Story Excerpt

The Lady in Camo

by John Richard Trtek

John Richard Trtek’s fiction and poetry has appeared in Asimov’s, Analog, and Star*Line, and his historical play about pioneer Oregon feminist Abigail Duniway was recently performed by a local theater group. He and his wife taught together in the same high school and continue to live in Portland, where they now spend their retirements alternating among reading, writing, volunteering, gardening, and more writing. In this new story, the author introduces the character of Jack Twice, a street-savvy clone whose fortunes are affected in more than one way by an encounter with . . .

I entered Reio’s corner of the Wayside Eatareña only to swear under my breath when I saw two guys eyeing my favorite picnic table with more than casual interest. Fortunately, they chose the next booth instead, and so I was able to slip in and stake my own claim. Then, as if on cue, Reio himself emerged from the order shed and approached with food in hand.

“You saw me coming,” I said amiably, slipping my bag off one shoulder to sit down beneath translucent awnings.

“Knew you were coming,” replied Reio as he presented a cardboard tray loaded with my usual pair of chykkyn bustados, plus chips and an ubercup of raspberry lager. “Add to your sheet?” he asked.

“Sure. Where do I stand?” I said, unwrapping the grease paper.

“Just under one-and-a-quarter kay. But you gone higher before, Jackie.”

“I’ll whittle it down by month’s end.”

“I know, is all good,” said Reio as he limped off to shoo away a couple using another table for romantic rather than gastronomic purposes.

I grabbed a bustado with one hand while the other set of fingers crept eagerly toward my chips, which unexpectedly fell into shadow, giving me pause.

“You’re Twice?” an unfamiliar voice said. “Jack Twice?”

I bit into the bustado undeterred, savored tangy salsa verde mixing with flash-fried chykkynskyn, and then finally pulled my free hand back from the chips to signal a belated thumbs-up.

The same voice as before, male but with a singular lilt, posed another question.

“May we sit?”

I tipped my head up to find it was the duo that had almost taken my bench moments earlier. Swallowing, I gave them a measured nod, prompting the one with vocal folds to speak again.

“Thank you so much.”

The fellow’s face, half-hidden by the cowl of his faded pinstripe shoulder wrap, could have been the age equivalent of anywhere between mid-thirties and early sixties, meaning he knew a skilled cosmetist. Unshaven in a ragged shiftsuit, but blessed with blond hair curled to perfection, the stranger plopped down opposite me with an awkward flourish, as if coming off his third spindippy ride at a thrill park. He radiated a sense of smugness, but those eyes were leaking enough despair so that I couldn’t tell at first glance if I was facing another slumming Uptowner or just some tarted up chaff fresh from a sidestreet drophouse. His silent and still standing associate, however, required no guesswork. The leathery bullethead was clearly former black ops, a species of biped I’d learned to steer clear of during my abortive militia service. Nevertheless, despite his mild manners and soft voice, blondie was clearly in charge—and also, I thought optimistically, had the air of a client wannabe.

Eyeing the remainder of my bustado, I decided to go bold. “Don’t want this or its twin to cool down,” I declared before claiming another bite and screwing up my courage for the punchline. “Just tell me what you want got and how much you’re offering,” I said through a full mouth.

“I’m trying to find someone.”

Spirits buoyed, I swallowing quickly and replied, “Go on.”

“Her name is Coral Campion. She’s . . . my sister.”

I pretended to only half-listen. That last name, however, was ringing a faint bell. I looked the man over again, now inclined to think he was Uptown, after all.

“Full or partial sister? Or, maybe,” I added on a hunch, “sister nth time removed?”

“She is a figure clone, yes. Prime or once removed, whichever term you prefer. The original died accidentally in infancy, before I was born. Our parents couldn’t afford to resurrect her psyche, but they were able to have the body regrown and given the same name assignment.”

“She your only sibling?”

“Yes.”

I turned my head to watch Reio’s assistant whip by with food for another table, and then, without glancing back at my potential client, asked, “So why are you here in pauper drag, talking to the likes of me?”

“I don’t understand.”

Now he got the full brunt of my stare.

“Look, you’re obviously from Uptown,” I said, “and if your family’s rich enough to stamp itself, you don’t need to come across the river costumed like free folk, sporting a bodyguard and looking to hire a cheap gitman.”

“Gitman?” he asked dismissively, making audible the condescension his eyes had never concealed.

“Works for me,” I replied. “You, meanwhile, can take things—and people—as you find them or . . . just leave, period. Anyway, gitperson doesn’t really scan, does it? So, to repeat: You already rate a bodyguard, so have some other clan retainer sniff out the relatives. You don’t really need to git a gitman, so why ask me about your family member?”

“Because I’m not family. Not anymore. And Kale’s not my bodyguard; he’s my friend.”

I didn’t question either of the man’s assertions openly, even while reflecting on my usual habit of not dining in the presence of pathological liars. Instead, I waited for more.

“My people have floats, yes,” the guy admitted, “but they cut me off, and I’ve lived here in the Freedom Zone ever since.”

I popped the remainder of the first bustado into my mouth and made him wait for it to go down. “Well,” I said, licking my fingers, “sometimes blood isn’t worth its weight in water, is it?”

“And you should know, free person Jack Twice—or should I say, citizen Jacqueline Price, once removed?”

I dipped my head and muttered, “Touché,” while reaching for a chip. Immersing the freckled triangle in the table’s salsa pit, I deftly turned the flat of my other hand toward him, unnoticed, and pressed an upper canine three times with my tongue before popping the fried tortilla into my mouth, satisfied that I had the man’s image stored in my palmhole cam. Then, after repeatedly pushing against the opposing tooth with the same pink muscle, I managed to activate my earcorder. Swallowing, I calmly observed, “You’ve done your homework.”

“Yes, I have. And just as your progenitor disowned you, my family did the same to me,” the stranger declared. “And I’m real-born—no offense.”

“None taken.”

“So, will you help me find my sister?” he asked. “You’re said to get good results for the money.”

I chose not to ask who had provided the rave review; instead, I took another chip and used it to gesture.

“That brings us back to the second half of my original question: What have you got to offer?”

“This, for a start.”

The guy clumsily reached into one pocket and pulled out a money card, which he put on the table with a less than sure hand. I slid the broken piece of fried tortilla into my mouth sans salsa and reached for his plastic rectangle just as a boy toting raffle bags stepped into the eatareña to sell tickets.

