part0006

Bert is a Familiar Unit, which basically means that he’s one of a line of mass-produced AIs. While most serve as family-friendly pet substitutes, some are used as glorified guard dogs. In Bert’s case, I managed to convince the retailer to give him a mix of both the “Family” and “Protector” programming, meaning that my shiny little bat-winged, beaked gargoyle is what would happen if you had a particularly sarcastic cat that was loyal enough to tackle intruders. Undeterred by my statement, Bert continues to stare, completely unflinching.

“I’m allowed to get annoyed sometimes, Bert.”

“Caw,” he agrees, but remains in place.

I roll my eyes and throw my toast down in frustration before blurting, “Ceoi zoeng , I’m pissed off with Lori, okay? She put me in a position where I not only couldn’t turn a case down but couldn’t even take any time to think about it either. And worst of all, she thinks I’m going to thank her for it when it’s all done.”

Bert opens his eye rings slightly and readjusts his wing claspings to the opposite side, leaving the tip of the left one on top of the right. He says nothing and waits patiently from his position at the opposite end of the work-slash-breakfast table.

“Okay, so if it works out, it’s good money. A lot of money too for the case type. Maybe, and I mean maybe , I will thank her for that. But not until we’ve had a long talk about professional and personal boundaries.” I take an angry gulp of coffee because when you’re me, you can make anything look angry. “I mean, I’m right, right? The money’s good, missing pets are usually easy, but she had no right to put me in that position. Right?”

Bert opens his beak slowly, then lets it clatter shut in response, creating a rattly metallic clink-clink-clink-clink-clink sound. Well, that’s new.

“Good talk, Bert,” I sigh and head to the bedroom to get dressed.

Always one to get the last word in, my favourite little gargoyle waits until I get to the doorway before responding with a rather pleased sounding, “Caw,” and heading off to the kitchen to investigate the new oven again.

I’D AGREED TO meet Kitsune a little before lunchtime so that I could pick up some information. Having not been expecting to be dragged into a case on what was supposed to be an evening off, I hadn’t brought any Case Tools with me for them to complete. So instead, I’d given them a list of information off the top of my head to get started with but warned them that they’d need to give me their answers in hard copy and then duplicate them on one of my own tools. They had no issue with that, and so, here I am, standing outside a tour bus parked at the back of the theatre. Looking at the scrapings lining its shell, the bus has obviously seen a fair few miles this tour. The lock on the door is surprisingly basic too; no fingerprint scanners, just a simple keypad and key slot combo.

I straighten my tie and give the door a quick rap. Kevin Smitt opens the door, wearing an expression that is far less apologetic and far more irritated than the one he had the last time I saw him. He steps back inside without saying anything. I take that as all the invitation I’m getting and follow him into the bus. “Nice to see you again too,” I grump, sliding the door shut.

“I’m going to need some signatures,” Kevin replies, shoving a small wad of papers at me.

Kitsune appears behind Kevin, TS gear in place, but wearing a loose-fitting ensemble of sweater, shirt, and tracksuit bottoms instead of the show kimono. Seeing them towering above the angry manager is a strong reminder of how much height the hybrid-style suits add to a person. Users slip their heels into the digitigrade legs at the point of the suit’s ankles, and most of the elongated feet are solid machinery. It’s the same in animal-style suits, but because the person wearing it is down lower, the increase doesn’t usually register with me. Hybrids, though, pretty much gain another shin’s worth, if not more, in height, and it’s very noticeable.

Kitsune waves me over to a small table and asks, “Do you remember when I said about the waivers that my parents had to sign?” I nod and sigh, seeing where this is going. “Kevin thinks some of the things that you’ve requested may lead to you learning my true identity.”

“Of course they will,” Kevin grunts. “Anything that leads to a pre-show CCTV review will show your face.” He turns to me then and adds, “I hope you realise how difficult it was to get these set up overnight.”

I shrug. “PIs don’t just click their fingers and solve cases, Mr. Smitt. It doesn’t matter what a client hires me to do, I still need information to operate, and I usually have to figure out what information it is that I need with very little notice. You got your paperwork ready, and I got my list together. Let’s call that a small victory and leave it at that. Got a pen?”

“I do,” Kitsune replies and leans over Kevin’s shoulder to hand me a stick of cheap plastic and ink.

