The Blue-Haired Bombshell

by John Zakour

  ‘‘I’m not buying it yet,’’ I said.

  ‘‘You don’t have to buy it, Zach, and we’re not trying to sell it.’’

  ‘‘What’s going to happen when the press gets a whiff of this story?’’ I asked.

  Tony shrugged. ‘‘Decisions like that are made above my pay grade.’’

  It occurred to me. The press should have been down here already. Obviously, the SF police force ‘‘media handling machine’’ was in full swing.

  ‘‘Just curious, Tony. How’d you keep the press away?’’

  Tony smiled. ‘‘We leaked a story about a Madonna clone seen hovering over the UltraHyperMart Golden Gate Bridge with an Oprah clone. They were hand in hand. The Oprah clone was even mooning onlookers.’’

  Yeah, the press would be all over a story like that. I had to give Tony props, the police had covered this up well . . . so far.

  ‘‘You know, sooner rather than later the press is going to jump on this story,’’ I said.

  Tony nodded. ‘‘True, this is the first time in history three World Council members were killed together.’’

  ‘‘Not because of that,’’ I said. ‘‘But because Sexy is an ex-pop-star, Weathers an ex-pro-athlete . . .’’

  ‘‘. . . and Tree was having an extramartial affair with his android,’’ Tony said. ‘‘I know, Zach, the media will eat this up. Once they figure it out.’’ Tony pointed at me. ‘‘You’re not going to help them.’’

  I shook my head no. I knew if I was going to investigate this case the less the media found out the better.

  ‘‘Good,’’ Tony said with a happy stomp of his foot. Tony held out his hand. ‘‘On behalf of the people of New Frisco, I want to thank you for bringing in this dangerous character.’’

  I shook his hand.

  ‘‘Have HARV contact my office about reimbursing you for your office.’’

  Tony slapped me on the back. ‘‘You did good, Zach. You did good.’’

  Thing is, I wasn’t so sure.

  I checked up on Carol. She was a bit shaken but more embarrassed that Shannon had caught her off guard than anything else. I gave her the rest of the day off, which she appreciated.

  I surveyed the damage to my office. It was bad. All my wallscreens had been shattered. The holo-projector on the ceiling was dented and my floors were covered in dust and blood. The good news was my classic oak desk, wooden chair, and coatrack were dirty but steady as ever. HARV assured me that the maintenancebots and repairbots assured him that the new parts were easy to fix. They would have my office up and running again in two days, three tops.

  I decided to head home.

  Chapter 10

  Soon as I got home I set up shop. That’s the great thing about living in the hyperinformation age—my place of work can be anywhere I am. It doesn’t have to be down on the docks in the rustic dive I called an office. Sure the old oak desk, wooden chair, and coatrack are great for setting the ambience and getting clients in the proper frame of mind. The thing is, once on the case, it didn’t matter where I hung my hat or worked. My home was as good a place as any.

  I kicked my legs up on my coffee table and sat back on the couch. It was unquestionably more comfortable here.

  HARV appeared next to me, pointing at my feet. ‘‘That’s a coffee table, not a hassock.’’

  I sat up straighter, not really sure why. HARV wasn’t the boss of me. I also didn’t know why I was on the case, especially since the case looked solved. Shannon Cannon went nuclear. Case closed. That’s how the police saw it. Word had all too quickly leaked to the press and public and that’s how they saw it. The press was going crazy speculating on all the reasonswhy Shannon snapped. Was it just because she was a Moonie? Was she Sexy’s jealous lover? Was she the jealous lover of all three council members? The press was convinced it had be somehow sex-related. The press always thought it was sex-related—mostly because it usually was.

  The public was so distraught over Sexy’s death that thousands of her fans and voters had an underwear-only candlelight vigil for her, even though it was midday. Sexy would have wanted it that way.

  Much as I fought it, I also felt a sense of loss. Sexy wasn’t my favorite person in the world. DOS, she wasn’t even my favorite client. She was spoiled, arrogant, egotistical, and not all that bright. Yet, in her own weird way, she was endearing. I was going to miss her, probably more than her fan base would. They were sure to forget her as soon as the next hot starlet auctioned her best bra to earn the money to run for office. For me, it wasn’t going to be that easy. I would have to pay homage to Sexy in my own way. I was going to track down her killer. The P.I. in me needed to bring the guilty party in, for Sexy and for myself.

