Winn asks, "How do we know that whoever's behind all this knows what's on it?"
"Valle," I answer. "He's Colvin's accountant. He knows how much wealth there is and where it is. If they were going to steal, there'd be no reason to go through so much work to frame us."
We're all quiet for several minutes. This goes a lot deeper than any of us thought. And it's all coming to a head tomorrow.
"Puo," I ask, a plan starting to form in my mind, "is the air deceleration routine set on the anti-gravity suits?"
"Yeah," Puo says. "What are you thinking?"
"That you and the Lady's squeegee need to pay Valle's boat a visit."
Puo's face goes pale. He hates the anti-gravity suits.
"Puo," I say. "We don't have a choice, it has to be you."
Puo gulps.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"YOU READY?" I ask Puo.
Puo and I stand in the back of Pelican in the wee hours of the morning, about to fly over Valle's boat from two thousand feet above. Winn is back at the house running support.
Puo looks dangerously pale in the anti-gravity suit, which is a closed system like the dry scuba suits, complete with its own oxygen tank. He has yet to put on the clear-glass helmet and attach it to the black flexible rubber suit.
It's the color of Puo's lips that have me worried. They're the color of beige with not nearly enough red.
I put my hand on his shoulder through the thick suit. "You can do this."
Puo doubles over and barfs in response.
I jump toward the cockpit door to avoid splashback.
"Well," I say a little uncertainly, "at least that's out of the way." I hand him a bottle of water, and wrinkle my nose at the sour smell. It has to be Puo. I haven't worked with Christina's squeegee at all.
Puo clears out his mouth.
"Helmet," I say. I'll have to rinse out the puke and bless the land below with it when the trap doors open.
He complies, but takes the helmet with shaking hands and puts it on.
I glance at the timer, and then kill the lights inside the cabin and open the hatch doors in the floor. Mercer Island appears below us with little glowing dots of electric lights scattered around on land.
Puo is standing near the edge.
I say, "I'll give you to the count of three. Try not to scream. Understood?"
The helmet looks like it nods.
I glance at the timer. "Okay, one—" I lift up one finger to count in front of him and with my other hand push him out of the trap door.
It's okay—he never would've jumped on his own anyway.
I sweep out Puo's sour leftovers and close the hatch and step back into the front of Pelican into the cockpit. I slip the comm-link into my ear and immediately hear Puo gritting his teeth, cursing me without actually swearing, and muttering how much he hates me.
"You'll thank me," I say to Puo, "when it's all over." To Winn I say, "How's it look?"
"All clear," Winn says. "Enjoy the ride, Toad."
For all of Winn's mansies lately, he always did enjoy using the anti-gravity suits.
I listen to Puo flapping in the wind for a few seconds, before the pitch of noise audibly changes. "Toad—?"
"I'm on the boat," Puo whispers, "you freaking swindler. I hate you. I swear I hate you. I'm never doing this again. This is it, Queen Bee. After this we're done. All you do is try and get me killed—"
"There's a port to plug into—" I talk over him. Puo always disavows me, plans to walk away when he's this worked up. I haven't been worried about it since the first time he threatened it. We're thicker than blood and have been together through worse than this—well, at least I think we’ve been through worse. "—on the fly bridge. That should get you in."
Thirty seconds of silence followed by Puo saying, "I'm in. Descending down into the main bridge."
"Hey," Winn breaks in to ask, "you ever figure out what all that EM activity was at Korum's?"
"No," Puo bites off his answer. "Not now. I'm trying to focus and get the heck outta here."
"What are you looking at, Falcon?" I ask.
"I'm looking at the activity Toad recorded. And if I adjust the band for the overlay over our current position, a couple blips pop up. I think it's people."
"Duh," Puo whispers, "of course it's people. I already said that."
"Well," Winn says, "did you connect that the activity peaks right after they talk?"
Puo is silent on the other end. If he's not pouting, I'll give up coffee.
"Someone's listening in on them," Winn says.
