Susan had a simple solution, outlining it in as few words as possible as they walked toward the building. “One bad guy shooting at me. You fired back, missed. More of them came. We ran. They chased.” She knew Pal would incorporate the details. The “one bad guy” would be the man who had started the shooting, to keep their description consistent. The rest fit in with the actual sequence of events. In the new scenario, Pal had taken only one shot, and that in the opposite direction, so he could not be the one who injured the woman. The crowd had not appeared until after they cleared the trees lining the jogging path, long after Pal had holstered his weapon. No potential witnesses could credibly dispute their claim. Susan had seen Pal replace his magazine with a fresh one in her apartment, so the number of shots fired would not be inconsistent.
All too soon, they reached the main door, and Jake ushered the pair inside. As promised, Susan and Pal were directed to sit in the waiting room while the detective conversed briefly with the office staff before being allowed access beyond the locked door. Several minutes later, Jake emerged empty-handed. He tipped his head in their general direction before walking out the main door and back into the parking lot. The door swung shut behind him.
While Pal remained in the waiting area, Susan was escorted by a police administrative aid through the inner door to a drab office occupied by a stocky Hispanic woman who identified herself as Detective Ortiz and a tall slender man with a well-tended pouf of blond curls who gave his name as Detective Arbuckle.
Once again, the questioning proved less vicious than Susan anticipated. Briefly, she described her trip to USR, surprised at how little interest the detectives showed. They listened quietly, without asking anything. From there, she had no choice but to diverge from the truth. Rather than her trip to the Tenth Precinct, she described the need for a walk in Central Park to quiet her nerves and prepare for her cousin’s arrival.
Susan continued by stating that she chose her route to intersect with Pal’s jogging course. The rest of the story went precisely as they had discussed and prepared, leaving out two of the attackers, Nate’s presence, and the fact that she and Pal had been strangers until that moment. A few questions followed, mostly about her description of the shooter, how many shots Pal fired, and in which direction, and as many details as she could dredge up about the woman who had fallen.
As expected, they focused on the possibility that Pal had shot the woman, a suggestion to which Susan gave an honest and emphatic no. She hoped she made it abundantly clear that, by the time the woman collapsed, Pal was using both hands to steer the Harley.
While the police questioned Pal, Susan sat and read a few pamphlets, trying to appear appropriately calm for someone who had survived a shooting but had done nothing criminal. It did not take long before she found herself back in the office with the two detectives and Pal, who looked none the worse for wear. As she entered, he turned her a reassuring, if tired, smile.
Detective Ortiz took the only other chair in the room, while Arbuckle perched nonchalantly on the edge of the desk. She did the initial talking. “Your descriptions jibe reasonably well with those of the other witnesses. While there are some inconsistencies overall, it doesn’t appear as if you brandished or discharged a weapon inappropriately. Most concurred that the gunfire came from behind you. Even those who believe they got caught in crossfire didn’t describe either of you as carrying a discernible weapon.”
Detective Arbuckle added, “Although the descriptions of you sure run the gamut.” He indicated Susan with a flick of his fingers.
Even in the calmest of situations, eyewitness stories clashed. Susan supposed some of them had described Nate, others her, some both, and others neither. With all the disparate viewpoints, it only made sense for the police to place the most credence on the ones who had actually ridden off on the motorcycle. It surely helped that a fellow officer had spoken in their defense, and Jake must have told them he trusted Susan’s powers of observation and her grace under pressure. She shoved aside the realization that it was undeserved and self-serving. If not for Jake, the Central Park Precinct might have uncovered the presence of Nate at the scene.
Ortiz glared at her partner. “Detective Carson left your information. If anything else turns up, we’ll give you a call. Otherwise, you’re free to go.” She opened a drawer, took out the envelope Jake had carried inside, and handed it to Pal.
“Thank you.” Pal accepted the envelope, relaxing noticeably. He made no attempt to open it or check the contents.
