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Since a part of her would have enjoyed watching him do just that, she scowled as she stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
It smelled—not quite foul but c
lose, she decided. Sweat, grease, bad coffee, old piss. "Lights, full," she ordered, then narrowed her eyes at the sudden brightness.
The interior of the shop was no more cheerful than the exterior. Not a single chair invited a customer to sit and relax. The floor, the sickly green of baby vomit, carried the grime and scars of decades of wear. The way her boots stuck and made sucking noises as she walked told her that mopping up hadn't been a major occupation of the deceased.
Gray metal shelves rose up one wall and were jammed full in a system that defied all logic.
Miniscreens, security cams, porta-links, desk logs, communication and entertainment systems crowded together in varying stages of repair or harvesting.
Jumbled on the other side of the room were more units she took to be complete as the hand-lettered sign above warned that pickup must be made within thirty days or the customer defaulted the merchandise.
She counted five No Credit Given postings in a room no larger than fifteen feet wide.
Fixer's sense of humor—for lack of a better term—was evidenced by the dangling human skull over the cashier's counter. The sign under the sagging jaw read The Last Shoplifter.
"Yeah, that's a laugh riot," Eve murmured and huffed out a breath.
Damn if the place didn't give her the creeps, she realized. The only window was behind her and barred. The only outside door mired with locks. She glanced up, studied the security monitor. It had been left running and gave her a full view of the street. On another, securing the interior, she could study herself on the crystal-clear screen.
Nobody got in, she decided, unless Fixer wanted them in.
She made a note to ask Sally at NJPSD for copies of the security discs, exterior and interior.
She crossed to the counter, noted that the computer stationed there was an ugly hybrid of scavenged parts. And in all probability, she mused, ran with more speed, efficiency, and reliability than the one in her office at Cop Central.
"Engage, computer."
When nothing happened, she frowned and attempted to boot it manually. The screen shimmered.
Warning: This unit protected by fail safe. Code proper password or voice print within thirty seconds of this message or disengage.
Eve disengaged. She'd see if Feeney, top dog in the Electronic Detective Division, had the time and inclination to play with it.
There was nothing else on the counter but some greasy fingerprints, the dull sheen left by the sweepers, and a scatter of parts she couldn't identify.
She uncoded the door leading to the back area and stepped into Fixer's workshop.
The guy could've used a few elves, she thought. The place was an unholy mess with the bones and sinews of dozens of electronic devices scattered around. Tools were hung on pegs or tossed wherever they landed. Minilasers, delicate tweezers, and screwdrivers with bits hardly wider than a single hair.
If he'd been attacked here, how the hell would you tell? she wondered, nudging the shell of a monitor with her boot. But she didn't think he had been. She'd only dealt with Fixer a handful of times and hadn't seen him in a couple of years, but she remembered he kept his place and his person in constant disarray.
"And they wouldn't have gotten into this dungeon unless he'd wanted them to," she murmured. The man had been seriously paranoid, she mused, checking out yet more monitors overhead. Every inch of his space and several feet outside the shop were all under surveillance twenty-four/seven.
No, they didn't take him from inside, she decided. If he was panicked, as Ratso had said, he'd have been all the more careful. Still, he hadn't felt safe enough to simply barricade himself inside and wait it out. So he'd called a friend.
She moved into the tiny room beyond, scanned the mess of Fixer's living space. A cot with yellowed sheets, a table with a jury-rigged communications center, a pile of unwashed clothes, and a narrow bathroom with hardly enough room for the skinny shower stall and toilet.
The kitchenette was a turnaround space packed with a fully loaded AutoChef and a minifridge stocked to bursting. Canned and dry goods were stacked in a wall as high as her waist.
"Jesus, he could have waited out an alien attack in here. Why go out to go under?"
Shaking her head, she tucked her thumbs in her pockets and turned a slow circle.
No windows, no outside doors, she noted. He'd lived in a fucking box. She studied the monitor across from the bed, watched the traffic move along Ninth. No, she corrected. Those were his windows.
She closed her eyes and tried to picture him there, using the image of him she remembered. Skinny, grizzled, old. Mean.