“How much?” I asked after quickly downing the chip.

“Half a kay.”

Holding the card by a portion my would-be client hadn’t touched, I noted, “That’s weak.” Still, I realized, it would cover almost half of my current tab with Reio.

“Perhaps,” replied the man. “But if you look closely, you’ll see that it’s—”

“High quality. Real deal instead of a discount knocker—and non-variable to boot. I’m impressed.”

“Issued by Deutsche Magellanic Bank,” the fellow bragged. “Guaranteed no-fault cash, always at full face value.”

“As good as they come,” I said, carefully setting down the card. “How did it get into your poverty-stricken hands?”

“I got lucky last week at whizdraw.”

“If you say so. But what about names? Giving out any besides Coral’s? Or Kale’s?”

“Mine, perhaps? Well, unlike you,” he said sarcastically, “I didn’t change anything after the break with my family—including my name. On the civic dole, I’m still a Campion: Pascal Campion.”

Once again, I tried to place that last name. As the kid selling tickets migrated into Reio’s portion of the eatareña and drew closer to my table, I said, “And you’re seeking your sis because . . . ?”

“Motives are beyond your purview,” Campion told me. “Just locate her.”

“Understood. And this card—”

“Buy a chance for a moon loop?” asked the scrawny raffle boy as he bent down to insert himself between Campion and me. “Only the price of—”

The intruder sucked in air as Kale suddenly reached across to rotate and pin the youth’s wrist against the picnic table. Tickets fell from the kid’s other hand, and I quickly pulled my lunch plate and cup out of harm’s way.

“No thank you,” said Pascal Campion in a demure whisper.

Kale squeezed the youngster’s wrist more tightly, provoking an anguished squeal.

“Let him go,” murmured my aspiring client. “No more violence, please.”

The bullethead obeyed and stood back, cold eyes never leaving his victim.

The boy frantically gathered up most of his loose tickets with the hand that was still functional and fled, leaving three orphaned stubs behind. Meanwhile, those patrons of Reio’s who had deigned to watch returned to their meals.

“So then,” I said as I pushed my bag down the bench in order to slide a bit farther away from Kale than before, “prior to the entertainment, you indicated this card is just a down payment.”

“Correct. Find Coral and you’ll receive more.”

“How much more?” I asked, pointing to the measly half-kay card.

“Something greater than what’s on the table. Greater by at least two orders of magnitude.”

“Deal,” I responded, carefully pocketing the money card before reaching for my second bustado. “So tell me all of what you know that I need to know,” I mumbled out of habit.

“To begin,” Campion said, “six days ago, Coral vanished from her building.”

“In Uptown, no doubt. Which complex?”

“The, uh, Coriander,” my new client answered as he pulled a holoclip out of a pocket, again with an ungainly motion. “Three stacked quarter-floors in an outlying tower. Here are some pictures of Coral,” he added, leaving the clip on the table.

Realizing that black plastic cube offered a second chance at a DNA sample, I let it just sit there and flash its photos in sequence.

“The Coriander is a lower prestige complex, isn’t it?” I said.

Campion shrugged. “Perhaps,” he replied. “Tell me, does status matter in choosing clients? I believe Jacqueline Price herself once resided in the Coriander, before she started to move up in the world. Was that during your time?”

“Do you know why your sister holed out?” I asked, ignoring both questions and the comment.

“The day before she vanished, she mojied me that she felt threatened.”

“Threatened by whom or what?”

“I don’t know,” Campion said hesitantly. “She didn’t text details.”

“And what makes you think she came here?”

“Coral is fascinated by the Freedom Zone. She goes across the river to . . . have fun in the entertainment district.”

“But you said she felt threatened, so I wouldn’t think she’d be in the mood for—”

“Sometimes she visits me, too,” Campion interjected. “And she admitted once that she has a place in the Zone to stay. A secret, safe place. I don’t know where it is, but I think she might have gone there—”

“To hole up after holing out?”

Campion nodded.

It occurred to me that Coral’s rest stop—and now possible refuge—might be the Cull-dee-Sack, a large walled community on the edge of the entertainment district that discreetly time-leases to select Uptowners in the know, but I kept that speculation to myself.

“Okay,” I told Campion instead, “let’s go back to the beginning . . .”

Twenty minutes later, a holoclip full of photos and videos in my bag, an anemic money card in my pocket and a wealth of new information lodged between my ears, I idly dipped a forefinger into some stray salsa verde that had found its way onto the plate and licked my digit clean as Campion and Kale disappeared into the dying remnants of the lunch rush crowd. My last glimpse of Pascal’s unusual gait made me ponder his clumsiness once more, but then Reio came by to collect the cardboard meal tray in person.

“You always let me bus, unless you’re curious,” I noted with amusement as I kept a firm grip on my cup, which was still half-full.

“Hey, gets monotonous, doing nothing but dishing out the food and rating public chats to pass time. Nice to actually talk to somebody for real. You got a job going, then?”

“Just a missing person,” I said absentmindedly. “Tell me, Reio, who calls the Freedom Zone the Freedom Zone?”

“Huh?”

I took a sip of raspberry lager. “We humble denizens all learn to call it Freeville after just a short while here, don’t we?”

“The Freeve, yeah. So what?”

“Nobody here says ‘Freedom Zone,’ except rookie boots and first-time Uptowners trolling for fun.”

“Well, there’s the top officer boots too,” Reio pointed out, “and some of the upright regulars, the ones who aren’t on the take from some mister. Why?”

“Just thinking.” I smiled. “And if someone from Uptown stopped by to visit with you—”

Reio gave a nervous snicker and slapped his mechanosynth leg, which had begun to mildly spasm.

“—would you say they’d come over or gone over the river?”

“Come over, I guess,” he replied as the leg quieted. “Why you asking funny questions?”

“I’ll ask another: You know many people around here who use words like ‘purview’?”

“Perv-view? That a new porn service?”

“—or phrases like ‘order of magnitude’?”

“Only orders I deal with are orders of food, man. So, when you going to finish that cup and give it me?” Reio asked impatiently.

I slugged down my remaining lager and lifted the container onto the tray he was holding, then rose and patted his shoulder. “I guess you need the renewal credit more than I do, my friend.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Reio said as, with his free hand, he reached for the three abandoned Moon loop raffle tickets sitting on the table.

“Hey, leave me one, okay?” I asked, taking hold of my bag.

“Sure thing. Can have all them if you want, Jackie.”

