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

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  "What happened?" I ask.

  She claps her hands in front of her. "I got properly knocked down by life. It's only once you're down there that you start to see things properly."

  "Do you want me to be nicer?" I ask, feeling an urge to squirm.

  "Oh, goodness no. That wouldn't be fun at all. You're a breath of fresh air into this stuffy old neighborhood. You'll have to come visit more."

  "I'd like that." And I mean it. "So was the purpose of this party to flush us out so you could size us up?"

  "It was the impetus," she admits. "But I ran into a fellow at the Yellow Coffee House—you been there?"

  I nod.

  "Anyway, we were chatting about neighborhoods and neighbors and I thought it was high time we all got together."

  I confirm a suspicion, "Did the fellow look like a child star whose limbs grew, but not his face?"

  Kathy laughs. "You know him?"

  Hayes.

  "I'm familiar with him," I say. Well that's confirmed. Hopefully, he takes the bait tonight while we're all conveniently out of the house.

  "Well—" Kathy moves toward the door to leave. "I didn't think it was actually likely you'd show up tonight. But I'm glad you did."

  "We almost didn't," I admit in turn. And then after a second's reflection I honestly add, "But I'm glad we did too."

  * * *

  "Did he take the bait?" I ask Puo.

  Everything hinges on it.

  We left the party early to come back to the house to see if Hayes had stopped by uninvited and if we still needed to get ready for the Locklear job tonight.

  Puo comes down the hallway from the kitchen, the wooden slats creaking under his steps. "Yeah, they took the bait." He holds up two EM bags, one holding a fake of Colvin's drive and the other holding the real drive.

  "They copied the fake?" I ask to confirm. Winn and I stand at the base of the stairs, awaiting the news before bounding up to change.

  "Yup," Puo says. "They even swapped out the EM bag." He fishes out of his pocket a third EM bag. "The EM bag they left is a fake."

  Bastards. "And the other one is the real one that they didn't find or copy?"

  Puo nods. "Absolutely."

  "Okay, then," I say. "We're a go."

  We're locked in now. No matter what happens tonight, Colvin's going to find his solid-state drive. Now who he thinks is responsible remains to be seen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  WINN AND I RIDE together to the rendezvous point to meet Hayes and his team. I contacted Hayes when we first took off to tell him to meet us at Volunteer Park. Ever since then it's been a bit tense in the cockpit.

  "Hey," I say to Winn, "relax. The actual job at the museum is straightforward." They're not actually stealing anything, just tripping alarms to contain the mark.

  "I know," he says while staring forward.

  "You have your stunner?" I ask. Another Puo invention. A small device that fits into the hand that delivers a shock like a cattle prod.

  "Yeah." He's silent for a bit, before seeming to come to himself and glances over. "It's not ... well ... I guess I'm a bit nervous. I'll be cut off and then I'll be out of play for backup for you. It's when they would do something—if they're going to do something."

  The EM jamming on the museum will jam Winn's connection to Puo as well, and Winn will have to sit there and wait it out while Puo and I lure the treacherous trio out to the yacht.

  "Always keep him in front of you," I say. "And have that stunner close at hand once the alarm goes off."

  Winn looks down out of the window at us coming up on Volunteer Park. "What are we going to do after this?"

  I was thinking it may be time to remind Winn of the perks of being in a relationship. I catch whiffs of his warm woody cologne—I've missed that. "The Owl Hive, or maybe some celebratory pie—Puo would like that. And then maybe we get reacquainted."

  "No," Winn dismisses the ideas like brushing ants off a table.

  I clench my teeth.

  Winn continues, "I mean after, after. We're going to have to pull another job again, aren't we?"

  "Yes," I say, becoming guarded. We need to make another payment to the Citizen Maker. "It's what we do." What does he think? That the Citizen Maker will laugh it off? That money will magically appear? I grind my teeth. What is with him?

