Chimera (8 page)

I pulled out my Swiss Army knife, clicked the lighter, and saw the cat looking at me. "Mind if I smoke outdoors?"

"Yes."

"Then walk upwind." I brought the flame to the tobacco and inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with sweet relief.

Blake, watching the chimera kids leave in the pert, said, "You get that often?"

I laughed. "Relax. We're going on four years without a riot in Crittertown. We just ran into one of the human-looking ones who—" I noticed the cat watching, realized I was halfway through one of my less diplomatic observations, and figured the best I could do was finish it. "—needed to prove she's more critter than thou."

I concentrated on smoking after that. It was a fine, fine cigarette. I had waited for it long enough, and it didn't disappoint me. I should've given it a name, say, Luscious Lucinda. Sometimes it's easier to remember a smoke or a meal than a person you once loved, badly, madly, sadly. Maybe the best times I had had with my wife were when we sat smoking together.

The old white-furred catman at the newstand saw me and called, "Hey, Max, that copbot following you 'cause you had too good a time?"

"That copbot, Felix? It's not following me. Must be after you. Aren't you Mr. Goodtimes?"

He laughed. "That's me, all right. Mr. Goodtimes, uh-huh." He winked at my client. "That young skin get tuckered out, you come find me here, Missy. In all my years, I never heard a complaint."

"That's because you're selectively deaf," I said.

Felix cupped his ear. "You say something, Max?"

We all laughed. I waved and said, "Not me. See you later, Mr. Goodtimes."

"Everybody does. I'm the Eighth Wonder of the modern world."

We walked up toward Huston Street. Blake said, "Quite a character."

"Uh huh," said the cat. "A regular Uncle Tomcat."

"Ah," I said. "A real chimera would've arranged to be kept by a rich human, I suppose."

She gave me a cool smile. "I'm not going to fire you, Mr. Maxwell."

"Damn."

As the four of us trudged north, I hoped the cat would find this house of a friend of a friend quickly. She looked at the park and frowned. I wondered what she saw, but the only things there were trees, benches, a playground, and several hundred people sleeping on the grass.

"What's so interesting?" I asked.

"Homeless humans. But no homeless critters."

"There are stray critters around. But they aren't going to sleep where they can be rounded up easily."

"Why doesn't anyone round up the humans?"

I couldn't tell if that was a joke. I said, "Because they're free."

"Free to die of hunger or exposure."

"That's freedom."

"And the rich are free to keep all they can grab."

"That's part of freedom, too." I nodded at the camp of sleepers. "They own their bodies. The healthy ones can sell a kidney or a lung, or indenture themselves for a few years."

"You think that's right?"

"Right doesn't have much to do with the way the world is." I liked the sound of that line, but she kept looking at me. "What?"

"Nothing." She turned away with a grimace, as if she had bitten into something disgusting. I checked my watch. Twenty hours, twenty minutes. I would never go into debt on three kings again.

At Huston, we turned right. When we walked half a block, the cat said, "Hey. I knew this street sounded familiar."

She was looking at a small pink stucco house with a gravel walkway going around back. All of its lights were out.

Blake said, "Looks like your hostess went to bed."

The cat started toward the door. "Cyn said she might be out tonight. But she hid a key by the back door."

I said, "I'll walk you up."

The cat shook her head. "If she's in, you'll wake her. Leave Mister Transistor on the porch. I'll be fine."

Blake nodded. "We'll wait until you're in."

"I don't want to turn on the lights if she's asleep. I'll wave when I find the key."

I said, "Call me in the morning. First thing."

The cat said, "Don't worry. I'll get my money's worth."

The copbot followed her up to the porch as Blake and I watched. The cat told it, "Stay," and walked around back. The bot took a sentry's stance by the porch.

A moment later, the cat stepped out from the back of the house, waved once, then ducked back out of sight.

I said, "That's a relief."

Blake glanced at me. "You don't like your client?"

"I don't like a lot of them."

"I like her."

I blinked at that. "You do?"

"I'm always a sucker for a smart-ass." She smiled as if she didn't have any particular smart-ass in mind.

I began to believe this might be a great night after all. "I was going to say you didn't have to stick around. But if you'd like a cup of coffee—"

"Tea?"

