The Solid-State Shuffle (Sunken City Capers Book 1)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  "Does Rodrigo know about the external drive?" I ask.

  "No." Colvin shakes his head. "Very few know about that."

  "Who?" I ask.

  Colvin stares at me as an answer and says nothing. "What else have you learned?"

  "That's it," I say, getting annoyed.

  "That's it?" he asks. "I already knew I didn't take my own boat out."

  "But I didn't," I say now in full-blown annoyance. I keep talking before he can respond, "Look. You want me to find out what happened. The people who know about the drive are the ones to be looking into first. I just wasted an afternoon yesterday at the marina, using your name to get me in, to learn something you could've just told me. So don't get all pissy and Bossy at me for wasting both our time—"

  He raises his hand at me. "All right."

  "I am not—!" I say seriously annoyed. "—Sunday traffic to be directed at with hand signs!" I exaggeratedly pretend to be a traffic cop.

  His eyes narrow at me.

  I clench my jaw, and force myself to shut up.

  We take several more steps in this strained silence. The empty office building floor is heating up from the sun shining through on the northeast side.

  Eventually he observes, "You have an interesting sense of self-preservation."

  "I'm still here, aren't I?" I say sullenly. It's also fortunate that none of his lackeys are around to see my impudence.

  He nods once, and inhales and exhales audibly through his nose. "What else would you like to know?"

  "How do you know the drive went missing?" I don't miss a beat in asking.

  "No," he says, continuing to hold his hands behind his back and study the carpeted floor. "I'm keeping that to myself for now. Only I and one other person know."

  "Who?" I ask.

  He hesitates the barest of seconds, glancing in the general direction of where we left Christina.

  "Christina," I guess.

  "Yes. Have you begun looking into her?"

  I shake my head no. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet. "What's with the gloves?" I ask. I mean, who wears evening gloves? Okay, reclamation specialists do on a job, but that's on a job, not bee-bopping around town in broad daylight.

  "Indeed," Colvin says unexpectedly. "It's a new development." Colvin stops where he is, and straightens his broad shoulders. "I don't believe in coincidences. It's one question I'd like answered."

  "Have you tried asking her?"

  "No," he says. "Anything else for me?"

  "You called this meeting," I say. "You tell me."

  "Have you looked into Valle at all?" he asks.

  "Just what I learned at the marina yesterday," I say truthfully.

  "Then you don't know his boat was stolen last night?"

  "Oh, shit," I say breathlessly. I had momentarily forgot about that. Between Winn driving me nuts with his mansies and Colvin not telling me anything, I had blanked. I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks.

  I had also forgotten I was supposed to tell Colvin we were there last night, so he could provide cover for us from the Cleaners. Winn and his mansies are making me stupid, sloppy.

  Before I can make the course correction, the unrhythmic sound of Christina's heels scrapping against the carpet draw both our attention.

  We turn behind us to see Christina come out of the hallway of cubicles and head toward us. With nothing to do but watch her approach, I figure out what's been bothering me about her pace.

  She's favoring her left side.

  Oh, double shit. A pang hits my stomach like a stone dropping in a well. Is that makeup thicker near the top of her forehead from perhaps where it slammed into a marina wall?

  When she gets close enough, she says, "Sir, it's oh-nine-fifty."

  "Understood," Colvin says, then dismisses her with a wave of the hand.

  Before she turns to go I say, "Nice gloves." Are they hiding belt marks around your wrists? I want to ask.

  Christina lowers her chin a little to look at me through her sunglasses, which I am sure are more than just ordinary sunglasses. Did she just try and get a picture of me? She then turns around, and leaves silently the way she came, continuing to favor her left side.

  Christina was at the marina last night. I'm sure of it. Colvin's head of security is a Cleaner. And I have her squeegee.

  Lovely. Just freaking lovely.

  Does Colvin know she's a Cleaner? Does he know she was at the marina? Was she there investigating for Colvin, or Cleaning up after herself? Tipped off by Rodrigo, or following us on Colvin's orders?

