Chimera (10 page)

I found a shirt, socks, and underwear that still looked clean and threw them in the zapper to kill anything that might be growing in them. While they zapped, I showered and shaved, which began the process of waking up. My suit may not have looked expensive—because it wasn't—but the cloth was Everclean. I shook it, pulled it on over the fresh-zapped underclothes, and, voila! Instant cheap detective. Just add coffee.

Which I smelled in the hall. That pulled me faster than usual to the kitchen. The cat, in her sea-green jumpsuit, sat on the counter, finishing a bowl of ginger granola.

"I have chairs."

"I like heights. It's genetic."

"Suit yourself. Thanks for making coffee." I poured a cup, then popped a bagel in the toaster.

"I figured the machine wasn't there for looks. If I knew the rest of your addictions, I'd have them laid out for you. I couldn't find any cigarettes."

"I only smoke when I feel like it."

"From the state of the ash trays, you feel like it a lot."

"I only clean house when I feel like it, too."

"Do you only work when you feel like it?"

"I try. What's the rush?"

"It's getting late."

"Eight-twenty-five?"

"The cops may decide against letting a critter get her beauty sleep."

If I solved her case in an hour, I could go right back to sleep. I smeared apple butter on the bagel, took a big bite, then said, "Do you have a computer on you?"

"Why? What do you want to bet it against?"

"We should start with some cyber-sleuthing, and my DigiPal's in hock."

The cat pulled out a pocket computer, a micro-thin PowerPad with a scuff mark on one corner. As I reached for it, she said, "If they can reprogram copbots, they can tell when I'm online."

"We'll use my line and my account." I jacked the PowerPad's data cable into the side of my phone, and a holographic screen and keyboard appeared in the air. I began typing on intangible keys.

The cat said, "Where do we start?"

"With Janna Gold." I found her bio on SciFiles. The screen filled with text and a picture of Gold. I read the highlights aloud in case anything sparked something useful from the cat. "Expert on comparative neurology. Human brain mapping. Development and storage of identity in machine intelligences. Received a Chain Foundation grant." I glanced at the cat. "Chain Logic's headquartered out here. Was she coming to see them?"

"Maybe. The project she wanted to check on could've been one of theirs."

"Who else might she know in town?" I typed "Los Angeles + machine intelligence + Chain Foundation". A picture of a distinguished, white-haired man with thick black eyebrows appeared onscreen. "Well, of course. Oberon Chain himself. Looks pretty good for his age."

"Being filthy rich can't hurt."

I checked to see if he was doing anything that'd made the news. He was. "He's throwing a charity event today."

I tapped the "more" button. The next page said "Picture not available." All it had was a name, an email address, and a brief, enigmatic description—no street address or phone number. I read it for Zoe, "Mycroft. Consultant. Specializng in sapience, politics, xenogenetics, and chimera matters. Mustn't be very good if he can't afford a last name."

"Never heard of him."

"Well, just in case—" I typed and sent a quick email message: "Dear Mycroft, I'm investigating the death of Dr. Janna Gold. Her daughter—" I didn't look to see what the cat thought of that word choice. "—and I would be grateful for a few minutes to speak with you about the last time you saw her. Sincerely, Chase Maxwell, Maxwell Investigations."

The third page showed a middle-aged black man and pages of text. Impressed, I whistled. "Amos Tauber. USCLA's Balisok Law School. Nation's foremost expert in non-human rights—"

"Thank you. I've heard of Amos Tauber."

"The doc ever mention him?"

"I don't think so. You think she worked with him?"

I tapped the phone icon by Tauber's name. "Let's ask."

A chromium humanform bot appeared onscreen. Its round eyes and smooth curves were extremely non-threatening. It looked like a top-of-the-line household model from a Sears robotics department. It said, "Professor Tauber's residence."

"Tell him Chase Maxwell's calling. I'd like to ask him about Janna Gold."

"I'm sorry; he's at the University. I'm Jefferson 473, his personal robot. May I help you?"

"Was your boss expecting a visit from Dr. Gold?"

"Why do you use the past tense?"

"She's dead."

"Oh, my. Is Professor Tauber in danger? He's gotten death threats, but he refuses to take them seriously."