"Quiet," Puo says intensely. He's probably concentrating on his task of collecting info on Valle's boat and installing spyware, but I bet a part of it is he doesn't like being shown up by Winn.
Winn and I oblige Puo and keep silent for a few minutes. I'm lazily driving loops around Mercer Island, occasionally dipping down to street level and snaking my way through streets and popping back up again.
"Done," Puo says. "Get me outta here."
"I'm on my way," I say. "Less than two minutes out. Wait for my signal to sync."
"Waiting for your signal," Puo repeats back to me. It's the pickup he really hates. Then Puo says, "It's their citizen's chips. It's the same thing we did with Falcon back east with the Feds and what we do with the squiddies underwater."
"Wait," Winn says, "The bit with the squiddies doesn't explain how we were communicating in the tunnels."
"Focus," I say, cutting off the sidebar.
"Sync," I say, and initiate the pickup routine sequence. Puo acknowledges, and then I add, "We modified Falcon's CitID to do that." For the squiddies we just use an unused portion of their band.
"Yeah," Puo says, "It just hit me. They all must be modified—"
"Hacked citizen chips," Winn says.
"Son of a bitch," I whisper. "He knew we had modified citizen chips."
"Who?" Winn asks.
"Hayes," I answer. "Back at the topside bar." My stomach roils at the scale of the deception. Roils. He must have a Citizen Maker in his pocket. Oh, no. Do we—?
"Our chips and CitIDs are clear," Puo says. "I checked ours immediately after Hayes's unexpected visit—" the rest of what Puo was going to say gets cut off in a sharp grunt as the anti-gravity suit reverses gravity and he starts free-falling upward toward the Pelican—those suits are freaking awesome. Disorienting, but awesome.
Twenty seconds later he's safely on board in the back. I put Pelican on autopilot and go back to meet him.
I help him get the helmet off.
He promptly barfs again just to make sure to let me know how he feels about using the anti-gravity suits.
Given the sour stench and what we just learned about the modified citizen chips, I'm inclined to join him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ALMOST TWENTY HOURS later, Winn leads Puo and I toward Kathy's neighborhood party. The sidewalk tilts unevenly from the roots of regularly-spaced Maple trees. I'm carrying in front of me two beautifully packaged pies (German chocolate and key lime) from Promontory Pies, as Winn insists it's customary to bring something.
He also insists, quite frequently, that it is completely unacceptable to try and discretely recoup the cost of the pies in other goods, and that as we're new, they'll suspect us first if anything goes missing.
Yeesh. You’d think I'd never done anything like this before.
The first glimmers of scarlet are on the horizon as the sun begins to set. The humidity sticks to my forehead and makes me wish I had worn a light skirt with a tank top instead of my white cotton capri pants with a black and yellow floral buttoned shirt. Winn wisely said nothing as he watched me change five or six times for this stupid party that's costing me money instead of bringing it in. But I did stick with my ass-kicking-approved black rubber-soled canvas shoes though.
Kathy's Queen Anne home is at the end of the block on the other side of the street from ours. It's unusual in that it's a similar size to others on the street but two stories in
stead of three, and it's made of brick with white highlights instead of shingled wood. I rather don’t like the look, not enough color for me. The other unusual feature is that the large, wide first- and second story porches face the street while the normal rounded-corner tower is tucked in the back of the house.
There are already a number of people with their pie holes flapping on those porches. The chatter of people adds to the sounds of the local birds chirping as they fly between the trees. There's the low rumble of indistinguishable music in the background inside the house as we approach, that generic music meant to be there to smooth over awkward pauses.
As Winn walks confidently up to the first-story porch, Puo gently slides his hand behind my back to push me along. There's a group of three couples near the entrance. They stop their conversation to size us up. They all wear the casual clothes and accessories of the affluent without drawing attention to it—like a Cartier watch (recouping that wouldn't make the night a total loss).
A woman with her Bulgari sunglasses perched on top of her long beach-blond hair and her fingernails and toenails done in a French manicure/pedicure greets us, "Why, hi there." She beams a disingenuous smile at us with her artificially white teeth. "I'm Annabelle, and this is my husband, Damon."