  After several seconds in silence, Colvin motions for me to follow after Christina.

  "You really are like a traffic cop," I say. "I'll have to lift a silver whistle for you sometime."

  He mimes a smile and says, "I'd like that." He pauses and then adds, "I want to know who took Valle's boat and what is on it worth stealing."

  "Of, course," I manage to say. Which is a touch more professional than, duh.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "WE NEED TO split up," I tell Puo and Winn back at our Queen Anne home.

  Puo looks grim, staring silently at the round kitchen tabletop. The shutters are closed once more. Have they even been opened in the meantime?

  Lobby-girl has Introduction to Art History at twelve thirty this afternoon. Puo can still go back and claim he was just late. To be safe though, he'll have to confine his time to just when Lobby-girl's in class.

  College was never a possibility for me—yet another thing that required a citizen chip. There was a time in my life when I was rather spiteful about that. But now, not so much. Introduction to Art History sounds boring anyway, stuff I learned the hard way through necessity back on the east coast and watching lectures online. But the word "introduction" suggests that there may be more interesting classes to come after that.

  Not for the first time, since everything went to hell on the east cost and we had to flee to the west coast, I think we should get back to our bread and butter, recovering and restoring lost art. The plan was to keep a low profile and stay away from that for a little while due to the alerted Feds and what happened back east.

  So much for keeping a low profile. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

  Puo and Winn, both still in the same clothes from earlier, don't say anything to my pronouncement that we need to split up.

  The kitchen is warm and getting warmer. I still haven't reprogrammed the air conditioning to cool off at this point. We really need to upgrade to an automated body-heat-signature controller.

  The silence in the house is loud. Leaves rustle up against the house from brief, listless periods of wind. The old house creaks in places as the day heats up. There's a brooding cloud settling over Winn.

  Eventually Puo asks me, "Where are you going to be?"

  "Scouting Christina," I answer. "Winn will run support for you."

  There's just too much to do. Puo needs to figure out what's on the solid-state drive. I need to figure out how Christina fits into all of this. And there's still Valle's boat we need to deal with. And I still have to make contact with Hayes to figure out if he's involved.

  Puo looks nervous.

  "It'll be okay," I tell him. "It's a University—" Not normally a dangerous place. "—It's daytime. And Lobby-girl will safely be in class."

  Winn says, "I'll keep tabs on her as well."

  "Good," I say, but feel anything but good about it. It's the right thing to do, and it will make Puo feel better, but I need Winn to run support for me as well. I don't want him focusing on too many things at once and therefore not focusing enough on any one thing.

  "When you're done," I say to Puo, "Fly over where we left Valle's boat—" I'm giving Puo the Pelican so he doesn't feel trapped. "—We need to deal with that later tonight." And I get to drop in on that prick Hayes today. Fun times.

  "Understood?" I ask.

  Both Puo and Winn nod silently at me. Puo's reluctance I get. After he goes to the University, he'll be back to
his old self, actually more insufferable than normal on the high of a completed job.

  But what's Winn's problem? More mansies? "Winn," I say. "Let's go get you set up."

  Winn gets up from his chair to come upstairs.

  I realize I don't even want to know right now what's going on with him this time. It's not the time to fight, and I don't have the energy for it with all this other crap going on.

  "Puo," I say, "Come help." After that, I'm bugging out to go look into Christina.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHRISTINA IS A freaking ghost. If there was any doubt about her being a Cleaner before, there isn't now. We can't find anything on her in the public records. Which means we're going to be left with sniffing around the criminal underground. And when I say "we," I mean me.

  The underground are a suspicious lot that don't like questions. The trick is to get them to tell you what you want to know without them realizing you're asking. Usually that involves getting a man to start boasting about himself—which isn't hard, even the most reticent ones respond to batty eyes, laughter, and cleavage.

  The problem is all the men that would be ideal targets in this situation are Cleaners. And they are likely to be riled up and on their guard after the marina. And they also have their own private lounge area not open to us mere mortals. And Christina will obviously recognize me from meeting with Colvin.

