Chapter #15Too Many Coincidences by: Seuzz   Elliot's ID of the girl on the basis of her legs is flimsy at best, but it gives you and Knotts both a bad turn. "So Elliot's a leg man," you argue after Knotts has dismissed him. "That's not enough to connect his girl with Chernov's, not without him IDing her by hair or dress or anything else."
"There is nothing else, Kips," she says. "Lamb found the girl late this morning. He diverted what's left of her to us, and the elves are looking her over now."
That's a nasty way to put it. "What do you mean by 'what's left of her'?"
"I told you it was a wig. CID found it in a dumpster by the building. Along with a pair of sunglasses, a short leather trench coat, miniskirt, some fishnet stockings, and high heels." She points to the screen grab. "Basically, everything except what little we can see of her face and legs.
"What are the elves doing with it?"
"Tossing it for DNA. Along with redoing— Oh, this day!" She rakes at the air with claw-like fingers and sighs deeply. "Hill is in the shadow mind so we can get his brain into Lamb. But I get in this morning and they tell me the machine crashed during the night."
"Fuck. Did they get anything usable out of the biff?"
"No. So Lamb has to fake his way through the investigation for another day or two until they get it going again. That, or we throw Hill back on the street and drop an anvil on him." Her face is very tight. "Meanwhile, we're now down another operative," she says quietly. "And that's a damnable coincidence."
You don't say anything right away, because you're not sure she wants it said. But finally it feels like it has to be laid out: "There's only one way it's not a coincidence."
Her eyes shift to your face without changing expression. "You're suggesting Chernov and Stanfill each had a red carpet rolled under them."
"No, I'm just saying that's the only way it isn't a coincidence. But it has to be, Knotts, it has to be a coincidence. All we've got is Elliot's leg fetish to link Chernov's girl and Stanfill's. And I told you the girl's the wrong shape to be a celebrity." You tap the monitor. "As for Stanfill— Maybe it was the constable's sister who showed up, their mum is dying and Stanfill couldn't say no. So off he went with her."
"He'd get word back to us."
"He did."
"One message, which could have come from anyone. It was a text. He'd have called by now."
"I'd have called, Knotts. But an ex-jeep like Stanfill, would he have the sense to?"
"He wasn't green. He wasn't far from getting a promotion."
"You'll make yourself crazy if you start thinking we're in the middle of a premiere."
"Paranoia keeps us alive," she says. "It worked for Zack."
"Fine. So why now, why this way? Hollywood has to know about us, the celebrities have made us before. So why don't we have Greystoke, or Firecracker or Brunhilde or Elmore, blowing their way in through our front door? Why now, and in this very indirect way? Like a sniper?"
"Maybe it is a sniper, maybe it's only one of them," Knotts says. Her eyes are a little feverish. "And maybe that sniper has a reason now to take us down now."
"And what would that be?" you ask, and greatly dislike the feeling, like a trickle of icy water, that goes down your spine.
"The shadow mind," she says. "The elves thought it was impossible in principle, that's what they kept telling us. Now we know it is possible. Better, they think they'll get it running in the next few weeks. And the celebrities— Well, as far as we can tell, guys like us can only do a fraction of what the celebrities can do. Maybe with the shadow mind we're getting a little too close to replicating one of them a little too fully, a little too accurately?"
"I don't want to have nightmares tonight," you say, and she doesn't stop you when you abruptly leave.
* * * * *
You could have asked Knotts about her visit with Stanfill last night, and what he told her, but you're pretty sure that's what she did when she threw that coffee cup at your head. But you're not looking to share the pain, so that's not the reason you go over to the Barracks.
Well, it's mostly not the reason.
"Got a work order to upgrade your thermostat, miss," you tell the red-haired, green-eyed beauty who opens the door to number four. You grin widely, showing the three teeth you've got in your head.
"I don't know anything about an upgrade," she says doubtfully.
"I'd be surprised if you did. I didn't know about it m'self until thirty minutes ago." You fish out the dirty pink sheet of paper. She takes it and studies it closely.
"I mean, no one told me there'd be any upgrades. What kind of upgrades?"
"Remote control over the heaters and coolers, make sure you're not using them too much."
Her eyes narrow. "I hardly use them at all."
"In that case, you won't mind if headquarters or 'oomever does it for you," you cheerfully observe.
She eyes you narrowly, but she lets you in.
You banter and tease in a highly creditable way, you think, as she leads you to the little box, and you expertly unscrew it. "See this bit here?" you say, pointing to a tiny rod. "Gonna take that out, then put in a little chip that'll let some wide-bottomed type off in Somerset or Le Havre set it for you, turn it up and down for you. Save you a lot of bother."
"And how will he know if it's too hot or too cold in here?"
"They're clever enough to build the system, miss. I didn't say they was clever enough to know how to run it."
She watches for a bit as you fuss and fiddle, then turns for another room. You quickly slip a red marker and a small knife from your pocket. The knife you put to the side of her throat. "Now you just be very quiet, miss," you say, and touch the back of her shirt with the marker. "And we'll have a little—"
She whirls free of the knife, kicks your feet from under you, and slams a hard arm across the front of your throat as you fall. Your head hits the floor at a bad angle, and the world briefly triples its population of reflective surfaces. She kicks the knife from your hand, then plants her footon your neck.
"Hrk. Well, at least you know how to handle a knife-wielding maniac," you croak in a strangled voice.
"Who are you," she demands.
"Kipper. Just lemme touch the release—"
"Ah, fuck it, I like you better looking like that." She lets off you, and says something very rapid in a Chinese dialect.
"You should check anyway," you say, and touch your left shoulder with your bare right palm. Beneath the coveralls, your form shifts, and most of the pain from Liu's counterattack vanishes. "Between that and your failing the drill—"
"I didn't fail shit," she says, and her eyes flash. "I put you on the floor in five seconds."
"You were dead before you moved. Check the back of your shirt." She frowns as you show her the marker, and she twists around, chasing the red mark you'd put on her. "You were thinking about the knife and the rape, not the gun and the contract on your ass. Neh, I'll let it slide. You and the others are in enough trouble as it is."
Liu snorts and falls onto a couch. He snorts again when you order him to change into his birthday skin. Very briefly you have a hard time deciding who the person on the couch looks like, and then you decide it looks like Liu. You also decide it's very much a change for the worse. "So what's the remedial training for," he asks.
"To check your readiness. Now a pop quiz, just a quick game of 'What If'. What if I took you out, right now, and swapped you in for the girl who lives in that house across the street?"
"I'd be in the wrong house," he says. "It's a gay couple that lives there."
"Wait, what? Lydia moved? Fuck. Okay, so what if I put you in for one of those guys? Right now. What would you do?"
"I'd pick a fight with my husband, get mad, stop speaking," he says without hesitating. "Let him do the talking and start picking up clues from that."
"Okay. Now, what if he's not home when I swap you in, but he comes home at four o'clock in the morning and tries talking you into leaving. He says your mum is dying and wants to see you before she slips into her final, fatal coma."
"I duck into the bathroom and swallow the nastiest shit I can find, making me sick enough that tragically I can't make the trip."
"What if the pills are so potent you nearly faint, and he gets you out the door and into a car?"
"I text my zampo, telling him where I'm going and where I am. Constantly."
"Uh huh. Well, not a bad set of answers from a dead man," you allow. "What's your opinion of Stanfill? Would he know enough to act the same way?"
"I dunno. Why don't you ask him? He should be back in thirty minutes." You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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