  "And then another," Winn says, "and then another, and then another." Winn trails off before picking up again. "Just haven't you ever wondered about how this will all end? What the limit—"

  "Pull your head out of your ass!" I snap at him. "We're about to kick off a war. Either Hayes's crew or us are probably going to end up dead tonight. That's all the end you need to worry about."

  "You're right," Winn says tightly. "Sorry."

  His apology only pisses me off. "What is with you! You're like a brooding teenage emo girl lately. What? You want to be friends with Annabelle and Damon. Go to stupid parties and try to out-snide each other—"

  "I love you."

  That shuts me up momentarily. We've never said that before. I've never said that before (and meant it).

  "What the hell is matter with you!" I explode, as the Pelican starts to land at the rendezvous point.

  Winn looks at me in surprise; his cheeks bloom red.

  I continue my rant, "You don't say something like that right before a job. You're like a baby, jinxing yourself in ignorance. It's like a cop saying, 'I only have one more week to retirement,' and then getting shot on his last patrol, you noob! You're tempting fate!"

  The Pelican touches down with a bump. Hayes and his crew are already in the parking lot.

  "I'm— I'm sorry," Winn says uncertainly.

  "Noob." I get up to go greet Hayes. I mentally squash the butterflies in my stomach as I leave; I'm unsure how to process what Winn just told me—I'll deal with that later.

  I'd kiss Winn before heading out, but I don't want to tempt fate anymore than he already has.

  * * *

  Hayes, the Cleaner Ellis and I are parked in Hayes's four-door hovercar on East Union Street on the Center Island waiting for the signal that the museum has been locked down. The main street butts up to the edge of the Central District.

  The mood in the car is tense, little conversation, no eye contact.

  Ellis is a definitely a Cleaner. She's around my age but has three times the arrogance and four times the sense of entitlement—which is saying something. The shadows from yellow streetlights fall over her in the back seat where she haughtily ignores us; her fair Asian cheeks and dark eyes stare out the window since we're beneath her Cleaner notice. She's dressed in jeans and the navy-blue uniform top of the Seattle Power Company, complete with the name "Buffy," which—trust me—she doesn't have a sense of humor about, in classic Cleaner style.

  Puo interrupts the classical music through the comm-link in my ear to say, "Few minutes out to the jam session." They're about to jam the museum. Puo is holed up back at the house running support for me, while Bald Accountant is holed up somewhere running support for Hayes. Beethoven's symphony (I don't know which one), with a nice little flute interlude, softly pipes back into my ear.

  I look to Hayes for the cue to get moving. It's his job.

  The Benjamin Button impersonator continues to just sit there staring out the front window.

  Locklear's townhouse is on a little side street that's closed to nonresidential related traffic—all the plebeian riff-raff ruins the picturesque views for the wealthy and affects their sleep.

  "Buffy—" I start to say.

  "My name is Ellis," she bites off the words. "As I told you before. If you call me that again, I will personally see your face and biometric data uploaded to every international authority there is."

  "Right," I say nonplussed. "Get moving."

  Hayes nods before she can refuse.

  She scowls at me as she opens the door and steps out.

  A whoosh of warm air bellows into the car as the door closes.

  "Ca
n you ever not piss people off?" Hayes asks, annoyed with me.

  "No," I answer sweetly. Pissing people off is half the fun. The other half is lightening their wallets while you do it.

  Hayes and I both watch her as she walks toward the side street thirty feet ahead and disappears down it.

  "The Cleaner is away," Hayes says to Bald Accountant.

  "Where's the spare?" I ask about the copy of the jade vase to swap out.

  Hayes motions to the backseat, where Ellis had sat.

  I twist around and look behind my seat to find an olive-colored canvas backpack that appears to be holding a basketball and bulging slightly around the sides. I drag it forward—damn, this thing is heavy.

  "Okay," Hayes says, obviously talking with Bald Accountant. To me he says, "Everything's in place. Let's go."

  I step out of the car and heave the backpack on. The sun sank down over an hour ago, but the heat and humidity still linger. Sweat already forms along the small of my back from the press of the backpack.