  Nothing's ever easy.

  This is why in the early afternoon I'm sitting in a booth catty-corner to Korum's on 13th Avenue in a diner, The Rusty Gate, watching people coming and going out of the bar—Cleaners always maintain a presence at a professional bar even if they have some super-secret private lounge somewhere else. They need to get hired after all.

  The Rusty Gate is a slapdash of material and styles. I think the goal was rustic farmhouse, but it feels schizophrenic to me. There's a large wooden brown barn door hanging on the wall opposite me, but there's white drywall behind it. There are old wooden tables scattered throughout the restaurant. Many have chipped paint. But along with the wooden tables there are laminate tables that look like they were dumpster dived. The windows are framed in rough-hewn planks, rough enough for slivers, which I can personally attest to since I chose this spot to look out the window.

  The chatter and din of the half-full crowd make the place feel more full, but the pace is slow so you don't feel like you have to eat and get out—which means I don't have to endure a pushy waitress since all I want is to sit with my coffee and be left alone to watch Korum's.

  Despite the schizophrenic feel to the place, they know how to brew a decent cup of coffee. It's a light-body brew with an understated earthiness and crisp on the finish. After the first sip, I smiled to myself in pleasure.

  "Fifteen minutes," Winn says into my comm-link.

  My heart starts to thump. Puo's been in the dead room at the University for fifteen minutes. He's supposed to come out every fifteen minutes to check in to make sure he's okay. Winn's been ticking off the time in five-minute chunks.

  "Blade here," Puo says.

  I exhale. Puo's nervousness is rubbing off on me.

  "Anything?" Winn asks.

  "Nothing yet," Puo says. "I got the casing off. There's an interesting extra chip that looks like a mod that I'm going to focus on—"

  "You're not leaving the door out of sight, are you?" I ask. Someone is moving against us in secret; we cannot be too paranoid at this point.

  "No," Puo says immediately. "I'm going back in."

  No wiseass remark—he really must be nervous.

  "Roger, that," Winn says. "You're clear in the lobby. Talk to you in fifteen."

  Winn and I settle back into silence. It's awkward at first. I'm sitting in public alone; talking to someone through the comm-link would make me look crazy. Comm-links aren't exactly common. It would definitely give away that I'm talking to someone—at least that's what I told Winn so we wouldn't have to talk.

  A tall, older Japanese man steps down into Korum's. He has the look of a Cleaner, a subtleness to how he looks around, lingers on street cameras and people on their personal devices. That, and the bulge inside his dark-brown leather messenger bag looks suspiciously like the rectangular block of a squeegee.

  Winn gives the five-minute update.

  A few minutes later I see another Cleaner, a middle-aged white guy with way too much soft weight for his frame, come out. That's the second time since I sat down that one Cleaner went in and one came out right after. They must be keeping some kind of shift schedule.

  I stir my coffee and think that over. Winn gives the ten-minute update.

  "May I join you?" Hayes asks, standing at the head of my table.

  I startle and clink the spoon against the white mug, making a minor scene and spilling a slop of coffee over the side. Bastard.

  He smiles a small, little bitch smile with his small, boyish face over having startled me. Wonder if Peter Pan has ever gotten laid?

  "Please," I say, and indicate the seat across from me. I consider subtly signaling Winn verbally through the comm-link hidden behind my straight black hair, but decide Hayes will pick up on it.

  "Have you reconsidered my offer?" Hayes asks. He sits down on the mustard yellow bench across from me with a vinyl covering that squeaks as he shifts into the booth. His purple buttoned shirt clashes against the bench, but looks loose enough to have several things pocketed around him.

  "Your offer was scarce on details," I say. "But I'm curious to know more."

  He raises an eyebrow at me. "Really?"

  "Yes," I say. I was planning on making contact tonight at Korum's, but this kills two birds with one stone. "I'm here, aren't I?"