"I don't know. He's at the U. all day?"

"Yes, sir."

"When does he get lunch?"

"Between one and two."

"Tell him we'll try to catch him then." I hit the disconnect and grinned at the cat.

She didn't grin back. "Why not now?"

"Because we're going to a party."

Chapter Seven

The Libertarian Revolution hit South California before the PRT system had reached the Huntington Museum. The system's buyers followed the first law of capitalism—"Sure profit now beats potentially greater profit later"—and halted work on the Pasadena line, so we had to transfer to an electric bus in Burbank that took us the rest of the way.

I love Angelenos—no one looked twice at us on the bus. Okay, they looked twice, but they never said a word.

I had changed to a crisp summer-weight suit, the second-best thing in my closet, and a Hawaiian shirt, the best piece of clothing I owned. When my old man died, the creditors said I could have one item, so I took his favorite shirt. People who knew Hawaiian shirts would know I wore money: The buttons were hand-carved wood, and the pocket patch had been cut to match the pattern of the shirt. I couldn't pass as a rich man who cared how he looked, but I could pass as one who didn't.

The cat looked uber-chichi in a short red dress, sunglasses, and a white turban that hid her hair and ID tat. That her silver boots suited the red dress was pure good fortune. None of the individual parts of the outfit said money, but the assembled pieces said she was someone whose primary cares were her looks and her fun.

Our styles didn't match, which only made us more plausible. Whether you assumed I was a shlub whose money had attracted a showgirl or she was a child of privilege with a taste for bad boys, we looked like insoucient beneficiaries of sweet fickle Fortune.

We stepped down from the bus outside the Huntington grounds so no one would see that we didn't arrive in a sportscar that cost enough to put a couple of poor kids through college. The cat's fashion-model perfection disappeared when she tugged at her hem. "All right, how did a client leave her dress in your apartment?"

"It's a long story."

"And you don't get paid at the end of it."

"Well. Not in dollars."

"Eeuwww."

We walked up the driveway without talking. The cat looked around her like a kid approaching Disneyland, and I felt a little of that thrill. I wished I was there on a date with Kris Blake instead of on business with the cat.

When Los Angeles was young, Henry Huntington became an astonishingly rich man by providing the city with an efficient network of red trolley cars, one of the world's great public transportation accomplishments. The automobile industry destroyed the trolley system—remember the second law of capitalism, "Eliminate competition"—but Huntington left another legacy to the city. His home and gardens house one of the world's great museums.

Approaching the grounds made me remember my first year of marriage. We would come here for high tea and linger in the Shakespeare garden and stroll through the collections of paintings and books.

I was jerked back to the present at the main entrance, where a plump, cheerful woman sat at a table with a list. She looked at us as though we had come to bring her sweepstakes winnings and said, "Your names?"

I glanced at the list. There was no checkmark beside "Johnson - 2." I gave her my best smile and pointed there. "We're the Johnsons."

She frowned. "The sisters?"

I pride myself on being unflappable, but that flapped me. Before the instant of silence could grow, the cat said, "Maxine decided to change her look. Come along, dear."

I smiled weakly at the woman and followed the cat in.

The event was already in progress on the museum's elegant lawn. A band and a podium were set up under a banner that read, "United Hearts International: Cure Werewolfing Now!" Cloth-draped tables surrounded a portable dance floor. Perhaps two hundred guests in designer clothes faced the podium, where a middle-aged woman in teal, that season's most approved color, told them, "The terror of werewolfing inspires pity in us, not fear. We gather here in the spirit of love to help those who must live with this nightmare."

I scanned the crowd as people applauded. The spirit of love moves differently at the heights of society. When the underclass wants to help someone, they march or build or clean or dam. The overclass eats finger food.

Oberon Chain stood near the podium with several important-looking people. He appeared heavier than in the online photo—not fatter, but stockier, stronger. Maybe the fashion for the physique of the wealthy had changed since the photo was taken. Chain radiated dignity, kindness, confidence, and a straightforwardness that made you want to trust him. He seemed positively presidential, but people with his money rarely run for office. They buy someone to do the job for them.

