city blues 02 - angel city blues (32 page)

The green border around the perimeter of the screen showed that Vivien’s encryption was actively scrambling the call. Delaney would be seeing the same security indicator on his phone, but he clearly wasn’t willing to trust his career to someone else’s encryption software.

“I’m calling from off-planet,” I said. “I need a favor. Unofficial.”

The communication lag between Chiisai Teien and Earth was about a second and a half, so there was an unaccustomed delay before Delaney responded.

“What kind of favor?”

“Can you get me a copy of the police file for the Rhiarra Dancer investigation?”

Another delay.

“That case is closed,” Delaney said.

He was giving me the thing with the eyes again, trying to communicate something other than what he was actually saying.

“I know that,” I said. “I’m just following up on a few of the details for a friend of mine.”

After the usual transmission delay, Delaney shook his head. “I’m sorry Mr. Stalin, but I can’t. We’re not authorized to release police files to the public. You might try making a formal request through the District Attorney’s office.”

His eyes were practically burning a hole through the screen now.

“Thanks,” I said. “I might do that.”

Another delay.

“Sorry I couldn’t help you.”

He terminated the call.

I handed Vivien her phone.

She tossed it onto the couch-thing. “No luck?”

“Maybe,” I said. “If I’m reading between the lines correctly, I think he’ll get me the files. They’ll probably show up in the inbox of your phone a few days from now, sent from some anonymous account that has no traceable connection to LAPD or Detective Delaney. At least I
hope
that’s what he was telling me.”

Vivien came up behind me, wrapped her arms around my waist, and stood on tiptoe to nuzzle her lips against the side of my neck. Her voice was breathy and warm on my skin. “Who is this Rhiarra Dancer? Someone I should be jealous of?”

“Not at all,” I said. “She was an LAPD forensics tech. She was investigating black market applications of FANTASCAPE technology. She was also a confidential source for a story that your daughter was working on.”

Vivien disentangled her arms from my waist, all trace of flirtation gone instantly. “Can we get in touch with this woman? How much does she know?”

“We can’t talk to her,” I said. “She’s dead. Murdered. Possibly by the same people I came here to find.”

Vivien was all business now. “You need the police file? I can get it for you.”

“No,” I said. “Bad idea.”

There was a note of challenge in her tone. “Why is that?”

“Two reasons,” I said. “First, because that information came to me through sources I want to protect. And second, because I don’t want certain people in the LAPD hierarchy to know that we’re making a connection between Leanda’s disappearance and the death of Rhiarra Dancer.”

Vivien tightened the sash of her kimono with two quick jerks. “
Which
people? And why are we suddenly keeping secrets from the police? If we’re hoarding information, how are they going to find my daughter?”

Vivien began looking around, presumably trying to remember where she had tossed her phone.

“Please listen to me for a minute,” I said. “This is not about hoarding information.”

She wheeled to face me. “Then what is it about?”

Her voice was rising. “Are you worried that you won’t get paid if someone else finds Leanda first? If this is about money—”

I cut her off. “It’s not about money. You’re talking to the guy who turned down half a million marks to walk away from this case, remember?”

She started to say something, but I kept talking. “I need you to calm down for a minute, and listen to what I’m trying to say to you.”

She gave no sign of having heard me. “I don’t play games where my daughter is concerned.”

I fought to contain a sigh. “I’m not playing games. I’m trying to tell you why it’s a bad idea to bring the police into the loop…”

“Is this about territory?” she asked in an acid tone. “Because I don’t give a damn about territory, and I don’t give a flying fuck about who gets the credit for finding my daughter.”

I retrieved my windbreaker from the back of the chair and pulled it on.

Vivien was still talking, but I tuned her out. I was done with this conversation.

I found my travel bag. Arm-twister’s phone and wallet were still in the side pocket. I took them out and laid them on the table next to the Nambu.

Vivien paused in mid-rant. “What are you doing?”

I nodded toward the collection of items. “You should hold on to these. They might be useful.”

I hoisted the strap of the bag over my shoulder and headed for the door.

Vivien stared at me. “Where are you going?”

I adjusted the hang of the strap. “Home. I’ll send you a letter of resignation when I get back to LA.”

She gave me a look of pure incomprehension. “You’re quitting? You
can’t
quit.”

“I already have,” I said. “I learned a long time ago that there’s no point in trying to work for people who don’t trust me.”

“But I
do
trust you,” she said. “You know I do.”

“Evidently not,” I said. “In the past three minutes, you’ve questioned my integrity, my judgment, my motives,
and
my loyalty. If that’s your idea of trust, we’re definitely not on the same wavelength.”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “I’ve insulted you? Is that it? I’ve offended your precious dignity, and now you’re ready to pack it in and slink home? An angry little boy with his feelings hurt?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe that’s exactly what it is. Maybe I’m just a little boy with hurt feelings. But it doesn’t really matter whether or not you’re right, because I don’t work for you anymore.”

I walked out the door without waiting for her reply.