  I'm wearing black skinny jeans with dull gray tennis shoes and a dark-gray T-shirt. Clothes that don't pop, and allow for a wide range of quick motions if necessary, while still blending in.

  Hayes and I fall in step with each other to the side street. He's dressed in similar muted garb, a charcoal v-neck stretchy shirt and gray slacks.

  I take his arm and smile down at him like we're on a date.

  "Uh," he says, clearly uncomfortable.

  I laugh like a smitten girl even though he's shorter than me and we look ridiculous like this. His cologne has an ocean note to it, but it's fading; the scent of nervous, sweaty manboy is taking over.

  He looks up at me as we turn onto the side street. "Nice necklace," he says.

  "Thanks," I say and finger the single pearl necklace that I don't ever seem to take off anymore. "My boyfriend got it for me." I feel an unexpected thrill at saying "boyfriend." I mean, Winn's definitely my boyfriend, it's just ... I don't think I've ever said that out loud before. And somehow saying that with the knowledge that at the exact same time he's wearing the necklace I got him, makes it feel even more special.

  "Charming," Hayes says and looks away with the roll of his eyes.

  I giggle like the part demands, but refuse to rest my head on his wimpy, bony, manboy shoulder. Anyone taking notice should just see two people on a date, one tall beautiful woman with a homunculus.

  The side street is rather pretty. Both sides of the street are lined by four-story brick townhouses, some with front stone façades that go up two or three stories. Many of their windows are lit up with yellow lights, adding to the streetlights to give a vibrant feel to the street. Many upper patios have strings of lights out for summer.

  The street smells like a wonderful mix of concrete and fertile earth. Pacific dogwood trees punctuate the sidewalks, and there are a number of hanging gardens in front of the homes. The light, fresh scent of spearmint is particularly strong as we pass by one hanging garden. I don't like the way the wealthy treat the rest of us, but they did create a nice little oasis here.

  I think Puo, Winn, and I will be revisiting the area sometime in the future.

  Puo breaks in, "They're about to trip the museum."

  I can see Ellis drop down to her knees in front of a power hatch in the middle of the sidewalk ahead of us.

  The rising symphony in my ear cuts off suddenly.

  Hayes falters in his step and looks at me.

  "I lost comms," I say.

  "Me too," Hayes says. "It must be an overload on the comm tower to jam the museum."

  Right. Or it could be you're lying and trying to cut us off from one another. "Must be," I agree. Puo should hook back in as soon as he does an end-around on Bald Accountant.

  Hayes and I continue our walk arm-in-arm toward the house, our steps barely registering above a scuff on the pavement.

  Ellis continues working at the hatch as we walk by. She gives us a slight nod to give the okay, but otherwise says nothing. I restrain myself from saying anything in return.

  "So you can show restraint," Hayes observes.

  "When it suits me," I answer. I hope Winn is faring well.

  We walk up to the black iron gate that separates the Locklear townhouse from the street. Hayes uncouples his arm and slips a lock pick into the analog lock, and seconds later we're walking through.

  "I'm impressed," I say. I don't like the manboy turd, but that was deft.

  Hayes opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it and shuts it. I'm not sure, but I think that might be growth for us.

  The front door is a ten-foot arched door that looks like green-rusted copper with wooden slats and big bolts running through it. Turns out it's a metal door, and the look is painted on.

  Ellis slides up behind us smoothly.

  I retrieve the long, thin electronic-tumbler from my pocket and slip it into the door lock. The thumb-size casing I'm holding onto turns green, and I hit the button to unlock the door.

  Ellis says, "Stay close behind me. Don't wander off."

  I almost say, "Duh." But instead just nod.

  She pushes past us and opens the door confidently.

  The first thing to hit me is that it smells like a dusty museum with carefully controlled humidified air to preserve the artifacts. It also smells and feels crowded, like there's a hundred different dusts in the air competing for my attention.

