Latency

by Blaze Ward

  “Understood,” Greyson nodded. “There’s nothing we can or need to do tonight?”

  “Not the first time we’ve had one of your people, Detective/Hunter,” she flashed him the first smile he’d seen from the woman. “The protocols are all written down.”

  “In that case, we’ll get out of your hair,” Greyson said.

  He started to reach for one of his business cards and thought better of it. Parsons didn’t have anywhere to hide a business card carrier. At least, not that didn’t require showing off more of her flesh than Greyson wanted to see right now in order to pull it out.

  “Rachel, can I get one of your cards?” he said to his bedraggled partner. “You’ll be the point of contact until the Captain sorts it all out.”

  He nodded to the tall woman, and included Redhawk in that. There would be conversations outside this room, and they might get a little loud. Greyson didn’t figure he would be involved in many of them, because he was already so deep into the mess that nobody would expect that he could be objective.

  Outsiders, that is. Hunters would know, but Parsons would be playing a political role, as much as she might want to do otherwise.

  Rachel rose and gave him a dirty look as she handed the doc a card.

  Greyson had enough interesting women in his life already. Denise had held onto his card and called him after that investigation was over. So had Emmy.

  This was not a scavenger hunt, regardless of the appraising look the doc gave him. The secret smile that said she had been thinking exactly of calling him up in a month or two and inviting him out for drinks or something.

  Or something.

  The doctor vanished back into the innards of the hospital and Greyson found himself at the center of the other three.

  “Now what?” Parsons asked, studying him with hard eyes. “Or am I better off pretending I don’t know anything so I have plausible deniability later, Leigh?”

  “Jansen is a thread connecting the folks in Records to whoever hired an assassin,” Greyson replied. “I doubt he’s the one who had it in for me. He’s too lazy to build a conspiracy. And too dumb to look around when someone else is building one and using him, if I had to be an asshole on the topic.”

  “Who are you going after next?” Redhawk spoke up now, nodding to Parsons as she stepped slightly back.

  Physically isolating herself, as it were.

  “Considering the four of us and what we represent, I have three candidates in mind,” Greyson said. “But I don’t have enough information in hand to ask for warrants yet.”

  Parsons nodded at that and immediately turned for the outside door, stiletto heels clacking as she walked.

  “Edgar, keep me posted,” she called over her shoulder, and then was gone.

  Greyson grinned. One down. The hard one, too. The honest cop, because Rachel was almost as angry as he was now.

  “Short trip, long trip, or local?” Redhawk asked now.

  Florida, Vladivostok, or the North Shore?

  Zielinski, Kwan, or Owens?

  “We have a few days before Jansen is awake and able to contact whoever it is to give them warning that I’m coming.” Greyson felt his smile turn shark-like. “Given leaks, I’d rather not ask for a judge to sign off on a warrant right now, even under seal, so I’m just going over to Fred’s place to pick up some clothing and things for him. You know, friendly face around the office, since he doesn’t have a wife or girlfriend that we’re aware of.”

  “Beware of admissibility,” Redhawk warned him.

  “If this goes down the way I think it will, it probably won’t end in a criminal prosecution, Redhawk,” Greyson warned the man back. “Jansen was truly an unforeseen accident. A fool who should have known better, but got in over his head doing a favor for a friend. Probably only guilty of things that leave a letter of reprimand in his file and nothing more.”

  “And his friends?” Redhawk asked.

  “They’re going down hard,” Greyson promised. “The kid gloves are off. If I end up protecting Rutherford and Denise in this, that’s accidental, because somebody wanted me dead and I see no reason not to return the favor.”

  Redhawk studied him for a long moment and then nodded to some inner conversation.

  “Don’t brief me,” he said abruptly. “Just file your regular reports and I’ll pull out the pieces I need for Denise from that. I’d appreciate if your first call was my way, before you called for EMS or backup, just so we can set the right firewalls at our end. Nothing personal.”

  “No offense taken,” Greyson said. “We’re all adults here.”

  Redhawk nodded, smiled to Rachel, and left.

  Greyson turned to Rachel. Noted the anger coming off the woman like steam.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said. “We need to move quickly.”

  15

  Breaking and Entering

  Greyson knocked quietly on the door, just in case someone really was there and would answer. Or to scare off whoever was already breaking into Jansen’s flat before he got there to do the same thing.

  After a moment, he pushed the key he had taken from Fred’s personal items into the first lock and started undoing them. He’d get the ring back to the hospital long before Fred needed them.

  Like many people Greyson knew, Jansen had three locks set in the door. The knob one that came with the place, plus a deadbolt that might and might not have a decent strikeplate. Then the other one, set at eyeball level later by the tenant with a solid plate. The kind that would hold against anything but a team of cops with a ram and a running start.

  Rachel watched the hallway, but managed to look casual about it. That was pretty good acting on her part, considering how angry the woman still was every time he caught her reflection in something.

  Nobody on this floor stuck their heads out to see, but this was the kind of neighborhood that might not call the cops if they heard screaming in the back alley. Rough place.