  ‘‘HARV, I need all the footage you can get me from the surveillance cameras in Sexy’s office.’’

  I was expecting HARV to put up a fight or at the very least bitch about having to do it.

  ‘‘Done,’’ HARV said without so much as a lecture.

  I looked up. ‘‘Done? That’s it?’’

  ‘‘I know you, Zach. You’re on a crusade. You won’t stop—no, you can’t stop until you find whatever it is you’re looking for.’’

  ‘‘I’m looking for the real killer,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Whatever,’’ HARV shrugged. ‘‘I am smart enough to know it’s not worth fighting with you about.’’

  ‘‘You obtained the video pretty easily,’’ I said.

  ‘‘I used Sexy’s password to get access. Things are in such chaos there I knew they wouldn’t have time to take down Sexy’s account. Once I guessed her password, it was easy.’’

  ‘‘Nice job, buddy.’’

  HARV looked at me for a few nanos. I knew he was processing if he should tell me something.

  ‘‘What is it, HARV?’’

  He lowered his head, ‘‘Her password was Zach.’’

  Gates and DOS, that hit me hard. I’ve been kicked in the groin by a renegade mutant mule (long, painful story) and this hurt more.

  I started watching the video, replaying it over and over, hoping to catch some clue. Every time it was the same—Sexy, Weathers, and Tree sitting at a big table, discussing this and that, as their many aides ran to and fro like good little worker ants. All this going on under the watchful eyes of twenty security people. Shannon gets up to take her leave. The cameras go dead.

  I watched in 2-D from every angle. I watched in 3D from every angle. I zoomed in. I zoomed out. I tried infrared and energy scans. Every time I failed to find anything that would help me.

  All the while, HARV stood by my side, analyzing far more angles than I could even dream up.

  ‘‘We need more eyes,’’ I told HARV.

  ‘‘Carol?’’

  ‘‘No, she needs to rest today.’’

  ‘‘Randy?’’

  ‘‘Not now. His head is stuck up on the Moon, well more on the Moon lady’s ass.’’

  ‘‘Tony?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, right.’’

  I moved my hand in just the right way to make my Colt 2062 pop into my hand.

  ‘‘I do not detect any hostiles,’’ GUS chirped.

  ‘‘You’re kidding,’’ HARV sighed, stamping his foot.

  I held the Colt 2062 out so GUS could survey the situation. ‘‘What do you see here?’’ I asked.

  GUS whirled then spouted, ‘‘Sexy Sprocket’s office. The recent scene of her murder.’’

  ‘‘Very good,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Please,’’ HARV moaned. ‘‘The toaster could have figured that out.’’

  ‘‘HARV and I have been looking through the vids for a clue to who the killer is.’’

  ‘‘Have you viewed the data through an electromagnetic filter?’’ GUS asked.

  ‘‘Of course,’’ HARV said, rolling his eyes, actually spinning his eyes.

  ‘‘Newer cloaking armor uses shifted microwave energy to create the invisible effect. Have you tried shifting the electromagnetic filter through diff
erent hertz?’’

  Silence. More silence.

  ‘‘Ah, HARV, I think he was talking to you.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t try that,’’ HARV said.

  ‘‘Then do it,’’ I said.

  The images started rolling by in superfast motion, over and over again. If HARV was changing anything, I couldn’t tell. I used the time to go over Shannon’s résumé to see if there was anything of interest. Then . . .

  ‘‘Vingo!’’ HARV shouted.

  He replayed the footage again. This time, with an arrow pointing to the middle of the room. A form appeared, a ghost of a shape, but a shape nonetheless.

  ‘‘So that’s our killer,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Certainly,’’ HARV said.

  ‘‘Yes, I compute the odds of a random, cloaked person coming into the room to be one million to one against,’’ GUS said.

  ‘‘Can we get a clearer view of the intruder?’’

  Again, silence.

  ‘‘I’m going to need help,’’ HARV said.

  I held GUS out. ‘‘We’ve got GUS.’’

  ‘‘Sure do!’’ GUS said.