Winn walks right up and shakes Damon's outstretched hand with a smile. "I'm Winn—" He gestures back toward me. "—And this is Isa and Puo." After much debate, we decided the use of our real names made the most sense (or so Puo and Winn insisted).
Sycophantic "pleasantries" are exchanged, and more introductions are made that I immediately forget.
Winn really is like a duck in water with these people, blends in effortlessly with similar style clothes, while I feel like a goob standing there in cheap canvas (but comfortable, and ass-kicking-approved) shoes, dumbly holding two pies.
The group responds to Winn as one of their own, while not exactly sure how to interpret Puo and I in our too-casual clothes. I try to relax my body language.
Annabelle beams her white teeth with too-pink lipstick at us and says, "We're so happy y'all moved in. We didn't think that old house was ever going to sell. Been on the market forever."
Winn politely says, "Thanks, it suits us perfectly."
"Well," Annabelle says, "I could never deal with all the ramshackleness. You must have a lot of patience to fix it up."
Ramshackleness? Catty sycophant. She knows full well we haven't fixed diddly yet.
Winn says, "We're having a lot of fun with it. It is a process though—"
I cut in, "We haven't touched the exterior yet. That won't come until we finish the expansion plans."
"Expansion plans?" Damon asks me.
"We're going to add," I explain, "at least another two levels."
"Two more levels?" Annabelle asks, not sure if I'm being serious or a bitch.
"Yup," I say, "With guard towers. I like to keep an eye on things." It even fits in with our cover story of being security consultants.
"Guard ... towers?" Annabelle asks, unsure of how to respond to such overtly aggressive fatuousness.
Then Puo adds in complete deadpan, "With lasers."
The group's collective eyebrows raise. A few take the opportunity to sip their drinks, while others shoot a strained smile toward us.
Winn says into the awkward silence, "Yes, well. Everything's better with lasers."
One of the other women, a short brunette (Gucci sunglasses firmly ensconced on her head in obvious imitation of Annabelle) with light freckles and a soft athletic build, laughs like a groupie at Winn. She can't take her eyes off him, and she's unconsciously hiding her wedding ring.
Grrr.
Winn begins to lean toward leaving and to excuse us when Freckles-the-Groupie asks, "So how do you all know each other?"
Before Winn can say anything, I step forward and say, "Winn's my lover." The six of them stare at me. I add a smile and say, "He's quite robust to the role. I'm pretty sure I'm going to keep him." That should be an end to that.
The group shoots awkward glances away from us. Freckles-the-Groupie says, "And this gentleman?" she motions toward Puo.
"Oh," I say. "That's Puo. He's my Puo." Interpret that you lecherous whore.
"I—I see," the woman says.
Winn mimes a smile. "It's a poor joke. A play on words." Winn tries to smooth things over. "Puo's her brother. Puo. Bro."
"Ah," a few of them say. Annabelle attempts to ask another underhanded question, but I cut her off. "Would you excuse us?" I ask and walk past them toward the wooden front door with a stained glass panel on the upper half.
The door is cropped open a sliver, and I push it open to escape the group of phonies on the porch and dump off these pies. Puo is right behind me, and Winn lingers for a half second before following.
Winn shuts the door behind him. "Isa," Winn says in a hushed tone—we're relatively alone at the entrance—"what's the matter with you?"
Now this is a Queen Anne home properly decked out. I'll have to ask where she got all this loot. Perhaps coming tonight wasn't a total loss. "What?" I ask.
We stand in the entrance hall. There's a beautiful curved staircase hugging the right wall to the upper level. A dining room with a real dining room table and chairs are on the right. I have an urge to go sit at the head of the table and pretend it's mine.
"You were overtly rude to them," Winn complains.
"They were rude to us," I say. There's a parlor sitting area on the left with two comfy-looking, dark brown leather sitting chairs facing the stone fireplace with an understated wood mantle.
"No," Winn tries to clarify for me. "They didn't say anything rude."