“Holster it,” Arbuckle suggested.
“Thank you,” Pal said again, clearly reluctant to arm himself in their presence, though doing so outside might prove unlawful. He had probably planned to carry the gun and chip in the envelope until they reached Susan’s apartment.
“Thank you,” Susan echoed as Pal put away his belongings and discarded the envelope in the trash can.
Though greatly relieved, Susan lamented losing half a day to explanation, pleas, discussion, and paperwork. The legal dance, though necessary, slowed the pace of her investigation to a maddening plod. She just wanted to leave this all behind them and proceed to the next step. Yet at the same time, she realized her attackers’ need to self-clean had spared Susan and Pal hours or days of scrutiny. In their own way, the SFH appeared to have screwed themselves.
Except, Susan realized, the police would not be investigating the SFH, either, which left them free for another attempt on her life. She only hoped Jake was right about their greatly reduced capacity, that the loss of three gunmen, whether to death or injuries, would weaken them to the point where it would take another year before they could act against her again. In any event, their injured could not just walk into a local ER with unexplained gunshot wounds.
Detective Arbuckle led Susan and Pal back to the waiting room, and they let themselves out the main door. Susan wanted nothing more than to get back to Nate, but several other things needed her attention. They would have to buy clothing for him, get some groceries in the house, and Kendall would be arriving at six.
Despite the normal bustle, noise, and traffic, the afternoon-Manhattan streets seemed strangely bland after the mental and emotional excitement of remaining always one step ahead of the police. Susan felt drained, empty. She hated lying, particularly to people she appreciated and admired, yet she could not wholly deny a guilty tinge of exhilaration.
Pal turned Susan a crooked half smile. “That was . . . not fun.”
“No,” Susan agreed.
As if reading her mind, Pal added, “So, what’s first? Buying some clothes for Layton or some food for us?”
Susan consulted her Vox for the time, 4:31 p.m, and her bank balance, $23.06. She winced. “A friend has invited himself over with dinner in hand, so let’s work on the finest wardrobe money can buy for twenty-three dollars and six cents.”
They headed for the nearest glide-bus stop, and Pal zeroed in on the most pertinent point. “A friend is coming over? Tonight?”
“A colleague,” Susan said. “Kendall was the first fellow psychiatry R-1 I met at Hasbro. He turned orientation from a snore to a snicker.” Susan smiled at the memory. She had met Remington even earlier but had dismissed him as pompous and obnoxious. “Kendall has a wicked sense of humor and trouble turning it off. I’m sure he’s coming mostly to convince me to finish my residency.”
“It’s not a wrongheaded idea,” Pal pointed out reasonably.
“Thanks, Dad.” Susan tipped her head to look up at Pal. “It’s why I didn’t just tell him to piss off. Plus, I’ve been a bit . . . self-absorbed the past year, and I need to show him I still love him.”
“Do you?” There was something unspoken beneath the question. Susan analyzed the tone for a moment before seeking the answer in the way Pal looked at her, in the concern that marred his beautiful eyes.
Though difficult for Susan to believe, she felt certain she detected a faint hi
nt of jealousy. Am I imagining it because I want to see it? Or is it possible he’s getting too wrapped up in the charade as well? In any case, she gave the proper answer. “I do love him . . . like a brother. I don’t find him romantically attractive, though, especially since he’s gay.”
“Him, too?”
Susan stopped walking.
It happened so quickly that Pal strode past her and had to turn around to face her. “What?”
“You, Pal? You’re gay?”
“Gay?” Pal’s already large eyes grew even wider. “Me? Hell, no. When I said ‘too,’ I was talking about Jake.”
Oh yeah. Jake. Susan’s brows furrowed. “How did you know about Jake? He’s the straightest gay guy I’ve ever met. He told me the first day we met, but I’m still not sure I believe him. And I’m pretty adept at reading people.”