"An excellent choice. Maxwell's All-night Cafe serves the best cup of tea that you can find in the Valley at—" I checked my watch. "Two-thirty-three a.m."

She cranked the smile up another notch. "Perfect."

Heading for my apartment, I asked, "Mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all."

I tapped out another—I confess, I don't remember the sister as well as Lucious Lucinda, but she still took good care of me. After that first puff of heaven, I said, "Thanks for stopping the headless horselessman."

"You're funny."

"There's something a guy likes to hear."

"And you're fishing for compliments."

I shrugged, a little embarrassed at being caught out.

She laughed and relented. "It would've been a shame if the bot damaged that nose."

"That's more like it. Why're you a cop?"

"A recruiter approached me in college. I liked the idea of using my computer skills to help people. That sounds hokey."

"Not at all. I'm glad you're staying for tea."

She grinned. "Hey, part of my job is making sure you haven't had unexpected company."

"No one's tried to kill me lately."

"Oh? What about the critters at Wonderland?"

"They just play rough. Dead men don't pay debts."

"Someone might think the cat passed you the earring."

"You think that's what this is about?"

"Could be."

"Maybe the earring's evidence of another crime."

"Such as?"

I shrugged. "Maybe we'll find out." I pointed at my building, a classic California two-story complete with a dingbat on the front. "Home, sweet home."

I let her go upstairs first. Gentlemen say this puts you in position to catch the lady if she falls. Gentleman know this puts you in position to admire the lady's butt. Kris Blake's was well worth admiring.

At my door, I said, "You really think there's cause for concern?"

"Better safe than sorry."

"True." My SIG leaped from the Pocket into my hand.

She stepped back in surprise, then laughed. "You're trying to make me jealous."

"Anything to impress the girls."

"Isn't that a bit scary—opening a Pocket so close to you?"

"I only open it when something else is scarier. And there's a cut-off to shut it down if living flesh is too near the field."

She drew her pistol from a shoulder holster. I almost admitted that I had fantasies about women with shoulder holsters, but discretion or embarrassment won out. She showed me hers. "Eleven-millimeter Vetterli Dual-Chamber Recoilless. Sleep darts in one chamber, explosives in the other."

"Could've used explosives on Doyle's body."

"Wouldn't have left much to study." She shrugged, a rather charming action. "Not that what I did was much of an improvement."

"You stopped it. I won't quibble about your method."

She smiled, then nodded at my SIG. "I hear Infinite Pockets are standard issue for UNSEC special forces."

"Mine was a blue light special at K-Mart."

She said more quietly, "Anyone inside will know we're coming."

I doubted anyone was in my apartment. If someone had opened a door or window since I left, a tiny red indicator light was supposed to glow on the access plate. But anyone who could tamper with copbots would laugh at a consumer home security system.

"I was giving them time to change their minds and leave." I gestured for her to back away, squatted down, then touched my left thumb to the access plate. The door slid open. Still crouching, I peeked in, gripping the SIG firmly in both hands and scanning over its sight.

I only saw familiar furniture. None of it threatened more than my reputation for good taste. I stepped in. Blake followed, Vetterli extended. We would've made a great instruction video for how to enter a potentially dangerous environment, but no one was there to admire our style.

I tapped the light switch twice to bring on every light in the house. Darkness would've been an asset against amateurs, but amateurs wouldn't have gotten past the security system.

The combination living and dining room (are there people who really think that living and dining are separate things?) was clean and almost bare—which was why it was clean. It held a wood-frame futon couch, a shelf unit full of research discs, an end table with a lamp and a couple of sailing magazines, and a folding kitchen table with two chairs. I liked knowing I could move out in an hour.

I waved for Blake to check the balcony while I glanced in the apartment's tiny kitchen. You would've had to send nanotech assassins to hide anything dangerous in there.

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and turned fast. It was Blake, reflected in the glass door of the microwave. I let my breath out, caught her eye, and indicated the hall. She nodded and followed.

I gave the bathroom a glance, then jerked my chin toward it to let Blake check the shower stall while I peeked in the hall closet. That put me in position to enter the bedroom first, which would let me pick up any dirty underwear I might've left on the floor.

