Desma took me by the hand and led me out of the practice room to the main hall then up a twisting staircase. We walked up the stairs in silence until we crossed paths with a tall, slim woman with dark blue hair coming down the stairway. She was wearing a purple suit dress that appeared as if it was cloned for her. She looked at me and I could feel her glance. I shuddered. Not sure if it was a good shudder or a bad one, but definitely a noticeable one. She didn’t have the strong Asian features of the other Mooner females I had met and was fairer than they were. Yet I knew she was a Mooner.
‘‘Ms. Desma,’’ she said with a slight tip of her head. ‘‘Sir,’’ she said to me with another tip.
‘‘Elena,’’ Desma replied.
I just mumbled, continuing to climb the stairs.
‘‘Quite pretty isn’t she?’’ Desma said with a nudge.
‘‘I hadn’t noticed. I’m engaged . . .’’
‘‘True, but not dead, cos.’’
‘‘She is a looker. From the Moon. Right?’’
Desma nodded. ‘‘The Moon psis and Earth psis are trying an exchange program.’’
We reached the top of the stairs. (There were a LOT of stairs.) Desma led me down a hallway to the left.
‘‘She is here with the contingent from the Moon?’’ I asked.
‘‘You ask a lot of questions.’’
‘‘Comes with the job.’’
Desma smiled. ‘‘No, she’s been here longer. I get the impression, a very strong impression, that she’s not a fan of Mr. Sputnik.’’
We reached a door. I followed Desma into the room behind the door. It was a small conference room with a little table in the middle and bookshelves with actual books lining the walls.
‘‘Have you taught her much?’’ I asked.
Desma sat and grinned. ‘‘DOS, no. She’s teaching me. She’s a class I level 8 psi.’’
I sat kitty-corner to my cousin. I’ve been exposed to a lot of psis in my time, but never one rated so highly. The Thompson sisters were probably at least that powerful but nobody was ever able to test them successfully. Those girls value their privacy.
‘‘Class I level 8,’’ I repeated.
‘‘Good cos, glad to see your short-term memory works.’’
While I had to get back on the case, I was fascinated by a psi of this power level.
‘‘So what can she do?’’ I asked.
‘‘Anything she wants,’’ Desma said with a hint of a smile. ‘‘Anything she wants.’’
‘‘I need more than that,’’ I coaxed.
‘‘Suffice it to say, if she told you to drop dead, you would. Happily.’’ Desma thought for a nano. ‘‘Even that computer you have strapped to your brain probably wouldn’t help. She’d be the perfect assassin. Luckily, she’d never kill anybody.’’
‘‘Why do you say that?’’
Desma turned her head. ‘‘Truthfully, I don’t know. Let’s hope I’m right or we’re all in trouble.’’ She took a nano or two to collect her thoughts. ‘‘Now, I assume we’re here to talk about Ms. Cannon?’’ She said in her most professional voice.
Desma pointed to a bottle of brandy and a couple of glasses on the end of table. I hadn’t noticed them before. I probably should have.
‘‘Thirsty?’’ she asked.
‘‘I’m on the job.’’
‘‘It’s over a hundred years old,’’ she coaxed.
I shrugged. ‘‘Spam that then. Not like this is a paying job.’’
Desma made a delicate hand gesture toward the bottle and glasses. Rising off the table, they floated down to us. Desma twisted her hand. The bottle top popped off and was held suspended in midair. She put her elbow on the table then her head in her hand. The smooth, red liquid started flowing down the side of the first glass. I showed her two fingers. The brandy rose in the glass until it was about the height of those fingers. The bottle tilted upward slowly, not dripping a drop. The bottle levitated to the remaining glass, tipping its spout just enough. Liquid filled the void from the bottle to glass, seeping into the glass until it was topped off. The bottle straightened and gently touched down on the table. All the while, Desma’s eyes never left mine.
She picked her glass and held it up. ‘‘Cheers.’’
‘‘Impressive,’’ I told her. Lots of psis can do the brute force action, but the subtle moves take a lot of control.
‘‘It’s impolite not to return the cheers,’’ she told me.
I touched my glass to hers. ‘‘Cheers.’’
‘‘You’re probably the only normal in the world I feel comfortable doing that in front of.’’
I took a sip, it was smooth with four
oohs
. . . ‘‘Let’s just say I’m not that normal.’’
She smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth. ‘‘Good point. At least there are thousands of us psis. You’re the only person in the world sharing his brain with a supercomputer.’’ She took a sip.