Pal waited for Susan to catch up to him, then took her elbow. “Subaru Sapphire? Not exactly a manly vehicle. Meticulously groomed cop; dead giveaway. Then, there’s the fact that he saved your life at least once, but no attraction whatsoever. Oh, he’s gay, all right. Gay as a . . .”
“Nightingale,” Susan inserted, using the word Jake had chosen when he told her. She tried not to focus too tightly on Pal’s last point. She could easily interpret it to mean anyone who rescued her must fall automatically in love, including Pal himself. She found him incredibly attractive and, from what little she knew of his past, definitely worthy of respect, also quick-witted and competent. But she had only known him a few hours, far too soon to wonder if they could work as a lifelong couple.
Pal swung the conversation back to its original point. “I’m glad Kendall’s bringing food, but we’re still going to need groceries. I’m clearly going to be doing most of the eating, so I’m buying.”
Susan opened her mouth to protest, but Pal did not allow it.
“Shut up.”
Startled by the command, Susan closed her mouth and glared at him.
Pal did not apologize, but he did explain. “You’re too intelligent to argue with something so obviously right. You just started a new job, on the heels of one with long hours and crappy pay. I know I eat a hell of a lot more than you do, so I’m buying. Period.” He added, “And I’m paying for Layton’s clothes, too.”
That pushed Susan too far. “Now wait a minute. I’m getting the whole food thing, but why would you pay for my cousin’s clothes?”
As they approached the glide-bus stop, and the other people milling around it, Pal lowered his voice. “Because you don’t need police spying through your recent purchases and finding tall men’s clothing.”
That stopped her cold. “They do that?”
Pal shrugged. “I’m not a cop, but I’m sure they can in certain circumstances. Like, if they get suspicious about a certain cousin.” As they had come within earshot of the other people waiting, he dropped the subject.
Susan did not press. He had a definite point, and she could always reimburse him or pay him for his services when her first USR check came. Instead, she said the only thing she really could: “Thank you.”
Pal returned his attention to his Vox conversations, and Susan contemplated a route that would get them to a Walmart and home in time to catch Kendall.
Chapter 9
Susan and Pal barely made it home in time to toss Nate fresh clothing, coaching him from the kitchen while he dressed and they put away the groceries, before Kendall buzzed them from the entrance. Like most of its ilk, the camera had ceased working months earlier, so Susan had to rely on a brief voice exchange before allowing him access to the building.
“I could fix that camera,” Pal said, laying four plates on the kitchen counter, the only level surface.
Susan followed with forks. She had no idea what Kendall had brought them to eat but figured she could always go back for spoons if it turned out to be soup or chili. Knowing Kendall, it’s probably something deliberately weird. “Don’t bother. It’s been fixed a dozen times already. Someone will only wreck it again.” It was the common bane of landlords and security companies that vandals, bored teens, and militant privacy activists took great pains and pleasure in seeking out and stealing, destroying, and covering cameras. Most apartments had reverted back, either deliberately or necessarily, to intercoms.
Knocks sounded on the door, a sequence of three, then four, then another of three, as if in code. Susan peeked out the spy hole, identifying Kendall, a heat-sealing cloth bag dangling from one hand. She opened the door and ushered him inside. He stepped in, accompanied by the mingled aromas of Chinese sauces. Susan closed the door behind him.
“Susan!” Kendall greeted her enthusiastically, setting the bag on one of the plates, there being no additional space. He glanced around the room, his gaze stopping first on Pal. “You must be Paladin.”
Pal extended his hand. “Pal, please. And you’re Kendall, I presume?”
“In the flesh.” Kendall looked down, as if seeing himself for the first time. “Well, flesh and clothing, of course. Can’t wander the streets naked.” He amended, as if it mattered. “Well, I suppose you can, but it’s not a good idea.” He clasped Pal’s hand, and they shook briefly.
“I wouldn’t recommend it.” Pal looked questioningly at Susan. “It’s cold and would probably get you arrested.”