  Why Jansen chose to live here wasn’t clear, but Greyson remembered from somewhere that Fred had been at this address for more than a decade. Like so many other things about the man, maybe he was just too lazy to change until it was forced upon him.

  This place made more sense if you were on a rookie cop’s salary, before making it to Detective in the Hunter Bureau.

  The final lock surrendered and Greyson automatically reached back for his palmstunner. Behind him, he caught a quickly-suppressed snort from Rachel as he slipped the key ring into his pocket.

  “Really?” she whispered.

  Greyson went ahead and did it anyway, opening the door and entering behind the barrel.

  He already knew he was dealing with trouble, just not the shape it would take. And he didn’t know anybody he could ask about Fred’s personal life without tipping somebody off that the game was moving forward.

  So palmstunner instead of nerve scrambler. At least he could apologize later if he had to.

  Or wanted to.

  Greyson reached in and flicked on the hall lights as Rachel turned to follow him.

  Entryway. Same linoleum floor as the hall outside. Lasted forever and could be cleaned with a mop or a robot. Ugly, faux-wood paneling on the walls that had been briefly in style in the late Thirties. About the time a young cop named Jansen might have first moved in.

  Living room on the left of the door. Dining room on the right with the kitchen behind it going back. All the furniture looked old and worn. Mismatched in that way that it did when something broke and you bought a replacement second hand from whatever they had in stock. Mostly wood, but stained in colors everywhere from honey down to walnut. Rugged looking, at least.

  Greyson sighed quietly to himself as he moved out of the way for Rachel to enter. He closed the door and set the locks again.

  Looking around, he mentally down-rated Fred Jansen another notch. Greyson had been hoping that the man was just a slob at work, and secretly had something more exciting going on at home. A hobby that he might ob
sess about. An interest beyond the latest sportsball season.

  Something.

  Anything.

  Greyson had his synth whiskey and his classical music to keep him focused whenever he managed to be off duty. Books had once been a thing. There would be something new whenever he finally got settled into being a Hunter again.

  Anything but ties.

  Rachel was forever doing homework, so reading and writing papers. Occasional classes, but the program she was in was built around a working cop’s hours, which meant she was mostly studying at home until she was ready and then scheduling a test, rather than being on some professor’s clock.

  Fred Jansen’s flat felt more like a hotel room. Generic prints on the walls that looked like something he’d picked up at a pawn shop. Mismatched. Couch worn from one butt but not two, lined up to face a screen on the wall separating the living room from the kitchen.

  Nothing at all that gave the room flavor or even personality.

  Greyson stepped past Rachel to glance into the kitchen before heading back into the living room. There was a hallway with a door on the right and the left facing each other, plus another one on the end he figured went to the one bedroom.

  Both were open as he got closer, with the bathroom on the right, running across the back of the small kitchen. There was a linen closet on the left with a washer/dryer unit stacked in back, going to the outer wall of the flat.

  The bedroom door was partly opened, so Greyson peaked in.

  Studio style, stretching all the way across the width. Greyson could see a simple bed, double wide with a headboard and nightstand on this side. Clock. Lamp. Knick-knacks. Bad art.

  Light from the hallway spilled in, so he pushed the door the rest of the way. Dresser lined up with the door, between a pair of windows that were covered.

  The only interesting thing was the built-in vanity mirror and counter on the left wall, opposite the bed. Space for a woman to sit and do her morning rituals, if she wore war paint. Rutherford did. Rachel didn’t.

  Jansen had configured it as an office, with a large, laptop computer resting awkwardly on the space. Like you had to look yourself in the face while surfing on the computer.

  Awkward, depending on your kinks.

  Sliding door closet was in the back corner. Greyson started there.

  Unlike Dominguez, Jansen lived a pretty mundane life outside the office as well as inside. Off-the-rack suits in muted colors ranging from boring green to boring black. White dress shirts. Footwear appropriate to all of Boston’s seasons, but not nearly as combat-oriented as his or Rachel’s.

  She had followed him into the bedroom.

  “Man lives like a monk,” she said simply. “Worse than you.”

  “How so?” he asked her, turning to see what she had.

  “I looked in the bathroom,” Rachel grinned. “Bachelor stuff and way dirtier than yours. Nothing left behind by a woman, so she didn’t probably come back more than once, if she ever existed. Plus, that bed’s not wide enough for two to sleep comfortably. Even you have a queen-sized Murphy. Bachelor who’s never lived with a woman and doesn’t try to keep it clean enough for one to want to spend the night.”

  “Huh,” he replied.

  Made sense. He’d been under military jurisdiction, so everything was sharp at all times. Tucked, cleaned, and bounce a loonie off it at random inspections.

  Jansen had stuff. Things on random shelves that he’d picked up somewhere, like Mardi Gras beads hanging from the post at the foot of the bed. Bobblehead dolls from local sports teams.

  But he just slept here. Jansen didn’t inhabit this space like Greyson did with his flat, or Rachel with her apartment.

  Greyson wondered if the woman who had been tending bar was as close as Fred Jansen was ever getting to having a wife. He’d have to remember to send someone over there in a day or two to let them know about Fred.