  "You know," he says, "Most people go into the bar to have these discussions."

  "And yet—" I give a self-satisfied smile right back. "Here we are. You showed up, just like I knew you would." Chew on that, manboy.

  Hayes eyes dilate a smidge—a rush of adrenaline. I got to him. Besides getting to him, there's something else in his eyes that I can't put my finger on.

  Hayes sits up; his mask of control slips back into place. "Shall we move over to where we can get a proper drink?"

  I suppress a grin at an image of a handcrafted pint of Hefeweizen in front of me while manboy sips chocolate milk out of a straw at Korum's, his feet dangling off the chair unable to reach the floor. "No," I say sweetly and gently shake my head while taking a sip of my coffee.

  He frowns at me. "Are you always so difficult?"

  "Yes," I say just as sweetly. He sounds like Colvin. I wonder if they're related.

  "Fine." He sits forward and puts both hands on the table and looks around covertly.

  "Blade here," Puo says. "You're not going to believe this."

  Oh, hell. Winn cut him off. C'mon, Winn—

  Puo says, "The extra chip is a wireless antenna. The solid-state drive is definitely phoning home—"

  I lose the rest of what Puo says, as Hayes drops his voice to say, "It's a cross-town sock-hop with roofie dreams."

  Despite myself, I'm intrigued. It would sound like fun if we didn't have a knife to our throats at the moment, and the manboy sitting across from me wasn't possibly the very one holding the handle.

  A sock-hop is a quick job, in-and-out before the girls' skirts are done twirling—my kind of gig—and a cross-town means two sites. The roofie is what makes it interesting. It means sufficiently confusing to the Feds and marks that they have no idea if anything was even stolen the next morning.

  "Split—" I start to ask when Puo pipes in.

  "I don't think the drive has successfully phoned home since we got it," Puo says into my ear. "But the Lady Cleaner's squeegee phones home too. It has the exact same mod. I mean, literally the exact same chip, placement, even the soldering is similar. The other squeegee doesn't have the mod."

  "—Or mixed?" I stumble over the back half of the question. I was asking Hayes if our teams would operate independent or mix them up so that each team has members
from each crew to prevent a double-cross.

  Does Colvin know Christina is a Cleaner? She soldered that chip; helped him set up the security. But why was she at the marina? For Colvin? Or herself?

  Hayes regards me through narrow, chestnut eyes. His gaze flicks to my ear, looking for the comm-link that is fortunately still hidden under my straight black hair. Professionals in this line of work are experts at reading cues, and I just inadvertently sent a big one.

  Freaking Winn.

  "Mixed," Hayes says slowly.

  That's almost the right answer. "I distribute the personnel," I say.

  If Christina set up the security around the solid-state drive, then if she audits the logs at the bank, she'll think a Cleaner was in on the job. Is that why she was at the marina, looking for the Cleaner that took the job? Covering her tracks?

  "Fine," Hayes says.

  "When?" I ask. That felt a little too easy with Hayes.

  "When, what?" Puo asks. "What personnel?"

  Hayes says, "I'd really much prefer an adult beverage to have this conversation with."

  There are a number of things I can think to say to that, but I settle on not answering.

  Hayes sighs and finally whispers, "One day before the day that's four days after the day before yesterday." Professional speak—any bystanders will be confused enough later to question their memory.

  Tomorrow night. The night of the stupid neighborhood party. How long is that supposed to last? "What time?" I ask.

  "What time?" Puo cuts in. "Queen Bee, you're not listening—"

  Would these two catch a freaking clue!

  Puo continues, "—I haven't even told you the worst part yet—"

  Oh, hell.

  "Eight in the evening," Hayes says in a low, boyish voice.

  Puo continues, "—The Lady's squeegee is the most advanced tech I've ever seen. I think she's the Guild Master."

  "We have plans then," I say without thinking to cover the unpleasant roiling in my stomach. Christina's the Guild Master? And we have her squeegee? Great. Just. Freaking. Great.