  The different shades of shadows from all the ambient light from the street reveal a very cluttered, but strangely organized home. The library walls are covered in dusty books from floor to ceiling. Decorative tables hold small art sculptures. There's even a row of books stacked on top of each other up to waist level with more art on top of those.

  Directly in front us in the hallway is a curved stairway that leads up two flights of stairs and down one flight. I already feel like I could spend hours in this place purely for pleasure, let alone trying to decide how to maximize the take.

  Ellis stays in the wood-lined hallway near the front door. There's a control panel on the wall, and she's opened up a trick door in the wood paneling beneath it.

  I take the opportunity to slip on thin black wrist-length gloves and a pair of normal-looking black-rimmed eyeglasses with nightvision.

  After what feels like several minutes where I'm itching to wander off, Ellis says, "Quickly now. It's detected a potential intrusion and trying to contact Locklear for instruction. You have ... eighty-six seconds."

  Hayes says, "Don't knock anything over." He takes off running into the library.

  I follow close behind, the heavy weight of the vase slapping against my back in the canvas bag. The library opens up to the dining room with a marble fireplace and a portrait of what I can only assume to be Locklear's great-great-great-grandfather or something. There's a large window on the back wall that overlooks an internal outdoor courtyard for natural light—neat architectural trick that.

  Ellis of course, stays behind near the front door. I'm sure that was part of the deal of taking the job. If we're not back in the allotted time, she erases herself and strolls out, letting the house lock us in behind her.

  We jog left into a display room of some kind. All four walls are wooden display cases. But the crown jewel of the room is a large rectangular chest-height display case centered on the floor. It's full of models of what look like ancient Chinese temples.

  We exit out the back left of the display room and cut through the corner of an internal room—I can't think what else to call it—just jam-packed with stuff. Some kind of staging area.

  Beethoven's symphony softly pipes back in. Puo's reestablished comms. The music has a lighthearted grandiose feel that makes me want to twirl and dance as we run through the townhouse.

  We're through the staging area in seconds and into the dome room, our destination. Even in the colored but pixilated nightvision, it's a sight to behold. It would more accurately be described as a four-story atrium running through the center of the tow
nhouse. Every wall, archway, railing is stuffed full of Chinese busts, statues, stone reliefs, vases, pots, swords, shields, ancient garb, etc. It's extraordinary. And over it all sits an intricate closed-dome model of the Pantheon, which is a bit discordant with the Chinese collection, but that's Locklear's problem.

  Hayes takes out a handheld device, and a bright light lances out of it. He twirls around the room quickly to a get a panoramic shot, and then drops it to look at the screen.

  The screen blips over a section of the shot and zooms in.

  Hayes says, "There, between the third and fourth stories, west side."

  We sprint through the dome room and through the colonnade, a narrow room with black and white checkered floors and red Chinese columns rising up with Chinese statues and art peppered throughout.

  In front of us is the picture room, but we duck left into a narrow stairway leading up that was probably for servants back in the day. It's a simple wooden stairway that's cramped without any railings.

  We bound up two flights, the wooden steps creaking and groaning under our sudden steps. We burst out into a plain servants hallway with regularly spaced small doors leading into bedrooms, which now appear to be stuffed full of storage.

  We jog right into a servant's gathering room of some kind, full of boxes with a thick layer of dust, and push open the white wooden double doors to emerge on the top level of the dome room.

  The stone pathway and railing around the center atrium is empty of the rich adornment of the lower levels; apparently Locklear hasn't spread upward in full just yet.

  We run to the opposite railing and drop to our knees. I divest myself of the heavy backpack, my shoulders burning from where the straps were digging in. My middle back is aching for a good rubbing.

  "You hang over the side," Hayes whispers, "and make the switch, while I hold your feet." This is apparently why he needed to team up with us—which is complete crap.

  "You hang," I whisper back.

  "I'm stronger," he says. "We only have seconds."

  "Then why did I carry that stupid vase?" I point at the backpack.