I spend a couple of minutes reading through the waiver, and mentally note the main caveats. If I learn Kitsune’s true name, I can’t mention it, and I can’t reveal that I’m working Kitsune’s case, just in case anyone else figures out who they are. There are some other minor things in there about the storage of files relating to the case, but nothing too heavy, so I sign without kicking up any more of a fuss than I find amusing. Sure, there were a couple of scowls and huffs, but you can’t blame a girl for enjoying herself.

“Is your partner going to be working the case with you?” Kevin asks.

“We’re not that sort of partners,” I grunt, then add silently, nor am I talking to her right now.

“Good,” Kevin snaps and retreats to the back of the tour bus.

Kitsune leans back and says, almost musically, “Oh, Kevin, some water would be lovely. Cassie?”

I can see the glint in Kitsune’s eyes, and call, “Coffee. Milk, no sugar.” From the clanking at the far end of the vehicle, I’m guessing that there’s a full kitchenette back there. Fancy. I pull a thick, metal disc out of my pocket and place it on the table. “This is the Case Tool I mentioned. It’s equipped with a holo-keypad, and everything that it sends is stored on my private server, so there shouldn’t be any security issues. I take it from the waiver that you managed to pull together the stuff I asked for?”

Kitsune nods and hands me a sheet of paper. “The last three tour stops, and a list of places visited here along with dates and, where possible, times. I’ve noted what I was wearing each day too. It’s the same baseball cap each day. It’s a simple thing, but it hides the plugs, which helps disguise who I am. As to where we were parked when Fish went missing, that was here.”

Kevin returns and places a glass of water with a long straw in front of Kitsune. He places my coffee far less delicately in front of me and pulls over a spare chair, purely so that he can cross his arms and glare at me from a more comfortable position.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Smitt?”

“I’m just at a loss as to why I’ve had to go to so much bother. Could you not have done all this without the need for so much sensitive information?”

“Sure. I could take a photo and go door to door. You never know, if Kitsune is right about Fish being stolen, maybe seeing me on their doorstep will cause the dognappers to have an attack of conscience and just give him back. That’s if they live locally. I suppose I could traipse through every surrounding city too, just to be sure, though. Does that sound reasonable?”

I take a mouthful from my mug and say, “I’m glad your coffee making is better than your attitude. If you honestly think that’s the way I go about my work, then you haven’t read up on me enough. If Fish running away was likely, then door to door would be my first step. Given what Kitsune told me, digging deeper makes more sense. Try to think about it like your paperwork. You take the time to do the legal stuff because that’s what it takes to protect the Kitsune brand. I do the digging because that’s what it takes to do a thorough job.”

“Fine. Do whatever you want, Detective, we’re certainly paying you enough.” Kevin gets up and storms out of the tour bus, grumbling loudly, but incoherently to himself.

“Don’t mind him,” Kitsune says. “When Fish disappeared, Kevin actually went running out to see what was going on. I think he’s worried about the poor little fluffball too.”

“Did he see the van you mentioned?”

“No, I am afraid that it was long gone by then. If he thinks of anything, though, I’ll note it down when I complete the Case Tool.”

“Good.” I nod. “That may be useful.”

“So, what happens now?”

“Now, I go for a walk and see what cameras I’m going to need warrants for.”

THAT KITSUNE ONLY gave me one sheet of paper let me know pretty quickly they didn’t go to too many places during the week-long buildup to the show. As it stands, their excursions into the main city ran like clockwork. The morning hours were blank, which I’m guessing was due to sleep and any regular routine they have. After that, they took Fish for a walk around the local park at around 11:00 p.m. That was followed by a trip to Cartwright’s, a dog-friendly cafe a few blocks from Main Street. Much like the morning walk, that was around 11:30 every morning, without variation. After that, it was back to the theatre for rehearsals, meetings, and equipment checks until 5:00 a.m., when Kitsune would do another quick walk around the block with Fish while Kevin sorted out some food.

The area around the theatre will have a few CCTV cameras set up, so that shouldn’t be too hard to track. Cartwright’s will be more difficult. That whole block is in the low crime zone, so not many buildings have cameras set up. Why does it sound familiar, though? I don’t go out that way often.