  ‘‘I’m going to need more help,’’ HARV said. ‘‘Randy’s help.’’

  I shook my head. ‘‘I don’t think Randy will be much help as long as that Melda woman is with him. Besides, I don’t want her in on this.’’ I didn’t trust her.

  ‘‘That is no longer an issue,’’ HARV said. ‘‘Melda has left Randy’s office.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Randy kissed her.’’

  ‘‘Oh, never good.’’

  ‘‘She slapped him, made him think he was a pig, then packed up and headed out. He just stopped oinking. He’s very distraught though.’’

  ‘‘Great,’’ I said.

  HARV glared at me. If GUS could glare he probably would have also been.

  ‘‘I’m just saying Randy could probably use a nice, fun project to get his mind off Melda.’’

  ‘‘True,’’ HARV agreed. ‘‘Though he may prove once and for all this is Shannon.’’

  ‘‘My gut tells me it’s not her.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, well your gut’s not admissible in court,’’ HARV said. He paused for a nano. ‘‘I’ve given Randy the data. He says he’ll have something for you in six hours.’’

  I stood up. ‘‘That gives me time to do a little background checking.’’

  ‘‘Where you going?’’ HARV asked.

  ‘‘Background check on Shannon Cannon. I need to see if she could snap.’’

  I grabbed my coat and headed for the door.

  ‘‘How you going to do that?’’ HARV asked.

  ‘‘You’re the supercomputer. You figure it out.’’

  HARV’s eyes blinked. ‘‘Madam Desma’s School for Talented Girls,’’ he said.

  I touched my nose. ‘‘Vingo.’’

  ‘‘I need you to see if you can track down Threa,’’ I said.

  HARV appeared in front of me, scratching his head. ‘‘You don’t really think Threa is responsible for this, do you?’’

  ‘‘She had a bone to pick with Sexy. Whoever did this was well connected and had a lot of power. Threa fits the bill.’’

  ‘‘I’ll try to contact her, but murder isn’t her style.’’

  HARV was right. The killings didn’t match Threa’s MO. Still, she was a crazy superwoman whose sister once tried to destroy the Earth. I wasn’t going to rule her out simply because I was a little worried that she might turn me into a frog.

  Chapter 11

  Madame Desma’s School For Talented Girls was located on the outskirts of town. The building itself was an old, elegant, redbrick Victorian mansion that was at least two hundred years old. The mansion sat on top of a small hill that overlooked many acres of finely manicured rolling grounds. As I drove up the long brick driveway that lead to the manor, the grounds were filled with girls or young women engaged in various activities. Some were playing what I believed to be badminton, others were sitting in circles reading, a few were playing violins, some were practicing the martial arts and a few were just sitting, sunbathing.

  HARV looked at me looking at them.

  ‘‘If some of them were having pillow fights in their nighties this would pretty much be your adolescent boy’s dream come true.’’

  I smiled in agreement.

  I entered the building and followed the sounds of music into a large room. There, I found Madame Desma holding a violin as she stood in front of five eager-looking girls who were holding violins at their sides. These weren’t electric or virtual violins, by the way—they were good old-fashioned wooden ones. They had to be almost as old and as valuable as my car.

  Desma positioned the violin under her chin. She started to play a lively tune. Surprisingly enough, it sounded like a fiddle.

  ‘‘Hey, that sounds like a fiddle,’’ I said.

  ‘‘That’s because a violin and a fiddle are the same thing,’’ HARV said inside my head. ‘‘It just depends on how you play them.’’ Though I couldn’t see him, I was sure HARV was shaking his head in disbelief at my naïveté.

  Desma immediately stopped playing and turned to me. She smiled. She turned back to her girls.

  ‘‘Ladies, we have a surprise special guest, Zachary Nixon Johnson.’’

  The girls all gave me polite little claps. I could tell from the looks on their faces they weren’t thrilled about having their lesson interrupted.

  Desma walked over to me and extended her hand. She was a pleasant looking woman in her early thirties, with short curly black hair. She had the look of a woman who would be equally as comfortable in a concert hall as she would be on a sports field, or for that matter, fixing her own hover or car. No matter what time of the day I saw her, she always had a freshly pressed look.

  ‘‘So what brings you to my neck of the woods, cos?’’ Desma asked.

