Damn it! That damned device changed everything. There was no way it was a coincidence. She needed more information, and to get it, she’d have to ask Patrick for help.

  There was no use—every online catalog, database, and even image searches led to the same dead end. This particular nanomachine set wasn’t for sale. And if it was a counterfeit, it didn’t resemble any commercial set. No one had a clue what its function was.

  Nanomachines were incredibly useful—if you could afford them. They were put into pills to fight cancer; embedded in dyes to make clothes change color and texture at will, with just a command from the holox. Some even created colored contact lenses or dyed hair in minutes. The fashion world both loved and hated them. The medical field feared them while relying on them without hesitation. Even high-end chefs did little more than direct nanomachine sets to craft strange-looking dishes and call them their “creations.”

  And of course, the cost of even the most basic set ranged from three thousand to fifteen thousand bits—enough to buy a small apartment in the Old City. A set like this, given its size, was undoubtedly luxury-grade. It would cost the equivalent of a penthouse in the New City—perhaps even the entire building if it contained important data.

  Nanomachines could also serve as extremely secure data storage devices.

  Or maybe… they were just zinc shavings in a glass vial. It had happened before—especially in cases where people sought cancer-curing nanomachines. No insurance company provided them, and many desperate people had lost everything—victims of scammers.

  Maybe… Priscilla was never that smart—what if old Grygoriy was sick, and she had tried to steal them?

  But… they didn’t look like that type. And, if she had to be honest, Rachel believed they were real.

  “I told you, dear—they’re not on the network.”

  Liliya could be really annoying, but thankfully for both of them, she made delicious coffee—probably Colombian. As far as Rachel was concerned, coffee was the most addictive product trafficked from Colombia.

  “Maybe they’re new, or an intermediary product. Did you try connecting to them?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Boiko answered curtly from behind his white mustache, “but they require biometric verification. Even if we knew whose, we’d have to break the container. Without linking them to a network or an active holox, they’d be nothing but useless powder. Better not to try anything.”

  “Pat, Pat, pick up”.

  Rachel was calling through her holox. A moment later, the device displayed Patrick O’Hara, in his perpetually clean uniform, his perfectly regulation-trimmed red hair in place. He was using an avatar. Idiot.

  “Who do you think you’re fooling with that, Patrick?”

  Rachel’s voice, usually soft and slightly condescending, was now heavy with restrained anger.

  “I’m with Priscilla’s grandparents. I’m adding them to the call—drop the ridiculous disguise.”

  The holoxes of those present synchronized to project an augmented reality scene. Now, they perceived themselves in an outdated room full of bookshelves and a fireplace.

  Why did people still represent living rooms like this—when no one had fireplaces or books anymore?

  In the center, the real Patrick appeared after a brief “please wait” message. This time, his hair was a mess. No sign of his jacket or tie. Clearly, he hadn’t showered or shaved in days. Rachel liked him much more this way.

  “Hey, gorgeous—did you miss me? Or do you need another favor from the precinct? Either way, I’m going to have to decline…”

  “Shut up, Patrick. Not even when we were together did I like your flirting. Listen, I require access to the guy they arrested a few minutes ago. At the Fitz. Gregory and Lilia were his victims—I’m representing them in a confrontation under Article Eight—”

  “Rachel, I explained that article to you back at the academy. If you need to interrogate this orangutan, I can hold him for one night before they ship him off to the big island. But Article Eight won't help—you’re neither his lawyer nor a direct relative. Private detectives are specifically excluded. I’ll let you in as if you were one of his visitors. You’re lucky—almost everyone at the precinct who knows you is out tonight. You just have to watch out for the captain. Bill will be there, but well… you know him.”

  Rachel growled. Damn Pat—now she remembered that both of them had started calling these thugs orangutans after watching that old movie together.

  And, of course, she had never been able to trick him by citing more or less useful legal articles like she did with the other cops. He could be lazy, but never stupid. Besides, he kept helping her—despite the fact that she treated him like an old, worn-out shoe whenever they saw each other.

  Why did he have to be so… stupidly perfect, yet at the same time so unforgivably idiotic?