“No, just this one,” I told him, grabbing a stub and slipping it into my pocket. “For luck.”

“Deal. Hey, read the sign!” Reio abruptly shouted to a woman who had just sat down three tables away. “You go to the shed and pick out your food before you plant butt on one of my benches! That’s the drill for newbies ’round here, till you become a regular. ¿Entender?”

I stopped to watch the chastised greenhorn get to her feet and meekly creep toward the order shed. Then, looking over at Reio, I stepped away from the picnic table, having suddenly changed my mind about slipping him the half-kay card to pay off some of what I owed.

“Freedom,” he called out as I turned to leave. Eagerly stuffing his new pair of raffle tickets into an apron pocket, Reio added, “And good luck on that job. Bet you going to be checking it out with your Mister Boniface, eh?”

“You know I don’t have a mister,” I said, slinging my bag strap over one shoulder and not looking back. “Never will.”

* * *

I stood on the curb opposite Boniface’s garrison, which squats in the middle of the Seven Corners neighborhood, and reminded myself that I’d been truthful with Reio: This wasn’t an act of supplication to a mister, just another case of wringing a little help from someone who’d always pretended to be a friend.

Stepping into the street, I threaded my way across six lanes like a toddler’s playscreen avatar, stopping and starting and weaving among slow streams of go-peds, modulars, and vintage grossemobiles. Reaching the far shore, I navigated around three aimless people, two of them lashed to autocarts, before winding up in front of the garrison portal, where I pressed a palm against its call board.

“Hi, darlin’,” came a familiar female twang through hidden speakers. “Leave those pinkies right where they are, then turn to the left a li’l, eyes wide open and tongue a-stickin’ out.” I complied, trying not to squint at the network of scarlet light beams that washed over me, and then was greeted with, “Jackie Two-Times! Gimme that ole smile and come on in, hon. Tres toques.”

I gave the frayed knock pad three taps, prompting a pair of tarnished outer panels to momentarily slide open. Quickly stepping inside, past the fone detector—a new one, which surprised me—I entered a cramped vestibule with one wall taken up by a flat monitor covered in loose wire mesh. Behind the metal weave, Tressa’s image winked knowingly and waved me on, but after only two more steps, I halted: There was a sammy in my path.

“Keep on a-comin’, hon,” Tressa’s synthetic voice implored, but I waited on the rat, which suddenly darted to my right.

“Keep on a-comin’, hon,” I heard repeated as the sammy cornered a creeper that must have followed me in. The rodent made two quick feints and then pinned the spy device under one little paw before dipping its head to crush the mechanism between tiny, razor-sharp teeth. The next, “Keep on a-comin’, hon,” was followed by a trio of triumphant squeaks.

Now Tressa started to urge, “Keep on a-comin’, hon. Keep on a-comin’, hon,” in quick repetition. As I had done so often as a youngster, I let the video loop a few more times, just for amusement, before completing my trip across the room with the sammy following. Door panels on the far side slid apart just as I reached them, and I passed through to the sound of, “There ya go, hon.” The rat, meanwhile, stayed behind, presumably to guard against any more invading creepers.

“Hi, kid,” said Bruscoe on the other side. “Who or what you want?”

I stopped in front of the burly greeter, who sat in an armed chair, his bodily presence more than compensating for Tressa’s lack of one.

“Boniface himself, if he’s available.”

The corners of Bruscoe’s mouth turned down as he lifted his lapel to sniff the bloom of white heather attached there. “Think the boss is free most o’ today,” he said while seemingly searching for an odor other than his own. Releasing the lapel, he offered me a small platter littered with clips of heather—none of them blooming, since I was only a guest.

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing one of the sprigs and handing over my fone without being asked.

“You still don’t got any internal wireless, right?” Bruscoe inquired.

“No, I’m hooked on cable, as always.”

“Okay, then just the fone’ll do—’cause I know you know ’nough not to use your ’corder or cam on the premises. In my book, you’re clean, kid.”

“Uh, is Aage around as well?”

“Fisker? No, hasn’t come in yet. Want him, too?”

“No, that’s okay,” I replied. “Oh, and I, uh, think I let in a creeper, but—”

“Sammy-22 got it, right?”

“I don’t keep track of them anymore, but whichever number it was, yeah, the creeper’s toast.”

“That 22’s part o’ the latest batch—and one o’ the best we ever had,” Bruscoe said as he reached over to trigger a third door to open. “See, either Chessky or the Venturas been trying to infiltrate us this past week. Nobody’s sayin’ why, but it don’t matter,” he added. “The sammys always stop the creepers, an’ the hesters they get all the flies.”

I flashed Bruscoe a smile and took the corridor to the left, while he went back to chatting with a discontinued version of Tressa on his chair monitor. I didn’t bother attaching the heather sprig to my jacket front, but instead held it conspicuously in one hand for the benefit of anyone who didn’t recognize me. Every person I encountered along the way was a known quantity, however, and either smiled or nodded accordingly. Or made a pretense of ignoring me, like both sammys and the lone hester I came across.

The hallway ended at the waiting area outside Boniface’s office. As I approached, Carleton looked up from a well-organized reception desk, the same unctuous gleam in his eye as always. “You’ve an appointment?” he asked dismissively, brushing one lapel to call attention to his sprig of white while staring at my own barren heather. “I’m afraid I don’t see either version of you on the docket this week,” he added with needless spite. “Or is there a third one now that we need to keep track of?”

Carleton is midtwenties—same as me—but I’ve always found it more fitting to treat him as some oversized, prepubescent brat instead of a generational peer. “I usually don’t need an appointment, remember,” I calmly pointed out, stuffing the plain heather into a pocket and slipping the strap of my bag off one shoulder. “At least, assuming Boniface isn’t busy.”

“Actually, he’s with Shi at present,” Carleton declared. “So, I’m afraid I really can’t disturb—”

The office door suddenly opened, and Shi himself emerged. The second-in-command’s dark eyes passed over me without emotion, and he halted to turn and whisper something inaudible into the office. Then he nodded and walked out into the reception area, leaving the door ajar.

“You can go on in and see him, Jack,” Shi said in his clipped accent before dropping a packet of papers onto Carleton’s desk. “Digitize, then bury the originals,” he brusquely told the receptionist before moving on down the corridor.