  Oh, yeah, she was my cousin once removed (whatever the DOS that means) on my mom’s side. She was the only psi in the family that I was aware of.

  ‘‘You’re the psi.’’

  Her brown eyes locked on mine. A faint smile appeared on her face. She frowned. ‘‘Come into my office,’’ she said hurriedly.

  Desma took me by the hand and led me out of the practice room to the main hall then up a twisting staircase. We walked up the stairs in silence until we crossed paths with a tall, slim woman with dark blue hair coming down the stairway. She was wearing a purple suit dress that appeared as if it was cloned for her. She looked at me and I could feel her glance. I shuddered. Not sure if it was a good shudder or a bad one, but definitely a noticeable one. She didn’t have the strong Asian features of the other Mooner females I had met and was fairer than they were. Yet I knew she was a Mooner.

  ‘‘Ms. Desma,’’ she said with a slight tip of her head. ‘‘Sir,’’ she said to me with another tip.

  ‘‘Elena,’’ Desma replied.

  I just mumbled, continuing to climb the stairs.

  ‘‘Quite pretty isn’t she?’’ Desma said with a nudge.

  ‘‘I hadn’t noticed. I’m engaged . . .’’

  ‘‘True, but not dead, cos.’’

  ‘‘She is a looker. From the Moon. Right?’’

  Desma nodded. ‘‘The Moon psis and Earth psis are trying an exchange program.’’

  We reached the top of the stairs. (There were a LOT of stairs.) Desma led me down a hallway to the left.

  ‘‘She is here with the contingent from the Moon?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘You ask a lot of questions.’’

  ‘‘Comes with the job.’’

  Desma smiled. ‘‘No, she’s been here longer. I get the impression, a very strong impression, that she’s not a fan of Mr. Sputnik.’’

  We reached a door. I followed Desma into the room behind the door. It was a small conference room with a little table in the middle and bookshelves with actual books lining the walls.

  ‘‘Have you taught her muc
h?’’ I asked.

  Desma sat and grinned. ‘‘DOS, no. She’s teaching me. She’s a class I level 8 psi.’’

  I sat kitty-corner to my cousin. I’ve been exposed to a lot of psis in my time, but never one rated so highly. The Thompson sisters were probably at least that powerful but nobody was ever able to test them successfully. Those girls value their privacy.

  ‘‘Class I level 8,’’ I repeated.

  ‘‘Good cos, glad to see your short-term memory works.’’

  While I had to get back on the case, I was fascinated by a psi of this power level.

  ‘‘So what can she do?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Anything she wants,’’ Desma said with a hint of a smile. ‘‘Anything she wants.’’

  ‘‘I need more than that,’’ I coaxed.

  ‘‘Suffice it to say, if she told you to drop dead, you would. Happily.’’ Desma thought for a nano. ‘‘Even that computer you have strapped to your brain probably wouldn’t help. She’d be the perfect assassin. Luckily, she’d never kill anybody.’’

  ‘‘Why do you say that?’’

  Desma turned her head. ‘‘Truthfully, I don’t know. Let’s hope I’m right or we’re all in trouble.’’ She took a nano or two to collect her thoughts. ‘‘Now, I assume we’re here to talk about Ms. Cannon?’’ She said in her most professional voice.

  Desma pointed to a bottle of brandy and a couple of glasses on the end of table. I hadn’t noticed them before. I probably should have.

  ‘‘Thirsty?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘I’m on the job.’’

  ‘‘It’s over a hundred years old,’’ she coaxed.

  I shrugged. ‘‘Spam that then. Not like this is a paying job.’’

  Desma made a delicate hand gesture toward the bottle and glasses. Rising off the table, they floated down to us. Desma twisted her hand. The bottle top popped off and was held suspended in midair. She put her elbow on the table then her head in her hand. The smooth, red liquid started flowing down the side of the first glass. I showed her two fingers. The brandy rose in the glass until it was about the height of those fingers. The bottle tilted upward slowly, not dripping a drop. The bottle levitated to the remaining glass, tipping its spout just enough. Liquid filled the void from the bottle to glass, seeping into the glass until it was topped off. The bottle straightened and gently touched down on the table. All the while, Desma’s eyes never left mine.