Susan smiled and shrugged. It was vintage Kendall.
The warm food odors quickly filled the small room. Kendall continued talking, his flaming orange hair and freckles as prominent as Pal’s eyes. Susan could not help wondering if some unique feature tended to stand out in everyone, remaining the most memorable to those who viewed them, the origin of facial recognition and memory. If so, she had never noticed it before and could not help wondering what physical impression she broadcasted to others. Probably “plain”! Almost immediately, she amended the idea from experience. Some people’s appearances screamed, others talked, and still more simply whispered.
Though no longer in physical contact with Pal, Kendall studied him with the fierce intensity of an adversary. “So, you’re the one occupying Susan’s time.” Though he did not say it aloud, Susan could read between the lines. Kendall might just as well have added, “Keeping her away from her friends.”
She intervened. She wanted, perhaps even needed, the two men to like each other. “Not as much as you’d think, Kendall. As you know, I’ve been catching up on work, which eats the lion’s share of a resident’s time, even when she’s not making up for lost days. I only met Pal seven months ago, and he had to persistently shoehorn his way into my life just to get me to notice him.”
Kendall did not voice his doubts, but Susan could read them in his eyes. A man who looks like Pal doesn’t have to work at attracting women.
Susan found herself adding, “Not because he’s not a handsome and worthy partner.” She turned Pal a radiant smile. “But because I had walled myself into an icy bubble and didn’t want any kind of social life.”
“Until Dr. Goldman’s murder,” Kendall pointed out, still focused on Pal.
“That was a turning point,” Susan admitted in a flat tone. She did not want another lecture on loyalty and friendship.
Kendall either heard or sensed that he had begun to tread on dangerous ground. “So,” he asked, “who’s our fourth for dinner?”
As if in answer, Nate strolled out of the bedroom, attired in the casual dark blue jeans and I NEW YORK T-shirt they had brought for him. Brown hair stuck out from beneath a sideways baseball cap with the Yankees logo, and he still wore Pal’s sunglasses, the lenses transparent in the artificial light of her apartment. The outfit worked to give the image of an inexperienced Midwestern tourist wearing freshly purchased clothing, other than the price tag hanging from his jeans. She made a mental note to rip it off at the first opportunity, also realizing Nate had probably never before put on brand-new clothing. At the hospital, he wore either his dress khakis o
r scrubs. He did not sweat, so he had little need to change.
Susan made the appropriate introductions. “Layton, this is Kendall Stevens, a fellow psychiatry resident. Kendall, this is Layton Campbell, my cousin.”
Kendall’s face turned upward to meet Nate’s. “Definitely your father’s side.”
“Definitely,” Susan said agreeably. “He has the Campbell height.”
“Campbell?” Kendall pressed.
“My father’s original last name.”
“Oh.” Kendall sounded surprised, and Susan realized he should. She had not shared the information that her father’s last name had needed changing to keep the two of them safe after her parents’ murder. Even Lawrence had not told Susan her birth name. It was Jake who had let it slip, recalling aloud the details of the killings he had remembered as a childhood event, the one that made him decide to become a cop. As the SFH had already made the connection between Calvin Campbell and John Calvin, it seemed unnecessary to hide the name any longer. Still, Susan had chosen to stick with the name she had believed hers for nearly the entirety of her life, an homage to both her biological and mechanical fathers.
Kendall continued to study Nate. “There’s similarity to the features, too. He resembles . . .” His scrutiny grew more intense.
Alarm bells went off in Susan’s head. She brushed off the subject, attempting to turn Kendall’s focus onto another. “My father. A bit.” She supposed it only logical, since Nate was a prototype for John Calvin, built by the same roboticists and engineers. She hurried to the bag Kendall had left on the table. “So what did you bring us to eat? Knowing you, it’s roadkill stew.”
Isaac Asimov's I, Robot: To Preserve Page 15