“Excuse me, but I have a one o’clock,” I said to Carleton, putting as much sneer into my smile as possible. “Freedom. And this time, try putting those where the LEDs don’t glow,” I added, gesturing toward the packet before making for Boniface’s open door. I savored the thought of ghostly daggers flying from the reception desk to converge on my backside as I gently pushed on the door and entered. The mister himself was seated behind his great wooden desk, one hand supporting two of three aging chins as he swiveled back and forth. A hester was in his lap, licking itself.

“Jackie! Come in, please,” said Boniface heartily, beckoning with his free hand before leaning back to plant both palms on the armrests of his chair. The ginger cat, meanwhile, stopped licking and eyed me with interest. “Close the door and take a seat here. What brings you in, as if I couldn’t guess?”

Boniface pushed a button on one of his armrests after the doorlatch clicked, and I heard a pair of bolts lock into position behind me. “Sit down,” repeated the mister, his eyes distorted by thick lenses quaintly framed in black plastic. He began to pet the hester. “What portion of my boundless generosity will you be availing yourself of this time?”

“Just hoping to access the databases, both home and commons.” I dropped my bag onto the floor and took one of the chairs opposite his.

“Fair enough,” replied the old man, scratching his bald spot. “Though, I think the trade balance is still decidedly in your favor—you’ve come away with quite a haul over the years, haven’t you? A free meal once or twice a week, more rec cards than you know what to do with, and a first-class education in the way of the street to boot. Plus, now that you’ve turned gitman, I let you grab all the spy flies you need as well—making sure Hester-14 here doesn’t bat them down first, eh, girl?” he added, gripping the feline playfully by the nape of the neck. “Did Bruscoe tell you about the attempts to compromise this place? I’ve sent complaints to both Chessky and the Ventura twins, but no replies yet. Anyway, returning to your pampered past, there’s also that fancy palmhole cam, plus the earcorder. Both were inception presents, weren’t they? I even gave you a high end modular once that—”

“Was unforgettable,” I said. “A quarter million klicks already on the dial, with full upholstery in a one-of-a-kind random bloodstain pattern.”

“Yes,” admitted Boniface. “Well used, I grant you, but otherwise a fine little vehicle—which you managed to wreck, despite its premium reflexes.”

I shrugged.

“And I’ve sent job after job your way the past many months,” the mister claimed. “Good ones too, sometimes, including more than a few the organization could have used.”

“But didn’t because they were money losers.”

“Very debatable point,” Boniface replied. “But then again,” he said while leaning forward, prompting the hester to jump down, “you can always—”

“Enjoy steady work if I sign on with you?” I said drily while keeping an eye on the cat. “I appreciate the offer as always, sir,” I added as I slid my bag around to put it between my ankles and the feline’s claws, “but you know—”

“That you’re a fool to not wear the white heather,” said the old man with a forgiving smile. “I mean, you actually did work here once, remember?”

“As a kid, without pay, when Aage would bring me in and I’d help Shi with the alphanumerics racket.”

“Long before his promotion, yeah. You were a good little roadrunner back then, sold the chits like crazy. And you were paid, as I recall.”

“In kind,” I replied with a grin. “Mostly with Tastee-Tots.”

“Better than cash to a twelve-year-old,” Boniface insisted. “Hell, there are times when even I wouldn’t turn down a nugget or two. But, Jackie, reflect on yourself today, all grown-up: Living as a gitman, you’re barely treading water, aren’t you? I hear you’re up to your neck in debt.”

“If it ever reaches my nostrils, I’ll get back to you.”

“There’s much better pay awaiting you as a security boss or assistant honcho in one of the clubs,” Boniface reminded me. “Or, if you’d prefer some street action, I could slip you into enforcement. Bruscoe and his bunch have almost finished their rotation month as greeters and sifters; they’ll be moving back into the field, and that crew does have a vacancy.”

“Thank you again, but no.”

“Well, Jackie,” the mister responded with a laugh, “you are definitely a fool—but you’re our fool. You pretty much grew up here, after all.”

“That’s stretching things just a bit.”

“Not really.” Boniface flashed a jaded look. “You were everybody’s little mascot back then. I could almost think of you as my own adopted child, except then I’d be jumping Aage’s claim, eh?”

I did not respond. Instead, I watched the hester settle into a corner to nap with her eyes open.

“Think of me as a doting step-uncle, then,” suggested Boniface, lightly slapping his desktop. “And sure, go ahead and use the databases. Here,” he said, rummaging for a spare tech key and then sliding one my way. “You know the drill—and almost every password. Too bad our chief dab hasn’t come in yet—he could assist.”

I ignored his second reference to Aage Fisker and carefully picked up the key.

“So,” the mister idly remarked after a moment of silence, “whatcha looking for? Or is this a horton you’re doing today?”

“Not a what but a who, yes. Person of interest—for a client.”

“Congratulations. But you know, Jackie, since I’m letting you employ my resources—yet again—perhaps you’ll do a little of the one-hand-washing-the-other in return.”

I couldn’t help but flash a cynical smile.

“What is it this time?”

“Just more of the same,” Boniface claimed innocently. “I want you to be on the lookout for someone of interest to me. I’ve got other observers active already, but it never hurts to have one more fly hanging around, so to speak. You’ll have my continued indulgence and, say, five kay in your pocket if you spot the target first. You all right with that?”

I tried to appear nonchalant, but couldn’t help raising my eyebrows. “More than all right. Who you aiming for?”

“This woman,” said the mister, punching a keypad on one armrest. The display in the large box monitor on the far wall dissolved from miniature savannah immersives to a single human face that gave me a start as its 3-D form slowly yawed back and forth.

“Her registered name is Coral Campion,” I heard Boniface say. “What she might be going by at the moment is anybody’s guess.”

The portrait in the box had been duped from a residence permit—telltales of the holographic government imprint were evident in one corner. The photo appeared to be rather dated, however: Compared to the images that Pascal Campion had given me earlier, this version of his sister looked much younger—even allowing for possible cosmetic work—and the woman’s hair was not wrapped into the trendy electric blue bun she’d sported in my client’s portraits of her, but instead was done in a particular platinum pageboy cut that fashionmongers had been declaring passé for the past several style seasons.

“I take it she’s Uptown,” I said needlessly.

“Of course she’s Uptown,” the old man replied with an edge to his voice. “You can see what’s left of the residency holo in the upper left, for chrissake. In fact, her family owns a big chunk of Salamanderplatz, where she lives—five stacked full floors in the top half of a primary tower, would you believe.”