This was about all HARV could stand. He appeared before Desma, transmitting himself from my eye lens. (He didn’t seem to mind that he had a table between his top and bottom sections.) ‘‘What about me?’’ HARV asked. ‘‘I’m the only supercomputer in the world forced to share its processing power with a human. It’s like I’m a fine race car, capable of exceptional speed, power, and precision, except I’m saddled with an amateur driver.’’ HARV spun his head toward me. ‘‘No offense, Zach.’’
‘‘Taken,’’ I said, though I was ignored.
‘‘Yes, HARV. I can only begin to imagine the suffering he’s caused you,’’ Desma said.
HARV rolled his eyes. ‘‘Oh, the stories I could tell ...’’
‘‘Do you mind if we get to the case?’’ I asked.
HARV turned the top half of his body toward me. ‘‘You know, Zach, some of us are capable of doing more than one thing at once.’’
‘‘Well, I’m not,’’ I said. I looked through HARV, literally. ‘‘Shannon Cannon was a student here. Correct?’’
Desma nodded. ‘‘Yes, she was a fine, devoted student. A great mix of mutant and natural psi.’’
‘‘I know she’s capable of killing, but would she turn on her charge?’’ I asked.
‘‘No,’’ Desma said without hesitation. ‘‘She was totally loyal to Sexy. She even listened to her music.’’
‘‘Wow, that is going beyond the call of duty,’’ I said, scratching my head.
HARV chimed in. ‘‘I’ve looked at Shannon’s online psych profile and I agree . . . Shannon would never harm Sexy.’’
‘‘I assume the police are treating this like an open and shut case,’’ Desma said. ‘‘Just blame the crazy mutant psi . . .’’
I thought about the situation. I tried to put myself in the police’s shoes. ‘‘It’s convenient and fitting and easy. So you can’t blame ’em.’’
‘‘And the evidence does point to a superassassin who knew the building,’’ HARV added.
Desma shook her head. ‘‘The assassin would be near impossible to find if they had a massive man, woman, or bot hunt, but they aren’t even looking.’’
Yeah, the future didn’t look bright for Shannon. She had nobody in her corner and everybody lining up to chain her, toss her in a cell, and erase the key codes. I was her only hope. Lucky for her I was good at what I do.
I stood up. ‘‘Looks like I better find the police a couple of other suspects . . .’’
Chapter 12
I left Desma’s and hit the open road. HARV informed me that it would be twenty-four more hours before my office was repaired so for now, the road was my office.
I knew in my gut that Shannon wasn’t the one who offed Sexy and the others. But, as HARV always liked to point out, no judge in their right mind would listen to my gut.
The police wouldn’t be out looking for other potential killers. They had a perfectly good suspect in custody. She had the means, she had the power, she had the motive. At least, according to my buddy Tony. Shannon did it to protest the three council members voting against the Moon’s freedom. She was a mutant psi killer who snapped. The media was eating it up. No way the police would upset the apple cart here.
If anybody was going to find the true killer that anybody would be me. All I needed was a viable suspect.
‘‘HARV, put me in contact with Threa,’’ I said driving through the countryside.
‘‘Threa is in Incognito,’’ HARV said. ‘‘Quite literally.That’s what she calls her fairy realm. She is not accepting calls or visitors.’’
I needed to track Threa down, STASAP (sooner than as soon as possible). ‘‘Connect me with Ona,’’ I ordered HARV.
Ona Thompson may have been the richest, most powerful, most sexy woman in the world, but she was still an ex-client who owed me. She should be able to get me in contact with Threa.
It wasn’t long before Ona’s picture filled my dash viewscreen. She was in some sort of dojo, wearing a scantily cut karate uniform. Ona was surrounded by at least twenty angry-looking people, all also wearing karate uniforms.
Ona glanced up at the camera. ‘‘Oh, hi, Zach. You caught me during my midday workout. I will be with you in a nano.’’
‘‘Don’t hurry on my account,’’ I said, even though I really wanted her to hurry. My experience with Ona had taught me it’s best not to push her.
I watched with great anticipation as the karate people swarmed her, engulfing her in a sea of white uniforms and kicks and punches. The twenty of them just whaled away on their foil for a good minute. Suddenly, they all stopped cold. Their eyes rolled to the back of their heads. They all spun around 360 degrees. They all fell over on their backs, but with their legs up. They weren’t knocked out, they were whimpering. They reminded me of beaten puppies. Ona was, of course, standing in the middle of them, without a hair out of place.