  Greyson Leigh certainly shouldn’t set foot in that place for a year, not if his first appearance had ended up with Jansen in the hospital. The locals wouldn’t find that nearly as unfortunate and he’d probably end up shooting someone before he could get back out the door safely.

  Let Parsons send a uniformed officer around to tell them.

  But not until after Greyson Leigh had what he needed.

  “What are we looking for?” Rachel asked, stepping close to that vanity where the computer rested but not turning the machine on.

  Greyson joined her. Most people tended to leave their lives on their personal machines. Certainly, the work comm was always subject to all manner of rules and restrictions about what you could do with it.

  Plus Internal Affairs routinely inspected them from the back side.

  The rules weren’t enforced that much, because Hunters tended to also have to meander into the darker corners of cyberspace as well as the streets when they were at work, but still…

  Greyson wondered if there was a way to have someone in Computer Forensics take this machine apart for him without making too big of a noise back at the Bureau. Did anyone owe him favors? Or hate Jansen enough?

  Closer now, he saw something interesting out of the corner of his eye. Greyson reached out a hand and flipped on the light switch. Half the bulbs didn’t come on, but they were perfect even/odd, so he presumed that Jansen had set them that way.

  All the lights on and it would be too bright to do anything but apply makeup.

  Jansen had pictures tucked into the frames of the mirror. Actual photographs on paper. Weird. Lots of them, all the way around, showing the life you’d never guess a guy like Fred had indulged in.

  Sporting events. Concerts. Cars.

  Huh.

  When Greyson had been a kid, nobody did that, but that was him showing his age. Up until the last bits of the Twentieth Century, everything was done with chemical film. Then electronic cameras came along and everyone just recorded images.

  At one point, various social media sites had come along in cyberspace and you uploaded them all for the world to look at, but folks tended to take thousands of shots and then forget about them until their comm was full and they had to either offload them to be lost forever or delete a bunch.

  Ink printed on paper almost represented an archaeological thing. He felt like he should bring a research librarian in here just so he could have them explain what that generation before he’d been born had been like, except he was familiar enough with it to tell Rachel if he needed.

  Jansen wasn’t that old. The man was thirty-seven. Average as cops went. Young for humans, as he hadn’t even reached that middle-aged stretch where you had a mid-life crisis.

  But law enforcement tended to chew people up, so you could qualify for a full pension at twenty years, depending. The army had been the same way, and Greyson had that money land in his account every month, two days before his paycheck.

  He wondered if Jansen might be close enough to qualify for a medical hardship when he got out of the hospital, if he ended up getting caught up in whatever conspiracy Greyson found.

  Might be a good way for Parsons or Upkins to get the man out of the way politely.

  Because there was a second picture kind of tucked behind what looked like a concert ticket for a band Greyson had never heard of, playing a show downtown six years ago.

  Greyson pulled the one from behind. The one that had caught his eye even though he couldn’t initially tell what it was.

  Maybe the placement had looked guilty? Tuck it in out of sight from a casual stranger breaking into the place, like Greyson and Rachel, but still at hand? Something.

  And important enough to have been printed, saved, and displayed on the mirror where Fred Jansen did all his work.

  Greyson didn’t recognize the boat, but he knew where the picture had been taken. And the two men in it, posing in front of a big fish hanging mouth-down from a scale on a wharf. In a marina with perfect sun and amazingly blue water.

  Fred Jansen, with one arm around Olek Jan Zielinski’s shoulders,
both men smiling like fiends.

  “Oh,” Rachel spoke up from close enough that he could smell her shampoo. “Florida, huh? That’s our next stop?”

  “Florida,” Greyson nodded.

  Zielinski had retired down there as the price of Greyson Leigh coming back into harness. But the tan on the man’s face said that this picture wasn’t all that old.

  Maybe a month or two? Right after someone had stolen a picture from a computer file? And knew a place where you could get them printed out on real, honest to goodness paper as a personal memento?

  Greyson wondered if Zielinski had told the man at the time that it was going to be a target on a dartboard or something equally bland and innocent.

  Or if Fred Jansen had already been in it up to his nose when Greyson walked into that bar to ask.

  He was going to need some answers soon.

  16

  Downtown

  Rachel could tell, just from the set of his shoulders as they walked back to the car with a duffle bag full of clothes for Jansen when he got released, that Greyson was going to cause trouble. The nasty kind.

  She’d never seen the grief between the man and Zielinski, but Greyson had been gone before she arrived. In fact, near as she could tell, she’d permanently filled the slot in the department that had opened when Greyson Leigh got forcibly retired the first time.

  But she’d been partnered with the notorious playboy Carlos Dominguez for those long months. Not a stone-cold killer like Leigh.

  And then Zielinski had been the price Greyson demanded of the Metropolitan for his return.

  Gone, just like that. But she knew now that nobody but Leigh could have solved that case. Those two Phrenic had been too lucky.

  Sure, they were smart. The species had been engineered for brains and social capability. You needed that to be able to shapeshift into someone else and fool their closest friends and lovers. Having access to their memories was good, but only got you so far.