Chimera (7 page)

The cat said, "Unless Doyle reprogrammed some that look like they're working normally."

Blake turned to Prof. "Can we run complete checks on every copbot in South California? Immediately?"

Prof said, "You've got it," and headed across the room for a phone.

Blake said, "Assuming there's one Doyle, any Trojan Horse copbots will need an activation code that'll never come. We should know in a few hours if any of them are infected."

I said, "What's the rest of your best-case scenario?"

"What you saw on the North Hollywood video. Doyle tries to get the earring from Zoe and fails. The only loose end is the earring itself."

"And evidence for the theory."

"There is that. Or should I say there isn't that?"

The cat said, "If Doc was working on a human-looking AI, why would she keep it secret?"

I said, "She must've had a non-disclosure agreement."

Blake added, "Most states have laws against making non-humans that can pass."

The cat said, "Sure. But if one escaped, she would've notified someone, law or no law. She wouldn't let something like that run around loose."

Blake said, "I know you'd like to think so. But our files are full of people who panicked and tried to cover up something they shouldn't have."

I said, "Gold said something about checking on a project with a friend. Finding the friend looks like the next step to me."

"Me, too." Blake looked at the cat. "Can you give us a list of the people you know she worked with?"

"As far as I know, none of them are in South California."

"Maybe one moved here." Blake indicated a computer terminal. "You can type it up there."

The cat nodded, took a seat, and began typing.

I asked Blake, "What's your worst-case scenario?"

"Absolute worst?"

I nodded.

"A private detective gets in the way and winds up dead while the bad guys escape."

"Ask Jody Frye in Missing Persons about me. I play fair, and I'm no glory hound."

"That's about all we can ask for."

"So what's your second-worst scenario?"

Blake glanced at the cat, bit her upper lip, then smiled and shook her head. "All right. Suppose there are more Doyles. Whoever built them might be changing their appearance as we speak. Maybe the bad guys are using them to remove anyone they see as a threat. If they think Zoe was Gold's partner, she just moved to the top of their list. And if they know you're working for her, you're just another loose end. I want her to have police protection. You should consider it, too."

"Ah, it's nice you care. But I can't."

"Why not?"

"It's part of the detective's code."

"Which part?"

"The part that says thou shalt not let the police hold thy hand when thou art frightened, lest those who would become thy clients think thee an utter wuss. Letting a client accept police protection is different, of course."

The cat glanced up from the computer. "Thanks, but no thanks."

Blake said, "Accept it, and you're pretty much free to go where you want. Refuse, and I'll have a judge lock you up for your own safety."

The cat frowned at Blake. "I thought people could take any stupid risk they wanted since the Libertarians got elected."

"Just about," Blake said. "But you're not people."

"You've got my records! I'm free!"

"In Minnesota, maybe. Here that just means you can't be picked up as a stray and claimed by whoever finds you."

The cat closed her eyes for a moment. "I see."

"You'll accept police protection?"

She looked at me. I said, "What can it hurt?"

The cat nodded. "Okay." She sat back from the computer. "That's the list."

"If you think of anyone else—"

"Yeah. I'll let you know."

Blake looked at the monitor, then at me. "What's your email?"

I told her, and she sent me a copy of the cat's list. We both knew the cat could recreate it with ease, but it was a nice gesture.

Prof returned from his phone call. "Virus scans are underway. If you're concerned, we could have every copbot examined over the next five days."

"No sooner?"

"You could pull them all at once, if you don't mind cutting the police force in half. We might have them back on the streets in less than a day."

Blake shook her head. "Okay, five days." She looked at us. "You'll sign promises not to talk about this. Break the promise, and you both get put under protective custody somewhere unpleasant."

I said, "I love sweet talk."

Blake said, "My bosses might think I shouldn't give you a choice."

"Don't worry. I'll sign."

Blake and I looked at the cat. She sighed. "Ditto."

Blake glanced at the cat and me. "C'mon."

We headed for the front entrance. I took that as a good sign. The cat said, "When do I get my luggage back?"

