“And for the millionth time,” I say, “call me Dixie, will ya?”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE’s a gap?”
“Check the file I sent you, detective.” The tech—a kid we call Shake on account of he always looks like someone just grabbed him and shook the hell out of him, and who I’d worked with before and trusted wholeheartedly—stares at me from the comm screen, hair mussed, glasses uneven. Typical cop geek, but one who’s good at his job. “You’ll see it. About three seconds. One moment, our guy is walking and talking and one-hundred percent not exploded, then three seconds of nothing, then, you know…”
“Oil spill.”
“Gazpacho.”
“Alright, thanks… hey, wait. Who could tamper with that video file?”
Shake gives a shrug that comes off like a tic. “Assuming it’s not a glitch, it’d have to be someone with access to the Maytime servers. It’s the primary place those A.I. unit feeds get stored. Local servers are in the city, backup servers are redundantly placed all over the world.”
“Uh-huh, so the global company who makes the gizmos has the only access? Gee, thanks. You just added three-thousand suspects to my list, all of them employees of Maytime.”
“Not necessarily. If someone accessed those files, and modified them, they’d want to cover it up, right?”
Smart boy. I nod. “A good assumption. So?”
“So… you’re talking about someone with access, and the authority or clearance to erase their digital fingerprints. I think your perp wears a tie, detective.”
“You could sell the Brooklyn Bridge, kid. Thanks.” I click off and the screen goes dark. I slide my finger over the activity glass on the desk and tap the Inbox icon, double-tap the email, locate the file, double-tap again. I flick my finger upward and the comm screen lights up with a full-color visual of the vic’s apartment. I check the time code as I watch our guy—middle-aged and average as a winter sunset—dig in his pockets for who knows what, apparently not finding what he’s looking for, then start walking toward the bathroom. When he reaches the foot of the bed, the screen goes dark.
The time stamp clicks away three seconds. When the apartment comes back into view, my guy’s an abstract painting.
Neat trick. I grunt and sigh, a bad habit when I’m perplexed, and lift my tablet. I scroll until I find the address I’m looking for. And wouldn’t you know it? Maytime Corporation’s world headquarters are half a mile away. Walking distance.
Sometimes things just work out.
Looks like I’m in for a pleasant, late-morning stroll, which reminds me of one of Mother’s favorite idioms: A brisk walk is good for the heart, good for the soul.
Humming an old tune I can’t tag the name of, I grab my sport coat off the chair and throw it on. The weather doesn’t call for it, but the gun clipped to my hip cries out for anonymity. I pocket my tablet and head for the sunshine.
A few moments later I step into the exhaust-scented embrace of the city, warm and sooty as dragon breath. Traffic is light. I turn south, replaying the video in my head. Think about that mysterious gap.
Three seconds.
Just enough time for a murder.
THE MAYTIME OFFICES ARE GENERIC as white paint. The building is nice, though. Modern and four stories. All the bells and whistles: wall screens, facial I.D. scan, self-sustaining planters popping with exotic flora, the bright colors a contrast to the gray concrete floors and glass dividers that constitute the open-plan first floor. Young people sit at pristine desks talking to the air, the mics in their ears picking up every syllable; youthful fingers flow across the activity glass set into each desk with fluid speed. The receptionist, pushed out into the lobby like a bulwark, is some sort of fashion model, all pouty lips and doe eyes. I could have used her dress for a glove.
I open my badge, try not to be hurt by her unimpressed stare. “Good morning. I’m looking for whoever’s in charge of your media storage, specifically the video captured by your home-based A.I. units.”
“You mean Beximo?”
I nod, put away the tin. “Yeah, that’s the one. Who do I talk to?”
She frowns as if thinking over my question, or perhaps going over what she wants to eat for lunch. I assume salad. Maybe a couple rabbit pellets on the side. “That would be Gemini Harris,” she says, sounding bored.
“Great. Where is she right now?”
“He. And he’s most likely at his desk.”
She turns and my eyes track with her toward the far corner of the bullpen, where there’s some enclosed offices for higher-ups. Still, the walls are glass so I can see the blurry image of a wide-eyed face watching us.
Like an idiot, I point. “That the guy?”
“Yes, but….”
But nothing. All it takes is my dumb finger and a look of furrowed concentration to send Gemini Harris leaping from his office like a cat from a bath. He disappears down a hidden corridor.
Damn!
“No games, kid, or I’ll haul your ass in for obstruction. Where’s he gonna end up?”
The shaken receptionist does a good job of organizing her priorities. “Cantos Avenue. There’s a fire exit. He must have taken…”
I let her novel dangle and race for the doors.
Outside I hook a right and make it to the corner in time to see my favorite new suspect close the door on an autocab. He gives me a harried look out the back window as the cab pulls into traffic. I twist toward the street and raise a hand toward a regular taxi two lanes deep. The driver does a nifty maneuver and pulls alongside me. I jump in the back, hold up the badge to keep discourse to a minimum. “Hang a right, follow that autocab, the green one.”
I hear a whir of hydros and the robot’s head does a one-eighty. “I do not understand that destination.”
Ain’t that just my luck? A gearhead cabbie with chips for brains.