  The day Rachel woke up after surviving a gunshot, Patrick had been there. But before she could thank him the way she used to, he simply broke up with her, without so much as an explanation. And for the whole damn year since, he had been absolutely useless in helping locate Priscilla. He never stopped repeating that he was “doing everything possible.” The worst part? He hadn't even stepped in to defend her when Internal Affairs kicked her out of the force.

  “Fine, I’m on my way. I’ll send you the usual payment in unofficial information. I’ll let you choose between the Russian harassing the Jiménez family or the Chinese woman accused of tax fraud.”

  “Don’t bother, sweetheart,”—the shameless man still called her with countless suggestive nicknames. She didn’t mind, as long as he never dared to call her baby. “Keep your rewards; I know business has been slow. Besides, they caught the Chinese woman yesterday. The anti-evasion team is the only one with a budget these days.”

  “Hi, Pat,”—Liliya, ever timely— “How are you? Are you eating well? Do the police have any leads on our granddaughter?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Boiko. No, unfortunately, we’re still at square one. We’ve ruled out several suspects and scenarios, but I’m afraid we’re no closer to finding her.”

  A gang of incompetents.

  “Alright, see you in a bit.” Rachel ended the call, and the old, fire-ravaged Boiko living room reappeared.

  “Oh, girl, I’m so glad you left that Patrick. He’s no good. I never trusted him.”

  But Priscilla’s ex-boyfriend, the orangutan, had seemed like a good guy. Patrick could be a tremendous idiot, but he was much better. On some lonely nights, she remembered just how much better. She had started calling it “missing Patrick” when she furiously pleasured herself or invited some lucky man or woman to discover whether her artificial leather corset made her sweat.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “You’re right, Lilia, but now I have to go see if Priscilla’s ex knows where this came from. It’s possible he was even looking for it or tried to destroy it in the fire.”

  The woman took her empty cup and bid her farewell. Rachel stepped out into the rain once more—it would probably pour all night. She walked back to the precinct. If Bill was on duty, things would be simple.

  Indeed, when she arrived at the entrance, the short, bald man in his late forties was moving a finger in front of his face. He was undoubtedly playing some augmented reality game—it was comical when people did that in public. But, well, they didn’t notice anything. Judging by the movements, it was probably a puzzle.

  Rachel walked past him as if nothing had happened. She’d greet him later. Better if he didn’t know she was there.

  She didn’t see Patrick anywhere—he always hid when she showed up at that office full of screens where her former colleagues reviewed criminal profiles, compared biometric traits, and cross-checked documents with suspects’ histories. Of course, by “former colleagues,” she meant the characters from the series California Police. The holoxes of active precinct members were restricted from accessing entertainment, so they used the outdated screens to broadcast old series and movies. In the past, that series had been her weakness—Captain Ludwig was the most sensual thing the AI creating the program could have imagined. Pat would get jealous, and she’d make it up to him at her apartment.

  She hated going back to that place—the memories were too much some days.

  “Good evening,” she addressed a Latina woman she didn’t recognize. “I’m Rachel Haynes. I’m here for a confrontation with a convict.”

  “Oh, yes, the sergeant said you’d be coming. He’s in the interrogation room. Wait a moment… an officer will accompany you.” This woman was looking at her worse than the men did. Whether she envied her perfect legs or wanted to use them to warm her ears didn’t really matter—Rachel would indulge her.

  “Oh, and…” Rachel sat in the small, uncomfortable chair behind her, holding the copper-skinned officer’s gaze. Her black eyes weren’t unattractive. Rachel crossed her legs very slowly, a movement reminiscent of her finger tracing her waist. “Will I have to wait long?”

  The woman left, visibly flustered. Maybe too young, or too bored. Either way, Rachel already knew how it would go—they’d take her to an interrogation room, and she’d have twenty minutes to talk to him in the presence of an officer. She didn’t want Patrick or anyone at the precinct to know about the nanomachines, so she’d have to be subtle. Perhaps she’d get lucky, and they’d assign Bill.

  But luck was for better people.

  “Hello, long legs.” Patrick placed his hands on her shoulders as he stood behind her. The artificial leather coat wasn’t enough to stop the shivers. Those familiar hands had rarely lingered on her shoulders a year ago.

  “If you want, I can kick you with them,” she turned toward him with sharp eyes, “or I think I remember you like being stepped on.”