I sigh and start walking around the theatre building. There’s one camera set up near to the tour bus, so that’ll be one warrant unless I can get Kitsune or Kevin to convince them to give me access. It looks like there are cameras on each side of the building too, so depending on which way the van went, that could be useful. I start making my way towards the park, keeping an eye out for any potentially useful cameras on display while I wait for a couple of traffic signals to change. It’s not until I’m halfway there that I realise I haven’t confirmed which way Kitsune walked to the park. Stupid Cassie . I pull my phone out. I try the shared cell that lives in the tour bus because that’s the only phone number I could get for Kitsune, but it rings through to voice mail.

“Hey, it’s Cassie. I just wanted to check which route you took when you walked Fish to the park. I’m guessing it’s up by Northfleet Apartments, across the main road, and around by Seventh Son Music on Cross Street. I’ll work to that for now, but I won’t pester for any footage until you confirm if I’m right.”

I hang up. I’m pretty sure that I am right. This is the most direct route from the theatre to the park’s south entrance. Cartwright’s is nearer the north entrance, and it has a direct route back to Cross Street through one of the smaller shopping districts that houses the independent and upstart stores. I should probably have asked Kitsune to confirm if that was their route back too. I guess I’ll have to do that when they call back. Until then, I’ll stick with logic and intuition. This part of the route at least has a few options for cameras, though I doubt that they’d all capture Kitsune’s walk.

The park reminds me a little of Lori. The whole thing is so well maintained by the local government that it seems to have an eternal shine to the thick grass, seemingly untouched by the seasons or weather, despite being entirely real. It’s a lot like the grass outside Dean Hollister’s office at the top of the local Shift Source Limited building. I doubt I would have ever seen that little piece of unexpected beauty if I hadn’t taken Lori’s case. She’ll be there today, actually, finally taking Hollister up on his offer of a free servicing for Ink. “That’s enough distracting yourself.” I sigh. “You’re angry with her, remember? Work time now.”

The inside of the park has a long, winding walk set out that takes you through the entire area, all clearly marked by a decorative stone path. Hollister was right when he said that we shouldn’t leave nature behind, but it does stick out against all the tech-covered surroundings. Maybe that’s the point. It could be designed to show contrast rather than the balance found in places like the theatre. Regardless, it’s not untouched by the hands of progression; there are a handful of tree-mounted cameras surveying the walk. I can’t see any pointing towards the open sections, but I can check that with the government offices if I have to.

I leave the park by the north gate, cross the road, and turn onto Dunstone Avenue. It’s a nice area. A few trees line either side of the road, though they grow sparser as you get closer to the more typically modern Main Street. In a way, it’s kinda like the parkland is stretching out into the surrounding area, but with its fingertips only reaching halfway up the street. Still, Cartwright’s at least has a security system in place. The opposite side of the road is residential with no such mod cons on display, so that’ll be a door-to-door check at best. Maybe someone saw something, maybe they didn’t. There’s no way to know just yet.

I turn right at the end of Dunstone and walk through the unmarked run of small stores. Most of them focus on customised or specialist tech supply so, while there’s nothing on display, I’d guess they’d have some cameras about. What amazes me with this area is that, while the stores are small in name value, their buildings are pretty big. I think I read somewhere that they’re all converted storage units or something. The bigger name brands that came to New Hopeland early on used to pack them out with stock and supplies until their own buildings were suitable for housing or cheaper alternatives could be found. After that, they converted them and started renting them out to up-and-coming types that would either give them a good chance of guaranteed long-term income or potentially prove useful for future deals. In a way, it almost makes the street less of a modern underground market and more of a proving ground.

Cross Street comes into view, and I make the automatic decision to turn left and head towards South Main Street. One way or another, I’m going to need to get some warrants, and since I now can’t let the PD know who I’m working for, I’m going to need to file them as being related to an alias. I can’t set a fake ID up myself, but I do know someone who already owns a few.

“Here’s hoping you’re in a sharing mood, Devin.”

IF THE CENTRAL theatre is a representation of what New Hopeland was supposed to be, Devin Carmichael is the perfect representation of the weird moral ambiguity it has embraced. As an assassin for hire, and a damned good one at that, he should be one of the bad guys by default. At the same time, though, Devin has his own moral code that he sticks to rigidly, and that means he won’t kill indiscriminately. Okay, so he’s still a killer, but given the local PD have been known to use him to clean up the messes they can’t scrub enough themselves, it’s not like he doesn’t help to keep the city from falling too far into the dark underbelly that most newcomers stumble across without meaning to.