I took a discreet intake of breath. That was a much ritzier set-up than the one Pascal had described in the Coriander complex. It now appeared that Mr. Campion had a deeper well of mendacity to draw from than previously supposed, and I began to wonder why he’d lied about this aspect in particular.

“Or rather, she did live there,” Boniface went on. “The woman’s been missing for perhaps as much as a week. That’s how long her social response network’s been on automatic. There’s no official word on whether she was kidnapped or lammed it on her own, but I believe it’s the latter. Either way, the family wants her back.”

“Ah, so there’s a huge finder’s reward you covet.”

“Got yourself a bingo, Jackie.”

“And you think you can claim it before any other mister?”

“Why not?”

“You’re going to beat, say, both Chessky and Londuchíne to that prize?” I said, stifling a laugh.

“Think I can’t?”

“Oh, I can see Chessky coming in second,” I admitted, “but not to you.”

“So, you’re saying that your money—if you had any—would be on Londuchíne?”

“Whose wouldn’t be? Of all the misters in this burg, she’s numero uno.”

“Don’t know what poll you’re referring to,” said Boniface grumpily, “but it’s not one I’ve ever seen. And anyway, I’ll have you know the old girl has already taken herself out of the running. She apparently isn’t lifting a finger to locate Coral Campion, according to my sources.”

“When Londuchíne lifts a finger, you don’t know it until you feel it in places you’d rather not.”

“I’m not coming in any place other than first,” was Boniface’s sharp response.

“Okay, I admire your determination,” I said cautiously. “But getting back to the main issue, what were Coral’s bodyguards doing when she vanished?”

“There weren’t any on duty then. She’d dismissed them hours before she holed out, and that’s one reason why I think this was her own idea, rather than a napping.”

“No ransom texts or posts, then, I’m guessing.”

“Correct, and that’s reason number two.”

“Wait a minute, though,” I blurted out. “If she’s truly missing, that means her beacon must be down.”

Boniface smiled. “Give the kid a late win in the lightning round.”

“And if her body beacon’s kaput,” I went on, “then maybe it wasn’t deactivated peacefully—maybe it was cut off by someone other than a kidnapper.”

“You’re talking the m-word now?”

“Yeah. Could be somebody’s idea of a prank.”

Boniface shook his head. “The Campions are rich, but not resurrection rich, so it could hardly be pranksters,” he said. “Moreover, if it were thought she’d been truly murdered—for good, as opposed to a soft kill—there’d be much more than just misdemeanor charges waiting for the perp, and the big boots across the river haven’t yet issued any minor warrants, let alone a capital one. Thing is, Coral has a history of disabling her beacon so that she can’t be located. You see, the woman’s been discreetly slumming it down here for years. I think I may have actually met her once. At the Brickhouse, long before the Venturas torched it.”

“So, it was the Ventura gang after all that hit that club?” I asked. “Our beloved Battalion Chief Taft has finally pinned the deed on them?”

“No, no charges from Taft—and there never will be any, says a little voice in my ear. But everyone in the know is sure it was the twins who gutted the place. Certainly that’s what Londuchíne believes, though she’s never done anything about it.”

“Londuchíne secretly owned the Brickhouse, right?”

“Well, she had a silent minority share,” said Boniface, leaning back in his chair. “Too bad for the Venturas that they hadn’t researched all the details on that establishment. Make sure you’re close and covered before striking, I always say. Still, in all these months, your favorite mister hasn’t sought revenge.”

“Well, you know the old adage that—”

“We all know the old adage,” Boniface sputtered, “but not all of us buy into it. Me, I like my retribution dished up fresh and steaming from the micro. Which reminds me: Reio still parked at the Wayside?”

“As of thirty minutes ago, yeah.”

“I’ll have to get back there someday—been missing his sweet-hominy mesquite ribsticks. But enough birdwalking. Point is, Coral’s been familiar with the Freeve for a long time. Quite a bit longer than her sister ever had a chance to be.”

“Her sister?”

“That’s what I said.”

I opened my mouth to ask about this other sibling—another huge detail Pascal had apparently steered me wrong on—but then I paused, suddenly realizing who the sister had to be, and why the Campion name seemed so familiar.

“The sister you’re talking about is . . . Pastel Campion?” I asked. “The Uptowner who died—as in really-die died—at the Brickhouse Club when it was hit?”

“Of course. Who’d you think I was talking about, Jackie Twice-as-Slow?”

“And what about the disowned brother?”

“Who?” Boniface said with continued irritation. “I don’t remember anything about a Campion brother in the summary I read. Where’d you get the idea that—”

“I guess I’m a bit mixed up today,” I quickly interjected. “I was . . . confusing this bunch with another family.”

“Well, I suggest you get up to speed after tapping the databases for your own job,” the old man said. “Read the relevant summary when you get a chance, okay? It’s there on the data room consoles; you can’t miss it.”

“Sure. One more thing, though,” I added, trying to steer the conversation away from my faux pas—and also give myself time to adjust to the revelation that Pascal was a total rather than merely partial fraud. “You didn’t mention Coral’s friends and associates. They have something to say about her disappearance?”

“I didn’t mention them because they haven’t posted anything so far.”

“She’s been missing for a week, and even her partners are silent? Or does she not have any, steady or rotating?”

“Coral has one steady partner, according to the summary,” Boniface told me. “Can’t recall the name, but I do remember his family’s at least one rung up the money ladder from the Campions—now he should be resurrection rich for sure. Anyway, you can just—”

“Consult the summary to find the name, yeah. So, there’s absolutely nothing from him or any of her other associates at all to go on?”

“Like I told you the first time,” Boniface said, “the canaries in this coal mine aren’t chirping.”

“I think you might have the sense of that metaphor somewhat wrong.”

“It’s my metaphor,” snapped the mister. “I’ll spin it however I want.”

“Okay, then,” I said as I grabbed my bag and stood up, which caught the interest of the hester. “I guess I know when it’s time for me to head for the data room.”

“Actually, that might have been ten minutes ago, Jackie,” said Boniface with a weaselly grin as I slung my bag strap over a shoulder. “Freedom. And remember: There’s some kays waiting for you if you find our Ms. Coral first.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” I told him as I headed out. “And, uh, Freedom.”

The two bolts unlocked, and as I reached for the door handle, Hester-14 emitted a sudden loud meow. I left Boniface’s office with a smile, and not just because I caught sight of Carleton frowning at me: Maybe, I thought, that crafty feline somehow knew that ole Jackie Two-Times was beginning to wonder what Pascal Campion’s real name might be.