The bedroom held a futon bed, a chest of drawers with a portable HV on top of it, and a noticeable shortage of ninjabot assassins. I glanced in the closet, but no one was hanging out with my extra suit.

Blake came in as I looked under the bed, aiming the SIG in case I spotted killer dust bunnies. Instead, I spotted Blake looking under the other side of the bed. We both jumped a little. I shook my head. "We don't need caffeine."

She grinned. "Nope. We're permanently wired."

The bed was between us like a challenge, or a promise. I said, "Cocoa?"

"Why, Mr. Maxwell. I'd love some."

"Right this way, Ms. Blake."

We headed back for the kitchen. She said, "Do your friends call you Chase?"

"Only my Mom. And then only when she's annoyed with me. People who're really annoyed call me Chase Oliver Maxwell the Fourth. Or Olly, which might be worst of all."

"You prefer Max?"

"I prefer O God of My Waking Dreams."

"Max for short?"

"Yeah."

She laughed. "Max?"

"Yeah?"

"Kristal Agatha Blake."

I shook my head in sympathy. "Anyone ever call you Aggie?"

"I'll remind you that I'm armed."

"Yes, ma'am, Ms. Blake."

"Kris."

"Kris."

When I took the soy milk from the fridge, she said, "Soy milk?"

"I'm afraid that's it."

"Are you allergic to dairy?"

I shook my head, then said, "Well, I'd probably have trouble digesting cow's milk now."

"You're a vegetarian?"

I nodded as I poured out two mugs and put them in the microwave.

"Health reasons, religious ones, or you don't like hurting animals?"

"Change 'religious' to 'spiritual,' and I'll go with 'D. All of the above.'"

"You're an odd private eye."

"I've never met a normal one."

"It's just that, well, you carry a gun. But you don't want to hurt animals."

"I'll change my policy as soon as I get jumped by a cow."

The microwave went off, so I got out the mugs, dumped the contents into the blender along with four wedges of Ibarra chocolate, and punched "high."

"What made you a vegetarian?"

"Seemed like a good idea at the time." I poured hot chocolate froth into the mugs and handed her one. "How's this?"

She took a sip, then smiled. Dark foam lined her upper lip. "Delicious."

"The Aztecs had chocolate and human sacrifice. That's got to balance out on the karmic scale."

She took another sip. "I'd say so."

I reached out and wiped chocolate from her lip with a forefinger. She looked a question at me. I showed her the foam on my finger. "Chocolate moustache."

She licked the finger. I said, "Oh, my."

"You've got one, too." She leaned forward and licked my upper lip.

"Your way's nicer," I said, and we let our cocoa get cold.

The curse of being a detective is that it's almost impossible to completely quit being the observer. Her kissing was bold and inventive, yet a tiny bit practiced, like dancing with a professional dancer. But then, perhaps mine seemed that way, too. I wasn't doing this because I was falling in love, and I was sure that she wasn't either. We were doing this because it seemed like a good thing to do at the time. When I realized that I was analyzing the cinnamon taste of her mouthwash or her toothpaste, I decided this was a fine time to let Detective Max go to sleep while Mammal Max had fun.

Part of me wants to avoid telling more than that. Part of me says what happened is at least as important as anything in this account. Skip ahead to the next bit of dialogue if you wish. Maybe you only need to know that we had great sex. But if you need to know how great it was, read on:

We lost most of our clothes in the kitchen. Beneath her suit, she wore a red silk lace bra and matching panties—I prefer black or white, but I was still appreciative. She was appreciative, too. By the time my hands had made the journey down her torso, her loins were slick with lust. I don't know if her panties or my boxers hit the floor first. It's a miracle we didn't tear anything.

Naked, she revealed more human imperfections, a scattering of small brown moles across her shoulders, a pimple on an otherwise perfect buttock, a few pale hairs around delectable nipples. They were not defects; they were details unique to her. The scar on her shin said she had a childhood. The half-grown toenail suggested that something had fallen on her foot in the last few months. These observations may not have inspired anything like love in me, but they inspired affection, and the certainty that there was more to learn about Kristal Agatha Blake. They made this competent and carefully guarded woman seem, like me, a person who had found someone to trust enough to let fall the walls of civilization and free the wild self within.