Devin wasn’t in when I knocked earlier, so I treated myself to a much-needed late lunch and a less-needed session of dwelling on how I ended up with this job while I waited for him to materialise. The sun sets early at this time of year, and by the time he finally returns home, the night is beginning to draw in. There’s no point heading to the police station now. My usual contacts prefer the early start, early finish shifts and will either be heading home or getting out among the gathering nightlife. The officers that I’m less familiar with take their time with me. I can’t blame them for that, but the delay combined with my not yet having heard back from Kitsune would make it harder to get the footage I need, so I may as well wait for the morning.

“Nice view,” I say, staring out at the increasingly busy Main Street several stories below his penthouse window.

Devin leans back into his chair and lifts his right leg, resting the ankle across his left knee. He tilts his cowboy hat back and takes a mouthful of bourbon from a pristinely clean, shiny glass, then says in his slow Southern drawl, “It always is, Caz. And ya only ever comment on it when you want something.”

I glance back over my shoulder, and he treats me to one of his charming smiles that teeters on the dividing line between confidence and arrogance. I say treat because that’s how he describes the act. With his toned physique and vintage cowboy style, a lot of ladies, not to mention a lot of men, would take it as just that. To me, it’s more of a warning that he believes he holds all the cards, and I suspect he uses the same smile if he has to kill up close. As it happens, he does hold all the cards this time. Or the cards that I want anyway. Go fish, Cassie .

“Let me guess,” he says. “You want me to talk to the Redwood girl, right? Like I said before, darlin’, it ain’t happening. Business is business, she should know that in her line of work.”

I did try to get Devin to smooth things over with Lori. I work with him in a minor capacity on a regular basis, and her—admittedly understandable—hatred of him for killing her brother may make that difficult, at least in my head. Devin had done his research on the things that Lori had turned up during her journalistic excursions, and he’d argued that they’ve both wrecked lives and both followed their own views of good and bad, they just worked in different ways. He was very firm on that, which made me glad I hadn’t told Lori what I was doing. That’s not why I’m here today, though. I shake my head and take up residence in the seat opposite Devin.

“No, it’s not that. Thinking on it, I doubt that Lori would have been grateful anyway. I was just being stupid and trying to…whatever. I need something else.”

“Is that right? Well, in that case, shoot.”

“I’m working a missing dog case for a client who wants to remain anonymous. That’s going to be a problem, though, because I’m gonna need to slap a few warrants on people for some CCTV footage. No named client means no warrant, and I can’t just make something up because the pre-issue checks mean that the PD need to verify the existence of the client on the national citizen databases.”

“Of course. They can’t have ya taking whatever you want under the guise of a legitimate case now, can they? Now, if it’s a client that wants to remain anonymous, I’m gonna guess you’re working with that Tech Shift performer, Kitsune.”

And with that, what little semblance of a poker face I had drops. Devin laughs, and it has the same arrogant undertone as his smile. “Don’t look so shocked, Caz, it ain’t hard to figure out. If it’s nothing more than a lost pet, then there aren’t many reasons that the client is gonna want to remain nameless. Since Kitsune’s only travelling through and they make a point of hiding their identity, it was the most logical call. Now, with the right links, you could probably find out who they are easy enough, but I’ve got no interest in that. As long as his show’s good tomorrow afternoon, s’all good with me. What I want to know is why you’ve come to me?”

I sigh. “If you’ve figured out who I’m working for, then you know damn well what I need from you.”

Devin laughs again, and says, “Yeah, I do that. I just wanna hear you say it.” He leans forward and takes another swig of his bourbon. “C’mon, darlin’, entertain me.”

“Fine. I want to borrow one of your false IDs to use as a client name. An easily verifiable one, not one of those backdoor, underground ones that make you look like an ex-con.”

“Huh. Well now, I didn’t hear the magic word.”

“No please, no ID. Politeness don’t cost ya anything, Caz.”

I glare at Devin, and he flicks his eyebrows expectantly. I grit my teeth and manage, “Please,” and he starts laughing again.