CHAPTER 26

I walked back toward the shuttle terminal, retracing in-reverse the path I had followed with Ms. Kimono after my arrival the previous night. Without the Nambu, I was unarmed again. I had no intention of trying to sneak a weapon past the sensors in the embarkation area, so I didn’t really have a lot of choice. I figured that Nine-fingers and his buddies would be unlikely to come after me in such a public setting anyway, so the risk was probably not too high.

It was a nice walk. Edo was truly beautiful, despite its patent artificiality, but I missed having Dancer’s voice in my ear. It felt odd to admit that to myself, given my deep-seated aversion for Scion technology. Live and learn, as they say. Live and learn.

The path wound past a small meadow, where a pair of men in samurai armor were putting on a display of Japanese sword fighting for a dozen or so onlookers. The swords flashed in the reflected sunlight of the louvered torus-sky; the blades occasionally ringing like bells when they met each other at a certain combination of speeds and angles.

The faces of the fighters were bare, their helmets lacking the fright-mask faceplates that sometimes appear in historical photos of ancient Japanese armor. I had the fleeting sensation that one of the battling samurai seemed familiar, but I didn’t stop for a better look. My ongoing clash with the Nine-fingers gang had me jumping at shadows.

Not surprisingly, the exit door from the baggage area did not double as the entrance to the shuttle terminal. Not a problem. I was sure that the terminal entrance would be in the same general area, and I’m not above asking for directions.

As it turned out, I didn’t need to. A fabric banner hung above a door set into a stone wall; the same dusty blue as the one used to mark the tram terminals, with the white silhouette of a soaring bird in place of the running horse symbol. Again: neat, simple, and obvious—without shattering the carefully-crafted Edo illusion.

I opened the door, stepping out of feudal Japan and back into the second half of the good old twenty-first century.

Any hopes of disappearing into a crowd of shuttle passengers were instantly dispelled. There were probably not more than twenty travelers in the main terminal area. That made sense, after I thought about it. Unlike Earth-side airports, there wouldn’t be more than two or three shuttles a day to and from Chiisai Teien. Orbital travel was far too expensive to attract the ceaselessly-migrating throngs of air flight.

I found a ticket kiosk and wrangled with the touchscreen interface until I located the next shuttle to LA. Scheduled departure time was four p.m., but there were no open seats on the flight. I didn’t have Vivien Forsyth’s influence to squeeze me onto the passenger roster, so I had to settle for putting my name on the standby list.

I wrestled with the kiosk until it grudgingly consented to reserve me a seat on the midnight shuttle, in case I didn’t make the standby cut for the afternoon flight. The machine spat out a photoactive ticket, which immediately began counting down to the four p.m. standby call.

Which put me at loose ends. A quick look at my ticket showed that I had nearly five hours to kill.

I wandered over to one of the ubiquitous snack bar/cafés that seem to manifest in every transportation terminal. The menu was all too familiar. Freed from the imposed cultural constraints of Edo, the shuttle terminal clearly felt empowered to serve the same kind of synthetic crap that masquerades as food in most public establishments.

I opted for a cup of coffee and something that resembled a croissant.

The coffee was almost certainly synthetic too, but it did a fair job of approximating the flavor and aroma of the real thing. The croissant was not nearly as good a simulacrum. I gave up on it after two bites. I was ready to be home, at my own table, eating food that hadn’t gotten its start in yeast tanks and chemical sequencers.

As I was getting near the end of the coffee, a waiter topped off my cup and whisked away the uneaten croissant thing. I thanked him with an absent nod.

I was several swallows into my second cup when I had two simultaneous mental revelations… First, this half-assed little snack bar didn’t
have
any waiters. And second, I was rapidly losing consciousness.

CHAPTER 27

I find myself walking on a deserted beach under moonlight. The sand is cool and oddly granular against the soles of my bare feet. The air is heavy with the tang of salt. The waves are floods of dark mercury, edged by rills of pale foam as they wash up the beach and then recede into the gloom.

I am wearing baggy khaki pants, rolled up to the knees, and a loose fitting white shirt that flutters fitfully in the light breeze. The moon is a flawless silver orb, unmarred by the discolorations and craters that usually mottle its surface.

Not the real moon, then. Not a real beach. Not a real anything…

The voice comes from nowhere, or from everywhere. “We have questions, Mr. Stalin.”

I turn one way, and then the other, looking for the source of the words. There’s no one in sight. My footprints in the sand are the only signs of human presence. I am alone.

“This is a SCAPE recording,” I say. “I’m reliving someone else’s recorded experiences.”

“SCAPE, yes,” the voice says. “But not a recording. A somewhat different application of the medium.”

The unseen speaker has a detectable Japanese accent, but his pronunciation is perfect. I can’t help scanning the near darkness to find him. He is, of course, not there. Just me, the beach, the waves, and the unnaturally perfect moon.

“Different
how
?” I ask.

“That is irrelevant to this conversation,” the voice says. “We have questions…”