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“I want a full analysis on the subliminal shadows.”
He’d already anticipated that. “I need to keep the unit then. Sheila’s started on it, as you can see, but it takes time. You’ve got to run the program, back out the overt VR, expunge the subliminals. Then it takes compu time to test, analyze, and report. A good subliminal, and I guarantee this one’s an ace, is subtle. Chasing down its pattern isn’t like reading a truth analysis.”
“How much time?”
“Two days, a day and a half if we get lucky.”
“Get lucky,” she suggested and passed the hard copy to Peabody.
Eve tried not to worry about the fact that the VR was one of Roarke’s toys, or what the consequences could be if it was indeed found to be part of the coercion. Subliminal shadows. That could be the connection she’d been searching for. The next step was to tag the VR units that had been in Fitzhugh’s, Mathias’s, and Pearly’s possession at time of death.
With Peabody keeping pace, she hustled down the sidewalk. Her vehicle was—still—in Maintenance. Eve didn’t think it worth the incredible headache of requisitioning a sub for a three-block hike.
“Autumn’s coming.”
“Huh?”
Curious that Eve seemed oblivious to the freshening in the air, the balmy scent on the eastward breeze, Peabody paused to take a deep breath. “You can smell it.”
“What are you doing?” Eve demanded. “Are you crazy? Suck in enough of New York and you’ll have to spend a day in detox.”
“You get past the transport fumes and the body odor and it’s wonderful. They might just pass that new fresh air bill this election.”
Eve spared her aide a glance. “Your Free-Ager’s showing, Peabody.”
“Nothing wrong with environmental concerns. If it wasn’t for the tree huggers, we’d all be wearing filter masks and sunshades year round.” Peabody looked longingly at a people glide but matched her pace to Eve’s long-legged stride. “Not to put a damper on things, Lieutenant, but you’re going to have to do a major tap dance to access those VR units. SOP would be for them to have been returned to the deceaseds’ estates by this time.”
“I’ll get them—and I want this kept quiet, on a need-to-know basis only—until I sort it out.”
“Understood.” She waited a moment. “I’d imagine Roarke has so many tentacles out there it would be impossible to know who’s doing exactly what at any given time.”
“It’s a conflict of interest and we both know it. I’m putting your ass on the line with this.”
“Sorry to disagree, sir, but I’m in charge of my own ass. It’s only on the line if I put it there.”
“So noted and appreciated.”
“Then you can also note that I’m a big fan of Arena Ball as well, sir.”
Eve stopped, took a long look, then laughed. “One ticket or two?”
“Two. I could get lucky.”
They exchanged grins just as a shrill siren split the air. “Oh hell, oh shit, five minutes either way and we’d have slipped by this.”
Eve drew her weapon and spun on her heel. The alarm pealed from the credit exchange center directly in front of her. “What fool hits a CEC two blocks from Cop Central? Clear the street, Peabody,” she ordered, “then cover the back exit.”
The first order was almost unnecessary as pedestrians were already scattering, trampling each other over glides and skywalks in a rush for cover. Eve whipped out her communicator, gave the standard order for backup before she dived through the automatic doors.
The lobby was a mass of confusion. Her only advantage was that the wave of people were rushing out as she rushed in, and they offered some cover. Like most CECs, the lobby area was small, windowless, banked with high counters for personal privacy. Only one of the personal service counters was manned by a human, the other three by droids who had gone into automatic shutdown once the panic button had been pushed.
The lone human was a female, probably midtwenties, with closely cropped black hair, a tidy, conservative white jumpsuit, and an expression of utter terror on her face as she was held through the security port by the throat.
The man who gripped her was busy squeezing off her air and waving what was certainly a homemade explosive with his free hand.
“I’ll kill her. I’ll fucking stuff it down her throat.”
The threat didn’t worry Eve nearly as much as the calm, deliberate manner in which it was delivered. She discounted chemicals and a professional status. From the appearance of his threadbare jeans and shirt, the tired, unshaven face, she concluded she had one of the city’s desperately poor on her hands.