“See? Now, was that so hard?” he asks, downing his remaining drink. “Sure, you can borrow one. I reckon that Mike Frost should be fine for what you’re wanting. I’ll get the details sent to your normal e-mail in an hour or so. Just don’t go getting the poor guy dragged into anything too unsavoury. He’s a nice guy.”

“Great,” I groan.

“Relax, darlin’. I only dick around with ya because I like ya. Believe it or not, unless you do something stupid, you’re on my no-kill list.”

“Good to know,” I reply and get to my feet. “As it is, you’re on my don’t-be-stupid-enough-to-try-to-arrest list.”

Devin smiles and shakes his head. “Hey, Caz. We ain’t friends, you don’t get those in my line of work, but you’re about as close as you can get with me, so I’ll tell ya this one for free. I’m glad you’ve got a case to work on right now. Do yourself a favour and concentrate on it. Don’t take on anything too big for a few days. There’re rumblings way down below that things could get real messy for a while. I know that things tend to snowball around you, so try to not to get caught in any avalanches, yeah?”

I raise a curious eyebrow at Devin, but I can see that I won’t get anything else out of him. His eyes are stony, and his jawline is too relaxed, which means he’s locked that particular door. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll see myself out.”

MORE COFFEE AND a light dinner in a local takeaway means that I make it back to my apartment a little before eight. Once I get the door open, I am greeted immediately by Bert, whose “caw” of a welcome essentially translates to “Oh, it’s you. And what time do you call this?” Judging by the way his eyes are flashing, I can put Bert’s apparent grumpiness down to him being low on battery, so I set him to sleep mode and plug him in to charge in the living room.

I noticed that I had both a missed call from Kitsune and a new voice message the moment I left Devin’s place, but looking at the time, there was no point calling Kitsune back as they’d probably be doing their final prep work for tonight’s show. I could have checked the message there and then but decided against it. If I hadn’t been stupid enough to knock my cell onto silent after calling Kitsune earlier, I would have heard when they called and happily discussed things in public. Listening to messages, though? I’ll only do that if it’s absolutely necessary. When I’m talking, I step almost entirely into work mode. In this case, that would have meant being very careful with my wording so as not to attract the wrong kind of attention. When I’m just listening, I start trying to pick out anyone who may be listening in, which distracts me from the message and leads me to having to repeat the task. Multiple times.

Now that I’m alone, though, I have no qualms with hitting the speed dial for voice mail.

“You have one new message,” I grumble, mocking the automated voice that precedes my inbox raid.

“Please confirm next action,” the voice says.

“Hi, it’s Kitsune, just returning your call. I guess you’re busy at the moment. You’re right. I know Northfleet Apartments because a charming old lady dumps some water out front every morning and always gives Fish a fuss. I think she leaves the water in the sink overnight to soak some bowls or something, but I guess you don’t need to know that. I didn’t notice the music store, but I definitely head up by Cross Street to get to the park. We walk right through and out the other end, eat at Cartwright’s, then come back the same way. I’d go sightseeing, but I’m not great with directions. Symptom of the work, right? I’m never in any one place long enough to learn the best routes, so I tend to find one route and stick to it both ways. Anyway, sorry, I’m babbling. If you need anything else, let me know.” The recording goes silent for a few seconds, bar some light static, then Kitsune adds, “Bye.”

“End of message. Please confirm next action.”

“Save message to online storage folder Case Retrieval.”

“Message saved,” the phone replies, and I hang up before it can ask me to confirm any more actions. The way I understand it, voice-activated phone menus used to be awful, especially if you had an accent. Modern tech has improved the functionality, but the menu voices are pretty damn annoying. I wouldn’t mind the emotionless tones if it wasn’t so obviously a simulated voice. I mean, I get removing the accents and natural vocal quirks makes it easier to understand, but it’s so ridiculously cold and tinny. I’d honestly rather they used some bored person under orders to monotone everything in slow, clear sentences. But hey, I’m not exactly the poster girl for embracing all things new and modern. Hell, I even prefer text messages to online messenger services, though that at least is because people tend to hack the messenger streams but don’t bother so much with text. The funny thing is texts are technically less secure than the messengers these days, but because of that, people avoid sending too much by text and hackers don’t bother wasting their time with them. Using that as a reason to use text more makes me feel like I’m getting one up on any potential personal-life-privacy-invaders. I’m using my own paranoia to justify using their beliefs about potential content against them. That makes me smile.