 

After just a few minutes at one of the data room’s consoles, I had definitely eliminated Campion as my client’s surname and become increasingly skeptical of the Pascal part. As Boniface had correctly claimed, Coral’s immediate branch of the family genome boasted but two offspring, only one still living and neither of them male: Coral herself and deceased younger sister Pastel. Well, actually, there had been three females altogether, because Pascal’s story about Coral being the body clone of an infant who had died in a freak accident hadn’t been a lie, after all.

The father, meantime, had subsequently passed on of natural causes several years after the first child’s stamping, while the mother, though still around, had recently let Coral take over as principal household representative within the greater Campion clan structure. And the daughter had filled that position quite well, often being mentioned as a possible future maxifamilias for the entire blood tree. Apparently, Coral had been very discreet about her joyrides in the Freeve, even spinning the facts surrounding Pastel’s death at the Brickhouse to make it seem as if the presence of both women at the club that night had been a freak occurrence. However, Pastel’s naïve curiosity had apparently enticed her to secretly follow the freewheeling older sister into one of the Freeve’s hottest hotspots—a first and only crosstown fling for the young woman that had ended tragically amid deadly impeller crossfires.

Meanwhile, a few other miscellaneous items that Boniface’s dabs had accumulated caught my eye. One was that Coral frequented only clubs owned by Londuchíne during her sojourns across the river, a datum that popped back into my mind as I executed a name search of high-end leases in the Freeve, prompted by the pretend Pascal’s claim that Coral kept a place to crash during her sprees. And although that inquiry came up empty as far as the Campion name was concerned, I did find one occupancy contract at the Cull-dee-Sack that whetted my curiosity. It was held by a man named Astarté, someone well-known by reputation to just about every inhabitant of the Freeve, for the fellow was none other than Londuchíne’s own second-in-command. What made this lease of special interest was that Astarté was known to reside at his mister’s fortress, just as Shi lived in Boniface’s garrison. Therefore, the space held at the Cull had to be reserved for guests only—guests of Londuchíne.

I also came across the piece of information that Boniface had promised would be in the Campion summary: the identity of Coral’s steady partner. He turned out to be Olivier Barone, scion of a family that from the beginning of the Ascendancy through to the establishment of the Directorate had helped put the Up in Uptown. Boniface’s files contained no accompanying images of the man, but that did not surprise me. As the mister had noted, the Barones were a grade or two above the Campions in Uptown’s pecking and pecuniary order, and it was to be expected that, in keeping with the customs of the highest of the high, most data on the Barones, including their likenesses, would be redacted from all public databases for reasons of security.

As I sat in front of the keyboard, though, I couldn’t help but wonder if my client might turn out to look more like an Olivier than a Pascal.

During my time in Boniface’s data room, I’d had the ambiguous pleasure of sharing the space with three silent companions: A hester and a sammy, who remained nestled in opposing corners, and a lone assistant dab I’d never seen before whose dark brown face was visual counterpoint to the pale heather bloom clipped to her baby blue lab coat. I had made eye contact with the young woman just once, when entering the room to show my own bare sprig and the tech key as tickets of admission, but thereafter I’d kept all attention fixed on screen and keyboard, and she had graciously respected my unstated desire to be left alone.

Eventually, on a whim, I searched for data on Coral Campion that Boniface’s tech crew might have overlooked in the raw public files, hoping but doubting that something pertaining to Olivier Barone might be among any neglected infoscraps. I knew that Aage Fisker himself would have drained both the garrison database and the commons cloud of everything in constructing a summary, but if the search for details on the missing woman had been conducted by, say, the silent lab lassie or one of her peers, I could imagine how something of potential value might have been left undiscovered.

And, sure enough, after another fifteen minutes, I found a promising tidbit: an unlabeled posting on GlamCam from the previous year showing a woman who was unquestionably Coral Campion relaxing at a country lakeside resort in the company of several other Uptowners. Besides the missing woman, what interested me most in the picture were two other figures. One stood behind Coral herself, projecting an air of implied menace: Kale, the bullethead bodyguard. The second individual of note was the only one in the group whose face had been deliberately blurred, suggesting greater than ordinary wealth. I took it to be male, and those hazy outlines reminded me very much of Mister Unknown, née Pascal Campion. Inspired, I stepped over to the supply bench, where I found the right cable type for my personal cam and audio links.

Once back at the console, I popped the lid on my wrist socket and inserted one cable end into it, then plugged the other into a desk hub terminal. Within seconds, I had on the screen the less than perfect image I’d taken earlier of my client, his portrait positioned next to the blurred figure. Then I asked myself if there were a way to transform the second into the first.

As I tried to recall every technical detail of relevance that my stepfather had once attempted to drill into me, I felt the chair tilt back slightly on its bearings as prelude to a familiar, deeply accented voice saying, “Do you need assistance?”

Gently but firmly restoring my seatback to the vertical, I calmly asked, “Do you know what I’m trying to do?”

“I can guess,” said Aage Fisker. “You are perhaps seeking a transformational algorithm linking the face next to the edge at the upper right to the superimposed one.”

In the corner of one eye, I noticed that the young lab assistant had migrated next to Aage. She discreetly pointed to me and whispered, “The heather pass is in the pocket of—”

“I am sure it is,” Aage said quickly before turning back to me. “Well, Jacqueline, is that what you are thinking?”

“More or less,” I replied coldly.

“You are not remembering your fundamentals.”

“Well,” I said, timidly swiveling around before looking up, “it’s been a while.”

The luminous blue eyes embedded in that long face were studying the screen rather than me. “The individual is uberwealthy, of course, since his features have been randomly blurred,” said Aage, running fingers through his auburn-and-gray hair. “But what is the randomizing element? And that is even before we consider the form of the supposed algorithm.”

Still looking up at him, I said, “So you’re telling me it’s hopeless.”

Aage shrugged. “Finding such a transformation is anything but hopeless,” he said. “Indeed, with enough time, one may discover several that work to within any given level of precision, but that in turn tells us that to prove the blurred face must have originated with the other one—”

“Is hopeless,” I said. “Yeah, it’s all coming back to me now.”

“It should never have left you,” Aage gently told me. “You were taught it often enough, and with rigor, in this very room. However, be that as it may, your higher goal may not be hopeless, depending on what that is.”

I just kept staring at him.

