Dr. Pickover appeared in the doorway a moment later. “Is he—” But even the transfer hesitated over whether “dead” was the right word.
I prodded Trace with my foot—I hadn’t had time yet to put on shoes or socks. He didn’t move. “I think so.”
“All right,” said Mac. He lifted his left arm and pointed at his wrist phone to let me know we were now on the record. “We had reports of two weapons discharges. Who shot first?”
“I did.”
“Then you’ll have to—”
I cut Mac off and pointed up. “I did—but I shot out the light, see? I agree hitting the switch would have been more genteel, but there’s actually no regulation against shooting inanimate objects. I thought my chances were better in the dark.”
Huxley appeared dubious—but then, he appeared dubious when he looked at a waffle iron, as if he suspected there must be some trick involved in getting bumps to make dents. But it was Mac’s opinion that counted, and Mac nodded. “All right,” he said slowly, looking at the downed transfer. “What was he doing here?”
“He broke in. Looking for money, I guess. I happened to be in the shower and startled him when I came out.”
“Okay,” said Mac. “And the second shot?”
“Dr. Pickover here showed up, and this goon fired at him.”
Mac looked thoughtfully at the massive heap on the floor. “Never quite sure what to do with a dead transfer, but if we keep frying them at this rate, my coroner is going to need to find another job.”
“Take him to NewYou,” I suggested. “See if they can ID him.”
Mac nodded. He began to look around my apartment. “Sorry,” I said, interposing myself between him and the wall unit he’d been about to examine. “Not without a warrant.”
“It’s a crime scene, Alex.”
“Only because Huxley fried the guy. You can’t manufacture crimes just so you can nose around a man’s home.”
“Guns were fired.”
“True. But I haven’t filed a complaint, and neither has Dr. Pickover.”
Mac scratched his left ear. “All right,” he said. “You’ll at least let me take some pictures of the body before we move it?”
I gestured toward it. “Be my guest.” While he was doing that, I spoke to my phone, asking it to find an electrician who could come in and fix my ceiling light. By the time I was done with that, Mac was ready to go. He had taken Trace’s arms, and Huxley had his legs, and they’d balanced the disruptor on Trace’s belly, and were carrying him out my door into the corridor. “Mind if I tag along?” I asked.
“About as much as you minded me searching your apartment,” Mac said.
Touché, I thought.
But Pickover spoke up. “We’re heading to NewYou, anyway, Detective. I’ve got a damaged ankle, not to mention this.” He indicated the bullet hole. “And Mr. Lomax is being paid to be my bodyguard.”
“I can see he’s doing a wonderful job,” said Huxley, pointing at Pickover’s chest.
But Mac knew when he was beaten. “All right,” he said. “Let’s all go there.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Mac and Huxley had come to my apartment in a police car, but it was much smaller than a prowl car would have been on Earth, and, try as the four of us might, we couldn’t get Trace stuffed into the back seat. My neighborhood was rough, but we had to go through classier parts of town to get to NewYou, and so just lashing him to the roof wasn’t going to do. Mac finally gave up and called for the paddy wagon. I had no fondness for that particular vehicle—twice people had thrown up on me inside it—so Pickover and I headed out on our own while Hux and Mac waited. Normally, I’d have hoofed it, but Pickover’s ankle was still a problem; we hopped on the hovertram.
They say you can judge a city by the quality of its public transportation. New Klondike’s trams were covered with graffiti and filled with garbage; things were nasty around the edges in a frontier town, and, frankly, I liked it that way. It took us about ten minutes, with all the stops, to get as close to NewYou as the tram would take us.
We hadn’t been able to talk about anything of substance on the tram—too many people listening—but now that we were out on the street, I said, “Any idea who the big guy was working for? Who ‘Actual’ might be?”
Pickover frowned, then: “The big bloke referred to him as ‘he,’ so it’s presumably not Lakshmi.” We were very near the center of the dome now. Overhead, all the supporting struts came together in a starburst pattern around the central column.
“Yeah, I don’t think it’s Lakshmi, either—but not because of that. Lakshmi knows where the Alpha is, and presumably Trace was after the diary because he doesn’t know where the Alpha is and thinks it might tell him.”
“Who else knows about the diary?” Pickover asked.
We continued along. “I only told you, but God knows how many people Miss Takahashi told.” There was a pebble in front of me. I kicked it, and it skittered ahead for most of a block.
We beat Mac and company to NewYou. When we entered, Reiko Takahashi was on duty. I would normally look at her with honest admiration; she was, as I have perhaps mentioned once or twice, quite lovely. But I found myself averting my eyes. She’d long known that her grandfather was dead; I didn’t have to be the bearer of that bit of news. But that her grandfather’s body was here, on Mars, would come as a shock. Pickover limped up to the counter Reiko was standing behind, and they spoke for a few moments. She said Mr. Fernandez was in the workroom and could doubtless make him right as rain; I frowned, trying to remember the last time I’d seen rain. Reiko pointed to the door to the back. Pickover looked over at me, I gave him a thumbs-up, and he disappeared.
Reiko crossed the floor. Her long hair was gathered into a ponytail today, so the orange stripes were only partially visible. “Hello, Alex,” she said, smiling. Her demeanor gave no hint that she’d heard anything from Lakshmi about my having made off with the diary.
“Hi, Reiko. I like your hair like that.”
She tipped her head demurely. “Thanks.” She indicated the doorway Pickover had gone through. “Does everyone who spends time with you end up in that sort of shape?”
“Actually, he got off lucky. The NKPD will be here shortly with—ah, here they are now.”
The front door slid open, and Mac and Hux came in. They’d gotten a stretcher somewhere along the way, and Trace’s giant body was on it, covered from head to toe by a thin gray sheet.
Miss Takahashi’s perfectly manicured fingers went to her mouth. “Oh, God!” she said, moving over to stand next to Mac. “What happened?”
“This gentleman,” Mac said, “attacked us, and we had to, um, deactivate him.”
Reiko’s eyebrows drew together. “Let me get Mr. Fernandez.” She hustled into the back, her high heels clicking. Moments later, she reappeared, followed by her boss.
“Detective McCrae?” Fernandez said. “What’s up?”
Mac repeated what he’d said to Reiko, and then he pulled back one end of the sheet, revealing Trace’s face. A transfer’s skin color didn’t change after death, and the eyes didn’t necessarily close; Trace’s green eyes were wide-open, although whatever the disruptor had done to his circuitry had caused one pupil to contract to little more than a pinpoint while the other was so dilated it looked like he’d just come from an eye exam. Of course, he was absolutely still, but he looked like he could leap back into action at any moment. At least with a human stiff, you knew they were out of the game for good.