I make a quick coffee and head past the office, or rather the desk reserved for work and sometimes breakfast, that divides my kitchen and living room, and lower myself onto the coach with a groan. Kitsune using the same route there and back means it’ll be a bit easier to figure out which cameras to use. I should start deciding so I can figure out how many warrants I’ll need… No. This mess with Lori has been eating at me all day. Plus, this case is supposed to allow me some time off, so I think I can justify spending some time trying to fix things with my girlfriend rather than working myself to… Girlfriend ? Have I actually called her that before?

I shake my head and give Lori a quick call because talking about this over a distance is cowardly but more comfortable. The phone rings once, twice, three times, which is when she normally answers, then rings a fourth and fifth time before a scraping sound cuts in and Lori slurs, “Hi Cassie! How’s the case going?”

I laugh without thinking and comment, “You’re drunk.”

“I am not,” Lori replies indignantly. Someone in the background asks something and Lori tells them, “She thinks I’m drunk… I am not! You are… are … Jane thinks I’m drunk. Can you believe that?”

“Really? I don’t know what gave her that idea.”

“Yeah, see? Cassie doesn’t think I’m drunk, and she’s a detective, so she can tell these things.” I can hear Jane laugh in the background and Lori whispers into the phone, “Ignore her. She just doesn’t want to be the only one that’s in-ib-ri-at-ed.” She pauses then says, “I’m doing it, I’m doing it. I was talking to Jane, and she was saying some stuff, and I was wondering if you’re free tomorrow? I kinda need to talk and stuff.”

“Yeah, I don’t see why not. It’d have to be in the evening though. Is that okay? Maybe seven or eight?”

“The evening. Yes. I’ll be here.”

“Well, I was only calling to say hi,” I lie. “I’ll let you get back to your evening. Say hi to Jane for me.”

“Cassie says hi,” Lori says, her voice slightly muffled. She comes back to normal volume then and says, “Jane says hi too.”

“You two have fun.”

“We will. G’night, Cassie.”

“Good night, Lori,” I reply and hang up the phone, a big grin on my face. That’s the first time I’ve spoken to Lori while she’s drunk, and I for one am glad to see she’s every bit as bad as she said I was on our first date. While I would have preferred to sort this mess out tonight, Lori is in no fit state to talk things through right now, and that in itself is enough of a convenient excuse for me to run away and try to talk another day. Face-to-face is a better way to do it anyway, even if it means having to stew on it tomorrow if I fail to suitably distract myself. If neither of us ended up hanging up on the other, I was going to ask her about how the servicing went after the potential argument, but that can wait until tomorrow too. In this state, she’d probably fall into an endless cycle of double entendres.

“Well, I guess I better get back to work.”

I hold the power button for my tablet and it powers on with a cheerful, “Good evening, Cassandra.” I’ve got to hand it to Lori, the tech guy that she recommended worked wonders with the thing. It may not be as fast as some of the newer models the shops are trying to push on everyone, but it’s working a lot quicker now than it has in a long time. Without the frustrations of a slow-running system to contend with, I’ve also become more aware, while the audio is still clearly computerised, the developers of this system at least tried to get the machine to imitate some form of vocal emotion. It’s not quite authentic, but it’s a lot better than the phone company manages. I guess the telecommunications companies either have smaller budgets or simply don’t care about stuff like that.

I tap the voice command button and the machine asks, “How may I be of assistance?”

“Copy new files from primary folder phone link subfolder Case Retrieval to primary folder case files subfolder Kitsune. Verify when complete.”

The tablet flickers once and opens Kitsune’s electronic file, showing the audio file has copied successfully. I double tap the file and listen through it again to make sure it’s intact, then hold the voice command button again. After the standard question, I say, “Delete all files from primary folder phone link subfolder Case Retrieval. Verify when complete.”

The screen flickers again and opens the now empty folder for me.

A bright and cheery jingle from my phone draws my attention, and I’m surprised to see a message flash up confirming that I have a text from Jane. I met Jane while I was working Lori’s case and managed to put my foot in it with her pretty quickly. Despite our clashing a little at times, mostly due to a combination of her forward-yet-cheeky personality and my standoffish tendencies, I do like her. I open the message and read through it quickly.