“So,” Aage said after a moment, as his eyes met mine for the first time, “what is your higher purpose here, Jacqueline?”

“This is a picture of a client of mine,” I explained patiently, pointing to the photo I’d taken earlier at Reio’s. “He gave me a false name, but I might know his real one now, and I suspect it’s also the name associated with the blurred figure here—if you follow that.”

“But first, is this is what you’re getting from your palmhole cam these days?” asked Aage, pointing at the photo I’d snapped. “There is a good deal of static in it.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that lately,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

“Most likely your wrist socket, since you say the defect has been present on other occasions,” my common law adoptive father told me. “The camera itself will outlast the body, but stand-alone mIMe sockets like yours can wear out after just a few years, particularly with frequent disconnection and reconnection to a cable, as it appears you remain without internal wireless.”

“You said I shouldn’t get it, remember.”

“In the same way I once advised against kinetic tattoos, to no avail,” Aage said with a mixture of whimsy and frustration as he glanced at my forearm. “Well, let us examine your socket,” he suggested, pulling a digiloupe from his jacket.

I removed the cable from my wrist as Aage took hold of my arm.

“You have a client of significance this time?” he said.

“Not sure, Aage. He claims to be disinherited, but quacks like one of the entitled.”

“And what did you say you think his real name is?” my stepfather asked, nodding toward the image of he-who-was-not-a-Campion.

“I didn’t, but take it to be Olivier Barone, for the sake of argument. I do have DNA samples from him, but that won’t matter now, will it?”

“Not if he is truly upper Uptown,” said Aage, turning my arm slightly. “The underpoor are too powerless to register on any system, and the uberwealthy have more than enough power to have their details scrubbed from all the databases—not just their faces, but their genetic indices as well. What does this client want of you?”

“He’s looking for her,” I said, pointing at the screen with my other hand. “She’s—”

“Coral Campion,” Aage said without looking up. “Yes, I recognized her in the picture. Boniface is seeking her also,” he added while raising the digiloupe to one eye.

“The old boy’s delusional if he thinks he can snag that finder’s reward. Um, that is, Aage, I didn’t mean to—”

“No offense taken,” he replied softly. “Privately, I am not holding my breath, either, but the order came down yesterday to generate a summary for her, and so I gave it to Wrenn here to complete.”

I glanced at the young woman, who looked away.

“So, you’ve spoken to Boniface,” Aage went on.

“Yes, to ask permission to use the room.”

“Of course. Bruscoe said you inquired about me as well,” my stepfather added in a plaintive tone while staring at the small digiloupe display screen.

“Yes. Oh, and I didn’t tell Boniface that someone else had already asked me to find the Campion woman.”

Aage pursed his lips and nodded. “Understood. And so, you have very little background on this client of yours?”

“Nothing, actually, except that he might have some kind of motor disability—although, with him being uberwealthy, I’d think that would have been treated long before now. See, he moves around pretty awkwardly at times, and the way he walks is something else. Maybe too many resurrections?”

“How old do you suppose him to be?”

“His psyche, you mean, as opposed to the body?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Aage. You think he might be an older Barone posing as a younger one? The guy seemed pretty nimble in the repartee.”

“If he has gone through an excess of resurrections, it will show up in his conversation before affecting physical agility, and if he is as fluent as you suggest, then his psyche is probably of the same chronological order as his current body—which may well be his original body, if he is an Uptowner who lives cautiously. There’s nothing else you can say about the fellow?”

“Only that he sports a bodyguard, which tells me he is Uptown, since he’s obviously not an out-of-town mister or a peacocking free person on a hot streak. Then again, a lot of the background information he provided is not only suspect but downright false, so I can say he’s a liar, whatever name he’s using. Still, my gut says he’s Olivier Barone.”

“Well,” Aage declared as he put down the digiloupe and let go of my arm, “we could pierce the ubercloud to try to confirm that identity and gather what we can on him.”

“But won’t that—”

“Open up Boniface’s network to a hack by the big boots? Yes, but only if their monitoring system catches on in time to launch a raptor AI. However, with the garrison’s diffuser apps up and all the other precautions in place, we should have the normal median of ten minutes’ safe search time. Do you wish to try?”

“I don’t know, Aage.”

“Let me go to the control room and enable this console to penetrate,” he said, putting the digiloupe back into his pocket. “When I return, give me all you can guess about this Barone fellow and about your client. I will do the searching myself. But, meanwhile,” he reminded me, “there is the matter of this socket of yours.”

“What’s the verdict?”

“Most holes have grime and some pins are distorted. Wrenn,” Aage said to the female dab, “Extract the upper tier socket on this one—it’s a mIMe size 6 hermaph—and replace, please?”

“Yes, Mr. Fisker.”

“So, Jacqueline, organize your speculations about Olivier Barone vis-à-vis those you have about your client,” Aage said while going out the door. “When I return, we’ll probe the ubercloud.”

I turned my eyes toward the monitor and contemplated the man who’d claimed to be Pascal Campion—someone who didn’t exist. Suddenly, I heard the snap of latex gloves and, looking around, saw that Wrenn now sported a digiloupe headset and held a pair of servo-tweezers in her shielded fingers.

“Mr. Fisker asked me to—”

“Replace my socket, yes,” I said, holding out my arm.

With calm deliberation, she took hold of the limb and rotated it slightly before setting it firmly on the desktop.

“So, you’re Jacqueline Twice?” Wrenn timidly asked as she flipped the digiloupe down over one eye and reached toward my socket with the tweezers. “You’re Mr. Fisker’s adopted—”

“It’s Jack Twice,” I said, balling my hand into a fist and turning the arm slightly, causing her to lean away.

“But he called you—”

“Aage’s the only one allowed to do that. You’re new here, right?”

The kid nodded. “Yes, I am, and it’s just that . . . that I’ve heard people around here talk about you a little, and—”

“Good, bad, or indifferent?”

“Huh?”

“What do they say about me?” I asked. “Positive, negative, or neutral?”

“Positive,” Wrenn said encouragingly. “Mostly,” I thought I heard her add in a whisper.

“Even Carleton?”

“Huh?”

“The receptionist. I don’t think Carleton has good words for me, does he?”

Wrenn cautiously shook her head, and when I grinned broadly, she smiled back, almost playfully. I uncurled my fingers, rotated my arm back toward her and said, “Go ahead, then.”

