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“He had a tantrum down in the kitchen, at least it looks like one.”
“Yeah, I saw.”
“It’s mean when you really look at it. Broken dishes, gouged counters and appliances, glassware shattered, food tossed around. Something pissed him off.”
She took one last look at the body. “I hope it was her. He wanted her to suffer. He learned the perks of that with the ex. That’s part of the fun, the power, the payback. He kept her alive the longest. He’d want to keep the next one alive so he can enjoy himself.”
She started out just as a uniform started up the stairs. “Lieutenant? We’ve got a wit outside says he saw a man fitting the morph description.”
“I’ll take him.”
“Yes, sir. And the sweepers just pulled up.”
“We’re ready for them.”
She stepped outside where between her vehicle, the black-and-white, and the sweeper’s van they’d screwed traffic to hell and back.
Eve ignored the blasting horns, the enthusiastic cursing, and homed in on a boy of about sixteen in a fake leather jacket, high-step airboots, and a mop of brown hair shaved high on one side to show off the cluster of silver studs along his ear canal.
Didn’t it hurt, she wondered, to get holes punched there?
“Lieutenant Dallas. Your name?”
“X.”
“Your name’s X.”
“It’s like Xavier. Xavier Paque. I’m X.”
“Okay, X. You saw this man?”
The kid glanced at the morph again, bopped his shoulders up and down twice. “Yeah, hey. So I live, like, over there.” He gestured across the street. “Just riding my board back up from the mart. Went for a fizz and a pop, and I saw the dude over here, gimping along with a couple of rollies.”
“He limped?”
“Yeah, hey, you know.” The boy demonstrated, hobbling some. “Looked peeved, got it? But nice, tight threads.”
“Describe said threads.”
“Good jacket, looked like real cow. Mostly that’s what I noticed, and the gimping. Maybe nice boots.” He screwed up his face in thought. “Yeah, nice boots. Cow, too, I bet, so he had some. The one rolly was mag—duffel style, sharp. But the other? Been around. Pretty dumpy, and man, it was red. Bogus for a dude. Wrap shades. Had some, busted them. Bummed.”
“Limping, tight threads, and pulling a rolling duffel and a red suitcase.”
“Yeah, big red rolly.”
“How about his hair? Long, short, color?”
Now the boy scratched his head. “Short. Not you short, but not me long. Blondie, I think. Maybe he had a patch.” The thoughtful face again. “Maybe a patch,” he said, tapping his chin. “I only took the good look because his jacket was fine, and he’s gimping along with the rollies like he’s hurting bad.”
“Heading west?”
“Yeah, that way.” X’s eyes shifted to the Farnsworth house. “Something wrong with Ms. F?”
“Yeah.”
“Like what?”
Word would spread, and quickly. No point, she decided, in evading. “She’s dead. We suspect the man you saw is responsible.”