"When we've finished going over it for clues." Blake heard the cat's sigh and added, "Tomorrow afternoon, most likely. We'll call when we're done."

"Well. It could be worse."

In the lobby, Blake said, "I need to make a few arrangements. Wait here."

While Blake went up to the main desk, the cat and I each took a different bench in the corner. We had the place to ourselves, which would've been nicer if it hadn't smelled like a drunk had slept there recently. I said, "What hotel were you going to stay at?"

"The Queen of Angels. Why?"

"Whose name was the reservation in?"

"Oh."

"None of the big hotels take unescorted chimeras. There's always the Range in Crittertown."

She frowned, and I remembered that the Range had a reputation for more than good restaurants and the best chimera entertainers. That's where furries—men and women who like sex with chimeras—prefer to go, either with a chimera date or in search of one.

I said, "I can't vouch for the rooms, but the main restaurant's great."

"It's not cheap."

"No. But you don't want a cheap hotel in Crittertown."

"That's all right. I know someone who said I should stay with her. I'll take her up on it."

I pulled out my phone. "Want to give her a ring?"

The cat hesitated.

I said, "If it's local, I won't even put the charge on your bill."

"No. She said to show up anytime."

Blake returned with a copbot in tow. The cat said, "You said police protection. You didn't say anything about a walking toaster."

Blake said, "Prof already checked this one. You can trust it."

The cat narrowed her eyes in doubt. Blake ignored that and handed me a computer and stylus. I signed a promise not to talk about this case until an arrest had been made or the department took it public. Then Zoe signed the same promise. Blake folded up the computer and put it in her pocket.

We left by the front door with the copbot bringing up the rear. I put myself between it and the cat, but that didn't seem to make her any more comfortable. I understood why Blake had pulled a bot for guard duty—a human would've expected time-and-a-half—but I wished she had found an alternative. At that moment, keeping the cat in police custody and letting me spend the next day alone on her case sounded pretty good to me.

A Personal Rapid Transit station was in front of police headquarters. Three or four perts sat on the station's side rail, waiting for someone to press the call button. Blake did just that. A pert rolled forward. She put a pass in the card slot, the door slid open, and she gestured for us to get in.

The cat and I shrugged at each other and took the forward-facing seats; Blake and the copbot, the rear-facing ones.

The car said, "Destination, please?"

Blake glanced at us. The cat said, "I'm in no hurry. You go first."

I pressed the talk button and said, "Lankershim and Vineland."

As the pert slid out onto the main rail, Blake said, "Crittertown?"

I nodded.

The cat said, "Hey! The person I'm staying with is just around the corner from there."

Blake said, "You're not getting a hotel room?"

"I'd rather not be alone."

"I thought you didn't know anyone here."

"I haven't met her. She's a friend of a friend."

"What's the address?"

"It's in my suitcase."

"Then what's her name?"

"Cyn Wharton. Only she's subletting."

"So how do you expect to find her?"

"My friend showed me a picture of her house. It's half a block from Lankershim, near Vineland. She said the neighborhood's total-hep."

I said, "It's cheap. Do Grove or Huston sound familiar?"

The cat said hopefully, "Huston?"

Blake sighed. "It's a nice night. Why shouldn't we spend it walking around Crittertown?"

I reached into my jacket for a pack of cigs. "Anyone mind if I smoke?"

"No," said Blake.

"Yes," said the cat.

"They're decarcinogized," I said.

"They stink," the cat said.

I checked my watch. Just under twenty-one hours to go.

Chapter Five

No one spoke for most of the trip to Crittertown. I was as content as anyone could be who desperately needed a nicotine fix.

I love cities when they slumber, when the streets are clear and quiet, and you can imagine what a place would be if its resources met the needs of its population. I love the PRT system, sliding along at seventy kilometers an hour, five meters above the ground, never slowing until you reach your destination. Riding a pert in daytime has its charms, especially at rush hour when you glide above the roofs of traffic-jammed commuters who think sitting alone in a steel box that you own is superior to public transportation that you use when you need it and someone else services and maintains. Of course, I might've felt differently if I could've afforded a steel box of my own.

