and made the air thick in Skater's chest. He had to force himself to breathe it.
The only other door was to the left. A steady electronic whir came from it. Skater walked toward it, watching as more and more of the gleaming machinery covering the walls came into view.
A chromed ball hung from the ceiling, nearly two-dozen articulated arms jutting out from it. Each of them ended in another piece of medical hardware: scalpels, forceps, needles, bone saws, and a chest spreader.
"Doc," Nina said, staying back from the slanted table where a burned and blackened corpse lay stretched out in unclothed vulnerability. "We were told you had a confirmed idee."
Dr. Means sat in a chair at the comer of the room facing them. A helmet was fitted over his head, hardwired into the computers behind him. Rectangular glasses covered his eyes.
On the armrests, his hands played over a series of buttons, toggles, and joysticks. "I'm pretty sure of it."
In response to his movements the ball descended over the corpse and two of the articulated arms whirred smoothly into motion.
Skater felt Paulson's heavy hand drop onto his shoulder, pushing him closer. He stopped a few steps away and tried to breathe as shallowly as possible. Burned flesh seared his nostrils.
One look at the charred face let him know the corpse had once been Larisa Hartsinger. Somehow, the flames had caramelized her beauty, creating a hard, chitin-like exoskeleton of her face. The shell was smooth, a deep burnished ebony with an undercurrent of dark red that gave off a glow around t
he edges. Her hair had been burnt off, leaving her skull with black stubble.
The long, slim body was ravaged and twisted by fire. Incisions had been made to allow different medical apparatus passage. Three of the arms on the surgical ball rummaged inside the corpse, one of them making sucking sounds.
"There's the face, of course," Means said. "The Crime Scene Unit made a tentative idee at the scene when they recovered the DB."
On the wall, one of the monitors flared to life. A picture of Larisa juiced the pixels.
"I got this from the Department of Licensing when I found out the DMV didn't have anything," Means said. "Because she worked as a dancer at SybreSpace, I knew Hartsinger would probably be registered. Some of them aren't, but Amanda Silvereyes runs a pretty tight ship."
Skater watched the monitor, keeping the memories at bay. The twisted thing on the lab table wasn't Larisa. Larisa was gone, hopefully to a better place, but he didn't know if he believed that.
The image of Larisa on the monitor shrank and moved over, making room for a view of her burned face. The eyes were open in the picture, looking like ice cubes that had gone gray with age, fixed in a thousand-meter stare.
"I ran tests on the DNA," Means said. "I was able to match the skin tone from pigmentation. I did the same for the hair and eyes."
The caramelized version of Larisa's face lightened up, taking on a more human appearance. The gray eyes turned deep hunter's green.
"She'd had her eyes altered," the coroner said. "I was able to pick up enough of the traces of the cosmetic modifications to get a match on the color. I took a sample of her hair, also modified, from inside her scalp and made that match."
On the monitor, the burnt version of Larisa suddenly grew hair the coppery red color Skater remembered.
"This is what she looked like before she died," Means informed them. "I can show you what she looked like a few years ago. Before the cosmetic changes."
A third picture popped onto the other screen beside the other two. The girl in this one was not as pretty as Larisa. The bone structure was the same, but different. She was definitely slimmer, maybe anemic. Her eyes were a doe-brown, and her hair was mousy brunette, thin and plastered to her skull.