“Relax the arm, please,” she nervously instructed before reaching down with the tweezers to remove my faulty socket. After pulling it out before I even realized she’d done it, the young woman scrupulously cleaned the supporting framework underneath and then snapped in a shiny replacement socket with admirable skill—I suffered almost no transient nerve echoing during the final connection.

“There,” she said, her voice almost breaking. “All new.”

I was about to continue the conversation when the door opened. Wrenn stepped away, and I left my chair, allowing him who had taken me in off the street to fill the vacancy.

“Let us proceed,” said Aage, taking command of the keyboard. “What more speculations are there, about either Barone or your client?”

“None, I’m afraid.”

Aage gave a forgiving smile and murmured, “Well, let me chart my own approach, then.”

I watched casually as my stepfather worked the keyboard, while Wrenn’s attentiveness to his actions appeared to be more intensively focused. At last, after well less than ten minutes, Aage logged off.

“As you already knew, the Barones are among the elite of Uptown,” he said, “and so there were few details that could be drawn from the ubercloud in such a limited time. However, I did find two new items and an artifact specific to the family. One datum is that your presumed client’s father recently replaced Olivier’s great-grandfather as maxifamilias for the entire Barone clan.”

“Great-grandad finally lose his mind after too many resurrections?” I asked.

“Not totally,” Aage replied, “but the cumulative impairments resulting from repeated psyche recording and implantation into new bodies were apparently enough to justify the move. Meanwhile, his son—your Olivier’s grandfather, who’s a bit of a highflyer and thus has gone through quite a few soft deaths himself—was already sufficiently debilitated to be passed over as successor, prompting the final selection of Olivier’s father.”

I nodded. “And the second item is . . . ?”

“That the Barones are trying to crush speculation that they have been enjoying a number of illicit business arrangements in the Freeve, including one in particular with the Ventura gang that the twins themselves supposedly canceled for unknown reasons.”

“The Venturas have serious ties to the Barones?” I asked.

“Had ties,” Aage said.

“Until when?”

“According to rumor, about eight months ago.”

The Brickhouse incident had occurred at just about the same time, I remembered.

“Meanwhile,” my stepfather went on, “the artifact of possible interest is a photograph taken at a solstice festival sponsored three years ago by a Barone relative. Perhaps because it shows a large crowd at a distance, care was not taken to blur all the faces. Here is one section of it, magnified.”

He put the picture on the screen and let a forefinger rest below one face.

“My client,” I declared, recognizing make-believe Pascal immediately.

“There is no identification,” Aage noted, “but his presence at a Barone function is consistent with him being a family member, though not proof of same.” He turned to his assistant and said, “Wrenn, please go to the control room and take this console off penetration mode.”

“Yes, Mr. Fisker.”

“Thank you,” he said, watching her leave. When the door closed, Aage spoke again.

“Are you certain you want to continue with this client, Jacqueline?”

“Why not? Whatever his name, there’s no doubt he’s Uptown. The fee is going to be in the tens of kay.”

“And what is the risk to you?”

“It’s just a missing person case.”

“But a missing Uptowner, and the one seeking her is not merely Uptown, but uberwealthy.”

“And I’m not going anywhere near Uptown,” I said. “This business is all within the Freeve, which is home turf. And it’s the Freeve as in Freeville, the Freedom Zone—free of Uptown regulation.”

“But never free of Uptown influence.”

“Well, I’ll play whatever hand I’m dealt.”

“And is this supposed Olivier Barone acting alone?” my stepfather asked.

“I don’t know. He had just the one bodyguard with him when we met: that bullethead in the photo.”

Aage frowned. “I don’t follow,” he said.

I leaned over the keyboard and put the GlamCam photo back on the monitor. “There,” I said, pointing at Kale. “That’s his bodyguard, the one who was with him today.”

My adoptive father cocked his head. “Then why is that person standing behind Coral Campion in the photo?” he asked.

I stared at the screen, wondering how I’d overlooked that fact. “You know,” I said, “you’re right.”

“A bodyguard will always stay closest to the one they are charged to protect,” Aage noted. “The positioning here indicates that this fellow is assigned to Ms. Campion. And meanwhile, what about the safety of Mr. Barone?” he asked, looking more closely at the picture. “Ah, yes, see here?” he said an instant later.

I studied the very edge of the photo and noticed a dark mass to the right of the blurred figure.

“Might be part of a shoulder,” I suggested.

“Exactly,” Aage said. “Most likely the shoulder of Mr. Barone’s bodyguard.”

“Okay, so Kale—this guy—was actually guarding Coral Campion when the photo was taken.”

“But why, if he is a Barone bodyguard?”

“Maybe all the Campion guardians were down with sheath viruses that day, and Olivier loaned out Kale to guard Coral.”

“That is rather improbable,” scoffed Aage, “if not ridiculous.”

“Well, I’ll figure out that angle too, eventually,” I declared. “Along with any others that pop up.”

There was a moment of ruffled silence, and then Aage hesitantly asked, “In any case, you are still doing well enough in general . . . on your own?”

“Yeah. I don’t need any help, if that’s what you’re getting at. Not with me sporting Uptown clients these days, eh? And after this job, I’ll be paying off what you loaned me in full, with interest, no doubt about it. But, meantime, have you heard from Marta lately?” I inquired, wanting to change the subject.

“What you called a loan is a gift, “Aage said quietly. “And there was never any thought of interest. But, no, I have not heard from Marta. Your sister is rather busy these days, after all,” he went on. “They really work the underling people in Uptown, remember.”

“Well, that’s what she wanted.”

“It was her wish, yes,” he said, not picking up on my hint of sarcasm. “To be a career worker in Uptown.”

“And you made it possible for her,” I reminded him. “Seems she ought to get in touch at least once in a while.”

“Her success suffices, Jacqueline. For both of us, eh?” he asked.

“Of course,” I lied, yet again. What Aage didn’t know—or didn’t want to know—was that I’d never cared about Marta’s career success, only for Marta herself. Or, rather, Marta and me. The flaw in that sentiment was that my unofficial stepsister didn’t return the emotion and never would.

“Perhaps you would like to come over for dinner tonight?” I heard Aage suggest.

“I’m, uh, doing a stake-out for my client tonight.”

“Your supposed Mr. Barone?”

I nodded. “Then I’m meeting him tomorrow morning,” I said. “At Reio’s. Maybe dinner another day?” I cautiously suggested.

“Of course. Any time you wish,” Aage quietly replied, just as Wrenn returned from the control room. “But, Jacqueline, do be careful with this client.”