The garden party had been roped off with white cords. At a gap in the cords, a bot greeted us. It looked like a four foot tall cross between a chess pawn and a bowling pin. Camera-like eyes in its dark translucent head settled on us. "Welcome, madam and sir. Your names?"

The cat smiled. "The Johnsons."

I added, "—sent us in their place. We're the Maxwells."

The bot said, "One moment, please. I must call—"

I said, "No need," and grabbed the cat's arm. "Darling, there's Oberon!" I pulled her into the party and headed toward Chain.

The bot rolled after us, calling, "Please, sir, madam—"

The cat turned and put a finger to her lips. "Shh!"

On stage, the speaker was saying, "Until there's a cure for werewolfing, until humans feel safe in the presence of chimeras, the Chimera Rights Amendment will never pass. As you work for the cure, you work for justice for all creatures. Please, give generously."

That brought stronger applause. As the speaker left the podium, Chain stepped up to shake her hand. The band started a Ragtime Revival tune that made me fear Ragtime Rev was already dying: the band's take was technically perfect, but it didn't make you want to grab your date and leap onto the dance floor.

The bot at our heels said, "Sir, madam, please, if you would just—"

I grabbed my date and leaped onto the dance floor. When I took the cat in my arms, she raised an eyebrow, but didn't protest. We Castle-walked through a cluster of dancers, leaving the bot at the edge of the floor.

The cat said, "You dance better than you gamble."

"Careful. I can still stomp your toes."

We swirled across the floor and ended with a turn that sent her perilously close to Oberon Chain. As he frowned and glanced at us, I said, "Oberon Chain, Zoe Domingo."

He turned away from the people he had been speaking to, said, "A pleasure," then looked at me. "Have we met?"

"Chase Maxwell." I offered my hand. "We're crashing your party."

The cat said, "It's important."

Chain studied us with a calm face that must have reassured many investors during financial crises. The bot greeter caught up to us then. "I tried to stop them, sir—"

"It's all right." Chain asked the cat, "What brings you here?"

"Was Janna Gold coming to see you?"

"Dr. Gold? We haven't spoken in years. Why do you ask?"

I said, "She was murdered yesterday."

He frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that. What's your connection to her?"

The cat said, "She was my mother."

Chain's eyes narrowed. "I heard she had adopted a critter."

The cat removed her dark glasses.

Chain's frown grew deeper. "I see."

I said, "I understand Dr. Gold had worked on a project for you."

Chain turned the frown to me, then smiled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Maxwell. Successful companies stay successful by keeping secrets."

"Could those secrets have had anything to do with her death?"

He pursed his lips in deliberation, then shook his head. "I can't see how. If I thought there was the slightest chance they had, I'd notify the police immediately. No business secret is worth a human life."

If there was another question I should've asked, it didn't occur to me then. "Well. Thank you for your time, Mr. Chain."

"Good luck." Chain nodded and turned his attention back to the people he had been speaking with.

I took the cat's arm to lead her out of the party. As we passed, people noticed her eyes. A matronly black woman stepped aside and whispered to her friend in the loud way of the deaf and the oblivious, "I know what this charity's for, but I never thought they'd let one in!"

The cat turned, yanked off her turban to show her ears and tattoo, and grinned coldly. "Cat ears, lady. No secret's safe from us." She slam-dunked the turban into a trash bin and strode away. I followed her through the exit and down the driveway. She may have been small, but I would've had to run to catch up with her.

She waited at the bus stop, making no movement except for the slow clenching and unclenching of her hands. A bus was approaching as I came up beside her. She gave me a fierce glance, then looked away.

I said, "That went well, don't you think?"

She didn't answer. Scowling, she boarded and took a bench near the middle of the bus. A few seats beyond her was the standard notice: "Unaccompanied chimeras must sit behind this line." I'd never paid attention to it before.

The bus at mid-morning wasn't crowded. Several humans sat in the front. At the back were a few chimeras and a couple of Riders, homeless people whose favorite place to sleep was public transportation. Across the aisle from the cat's seat and two rows behind her sat three young borgies, two Hispanic boys, one white girl. They looked like ordinary teenagers who didn't want to look like ordinary teenagers. Their add-ons showed heavy scar tissue, like you'd expect to see from a neighborhood Frankenstein shop.