Ona looked at me. ‘‘I promised them a bonus if any of them could last two minutes with me. I wanted to give them a sporting chance.’’
‘‘How nice of you,’’ I said.
‘‘I feel it’s important to treat my employees with respect,’’ Ona said, wiping the tiniest bit of sweat from her brow. ‘‘It builds morale.’’
‘‘Now what can I do for you, Zach?’’
‘‘I need to find your sister Threa.’’
Ona grimaced. ‘‘Now, why would anybody with half a brain, even a tenth of brain, seek out Threa?’’ She thought for a nano. ‘‘This involves Sexy and the Council murders, doesn’t it?’’
‘‘She’s a person of interest,’’ I said.
‘‘Not to the police,’’ Ona replied.
‘‘To me.’’
‘‘Zach, you should forget about Threa,’’ Ona warned. ‘‘She may be crazy but she’d never harm anybody. Or at least not kill them.’’
‘‘Yesterday I fought some of her ogres that she sent after Sexy.’’
Ona lowered her eyes. It was a subtle sign but I caught it nevertheless. ‘‘Yes, that does seem like Threa’s style.’’
‘‘So I need to talk to her.’’
Ona turned away from the camera, I assume to look at a clock. ‘‘Fine, I’ll take it under advisement.’’
‘‘What does that mean?’’
My screen went blank. HARV’s face filled the void.
‘‘When she wants to talk, she’ll find you,’’ he said.
‘‘What the DOS does that mean?’’ I said.
‘‘You have bigger potential problems right now,’’ HARV said.
‘‘Why?’’
HARV pointed behind me, ‘‘There’s been a black sedan following you for the last two kilometers.’’
I turned and looked over my shoulder. (I didn’t have to keep my eyes on the road since HARV was driving.) There it was, bearing down on me, a big black box of a sedan. It looked like a coffin on wheels with a dome on top. The holo-license read: PIS4U. It was DickCo.
The Dicks at DickCo were my archrivals. They stand for everything I can’t stand: big business, glitz, and sizzle over steak. They are a corporation of Dicks for hire. They have a low price tag and lower morals. There’s no job they won’t take and broadcast it over their own reality network.
‘‘Should I outrun them?’’ HARV asked.
I shook my head and pointed to the side of the road. ‘‘Can’t risk a speeding violation. I need the police to like me right now,’’ I said.
HARV slanted his head. ‘‘Not possible.’’
‘‘Hate me
less
then.’’
‘‘I’m pulling over.’’
HARV pulled the car over to the side. The black coffinlike sedan slid in behind us. I sighed and got out of the car.
The dome on the sedan popped up. Four people, three men and one woman, slid out. I recognized the man, sort of. He was Sidney Whoop, one of DickCo’s top guns. But the Sidney I knew was clean shaven, except for a little mustache, and a fancy dresser. He considered himself a class act. This Sidney had long hair and a scruffy beard. His normal custom-made suit and jacket had been replaced by a ripped T-shirt and a leather jacket. He was flanked by two goons with bald heads who might as well have been the same guy. They were backup muscle, nothing more, nothing less. They were in T-shirts and torn blue jeans and had chains and handcuffs hanging over their belts.
Bringing up the rear was a blond-haired babe. I could see the ambition in her cold blue eyes. She was dressed in tight black leather. This lady had more curves than the last geometry test I had taken. Only her curves looked a lot more fun. I was betting she was a psi.
‘‘Nice outfit,’’ I said to Sidney as he moved toward me.
He held up his arms, modeling for me as he walked. ‘‘Like it? We’re doing bounty hunter month . . .’’
Sidney was good. We’ve tangled on a few occasions. The scoreboard reads in my favor but it’s far from a blowout.
‘‘So to what do I owe the pleasure?’’ I asked.
‘‘Just here to talk, Zach. I promise.’’ Sidney said with his hand on his heart.
‘‘What?’’ one of the goons squawked. ‘‘Talk? This is Zachary Nixon Johnson. This guy is our claim to fame.’’
Sidney shook his head. ‘‘The boss just wants to talk.’’
The two goons moved forward. ‘‘Talk is for patsies! This is Zachary Nixon Johnson,’’ one of them repeated.
‘‘Let’s IRS him over,’’ the other said.
They both started heading toward me. I looked at Sidney. His brows were raised and his mouth quivering some. He wasn’t expecting this. I glanced at the girl. One perfectly shaped eyebrow was raised and she was smiling. She was behind this.