Not everyone slept—cities may nap, but they never sleep. A kid in a second-floor bedroom waved as we passed, and the cat waved back. There are always at least a few cars on L.A.'s streets. One raced ahead of us to show its speed, only to stop and fall behind at a red light and never catch up again. Another pert joined our track, far ahead of us, then zipped away toward the Pacific. I had a pang of jealousy. If I wasn't on a case, I could've taken a pert up past Malibu and spent the night at a campground by the ocean.

We crossed the Santa Monicas, following the 101 Tollway past the dark ruins of Universal City, then scooted up Lankershim. I couldn't enjoy the ride as much as I normally would. I was tired, the unmoving presence of the copbot was distracting, and I had an ever-growing list of questions to ask the cat when no one else was listening.

She had curled up in her seat as if to sleep, but when we passed a street light, I saw that she watched everything through slitted lids. What did she make of the city she saw? What sort of city would cat people make, if left to themselves?

I shifted my glance to Kris Blake. She also watched the city slip by. Shadows fell softly across her cheekbones and neck like a lover's caress. The top two buttons of her shirt were open. I admired the hollow of her throat, the rise and fall of her chest. She flicked her eyes in my direction, saw me looking at her, and smiled.

"The night's so clear," she said, and it was. A slight ocean haze had dimmed the downtown sky, but it hadn't climbed the Santa Monicas.

"One benefit of life in the Valley," I agreed.

"You like living here?"

I nodded. "I saw two owls on Ventura Boulevard a few weeks ago. A movie crew had cleared the street for a night shoot, and the owls were sitting up on a drugstore roof, just waiting to see if we were going to give the city back to them."

"They must've been disappointed when the shoot ended."

"Owls are patient."

"Would you like that? To give the city back to the wild?"

I shook my head. "I like cities, so long as there are plenty of parks in them. Give me clumps of cities and clumps of wilderness over global suburbia any day."

"Thomas Jefferson thought we should be a nation of farmers."

"He had his share of odd notions."

"Like being opposed to slavery, and never freeing his own slaves?"

"That's one."

"It's hard to have the courage of your convictions."

"If you can't act on them, what kind of convictions are they?"

Blake shook her head. "You set yourself a hard moral code."

The cat said, "Name an easy one."

Blake glanced at her as the pert switched to the Lankershim-Vineland side rail and slowed to a stop. The door opened. Since I was closest, I stepped out first and tapped a nic stick from its pack.

A couple of chimera kids waited on the platform. They were dressed nice, he in an iridescent red suit, she in an off-white gown. They must've danced until Pied Piper's had closed. Their faces were decorated with complex black and red designs that framed their forehead IDs—the law may've forced one tattoo on them, but it didn't stop them from getting more. The monkeyboy's face was fairly furry and semi-simian—his extra tats merely emphasized that he knew what he was. The doggirl had very human features—so far as I could tell, only her eyes would have prevented her from passing. Her extra tats let everyone know she had chosen her side.

I see kids who are passionate, arrogant, and optimistic, and I feel nostalgic. I smiled as I brought my cig to my lips. The doggirl must've thought I was being condescending. And maybe I was, a little bit. She scowled. The monkeyboy caught her arm. She said something dismissive about "skins," and that might've been the end of it.

But the cat was next out of our pert. The doggirl saw her, then glared at me. "Fucking furry!"

I shook my head and removed the cig. "Congratulations. That's inaccurate and redundant."

The monkeyboy told his date, "Leave it."

She told the cat, "Cousin, don't whore for skins."

Blake got out. "What's going on?"

I said, "It's just the welcome wagon."

The doggirl said, "Skins aren't welcome—" She stopped when she saw the copbot, last to leave the pert. "Forget it." We stepped aside so she and the monkeyboy could take the pert, but I knew that didn't make her feel any better. When you're sure the world's against you, it's hard for the world to prove it doesn't know you exist.