"They were acting it," I say. Where should I drop these pies off? "Bunch of butt sniffers—"
"Yes," Winn says. "There's a lot of butt sniffing, passive-aggressive comments, and disingenuousness. It's a chess match—"
"Why play chess," I ask, "when you can just reach over the table and punch them directly in the throat?"
"Because it's the game they play," Winn says, "Only once you play it, do they start to be—"
"Less bitchy?" I offer.
"—real," Winn finishes. "It's how they filter the world."
"Freckles," I say, "had her eye on you."
Winn says right back, "And Damon had his eye on you. But you didn't see me picking a fight with him and pissing all over you in public, did you?"
He did? Hunh. Missed that. "I'll have to try and flirt with him in front of his passive-aggressive wifey."
"Isa—!" Winn admonishes.
"Oh, relax," I say, "I wouldn't actually cheat on you."
"It's not that," Winn says, his voice heating up.
"What then?" I ask. Now I'm getting annoyed. There's just no pleasing him. "Not subtle enough for their games?"
I'm spared Winn's response by an older woman smiling and walking toward us. She's a thin woman that looks like she could fold in on herself and disappear right in front of you. Her wrinkles around her face look hard won, like she was proud of them and wouldn't dream of erasing them—it's the way she carries herself, I decide. And she has very clear, but kind, blue eyes. I'd peg her around mid-sixties.
"Hi there," she says in her sweet old voice, "I'm so glad you could make it. Are those for the party?"
"Yes," I say, and find myself blushing for some reason.
"Oh, wonderful. Right through here, dear," she says.
"Thank you," Winn says, "for having us." Winn handles introducing us to our neighbor Kathy. I suddenly feel guilty for all the nasty thoughts I had about her.
She leads us back into the kitchen that has a large butcher-block center island with food and drinks spread out over it. The kitchen is filled with a soft light from chandeliers hanging down. The cabinets are a cream color that match well with the wood counters.
"Wow," I say at the sight. "I love your home."
"Thank you, dear," she says. "Would you like a tour?"
"I would love that," I say sincer
ely.
"Winn, Puo," Kathy says, "have you met Johnathan?" Kathy signals a tall, plump middle-aged African-American man across the island.
"No," Winn says, "I don't believe we have."
Kathy calls this Johnathan fellow over and shrewdly passes Winn and Puo off to him, while excusing us ladies for a proper, "Ladies’ tour of the home."
* * *
Kathy is quite the tour guide. She methodically takes me through every room and points out all the little details that make a space pop. And as soon as she knew I was interested in outfitting my own home, she began to mention where to find such things at a bargain price.
I'm honestly having a way better time than I thought I would tonight.
Kathy and I are now upstairs where there are less people and we just stepped into her bedroom. It's a clean space with wooden floors and throw rugs. The focal point is a dark wooden four-poster bed, the spread matching the indented coffered walls with purple pinstriped wallpaper. There's a closed glass door out to the second-story patio, and a distinctly old-person smell of mothballs. I feel a little guilty even noticing it.
Kathy closes the wooden door behind me with thunk of the latch catching making us alone together. "I just wanted to say," she says with a serious face by the door, "that I caught what happened out on the porch—"
Whoops. I'm about to get lectured, and I actually feel bad for somehow letting her down.
But then she breaks into a conspiratorial grin, "And I thought it was absolutely hilarious." She walks over to me in the center of the room. "You will let me use the lasers when they go in, won't you?"
I bark a laugh. "Of course. You're not mad?"
"Oh, heavens no. The bitches had it coming."
I snort at her swearing. You don't expect curse words coming out of such a sweet package. "Then why ... ?"
"Why invite them?"
I nod.
"Well ... it is a neighborhood party. And to some extent it's not their fault. They just haven't been properly knocked down by life yet."
I cock an eyebrow at her.
"There's hope for some of them," she says. "It wasn't that long ago I would count myself among them."
The Solid-State Shuffle (Sunken City Capers Book 1) Page 14