  “With those boots, I’ll pass, darling. Let’s go—I’ll be your escort. That way, you can talk more comfortably.”

  Damn, the idiot thought she’d trust him. She could use him to her advantage, but now it would be almost impossible to ask questions without him getting interested. He knew the case and wouldn’t get distracted or be easily fooled with euphemisms.

  “Can’t you assign me to old Bill? It’s been a while since we’ve chatted. And your stench distracts me—take a shower sometime, Patrick.” No, better if he didn’t—she still liked his scent. It was true—it distracted her.

  “Bill’s not allowed to guard people anymore,” he said, removing her hands and stepping in front of her. “He’s a great guy, but, well, it’s not his strong suit. You already knew that.”

  Rachel stood up, not hiding her frustration.

  “Whatever, let’s go. Maybe the guy will cooperate just so you’ll let him breathe.”

  The interrogation room was nothing more than a small brick-walled space with an archaic ceiling lamp. It was a carbon nanotube light like any other, but it looked like a bulb straight out of the movies. Rachel had acquired it during her days as a digital narcotics officer. She was surprised they’d never replaced it. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who fantasized about being a real cop, like those from the twentieth century.

  Another officer brought in the big guy, handcuffed, and sat him down without resistance before leaving. Of course, they had him on digital drugs to keep him docile.

  “Turn off his holox, Pat. I need him lucid.”

  “At your service, Your Majesty. Anyway, you’re the one who knocked him out at the Fitz, aren’t you?”

  “I neither confirm nor deny your statement, officer.” The sly fox thought she’d fall for such an old trick. How little respect for a lady.

  The man, of obvious Italian descent, with shiny black hair and strong features, blinked several times before focusing his gaze again.

  “What the hell? You’re the bitch from the Fitz.” His way of speaking was very different—like a poorly done accent she couldn’t place. “You must be sent by Helena—that whore’s got it out for me. She was the only one who knew about the extortions.”

  “Relax…” She glanced at Patrick to read the name on the file. She knew it, of course, but these thugs needed to be put in their place.

  “His name is Anthony Caputo.”

  “Shut your damn mouth, pig. My name’s Antonio. My compas call me To?o, and that other name doesn’t get said without a putiza. Got it, pendejo?”

  It couldn’t be. Rachel almost laughed. He was one of those idiots obsessed with Chicanos and Mexicans. The stupidest part was that it was a trend brought over from the East—Japanese and Koreans had started it.

  Priscilla, seriously, what did you see in this guy?

  “Whatever you say, ‘big guy,’” she said with unsubtle disdain, refusing to call him by that ridiculous name. “Why were you speaking differently before?”

  “Mr. De Polotzk doesn’t like my homies,” he said, clumsily switching between languages. “I play dumb when I’m chambeando.”

  “Alright,” she waved her hand as if swatting a fly to change the subject. “What I want to know is why, if the Boikos were paying your extortion, you burned down their apartment.”

  “Hija de la chingada,” Rachel caressed her boot where her baton was still hidden. The thug seemed to understand. “I mean, no, it wasn’t me. I mean, yeah, I was squeezing money out of the viejos, but I wouldn’t burn their place down. The lady always treated me real nice.”

  “You want me to believe you’re just a freeloader and not a criminal?”

  “Honestly, I’m not good at it. I mean, yeah, I’ve done some pendejadas, but…”

  Patrick grabbed the thug by the back of his neck and pulled.

  “Listen, kid, I respect your culture and all, but we’re in a hurry. You’d better start ‘playing dumb,’ because I can still add charges, and you’re not getting out anytime soon as it is.”

  “That’s why I hate pigs. Fine, but let me go.” The relief was evident when Pat released his neck. “The thing is, yeah, I’ve done a lot of bad stuff, but I’d never do that to Mrs. Liliya. She always made me coffee when I went to her house and treated me well.”

  Very believable—to the point it made her angry. If he knew her real name, it was because she trusted him.

  “What do you know about your ex, Priscilla, the Boikos’ eldest granddaughter?”

  “That these pigs haven’t found her in a year. She was a sweet girl—small, light brown hair, perfect teeth, everything you could want in Old City. Honestly, I miss her.”

  “What about the mothers of your kids?”

  “Hey, that’s different. Everyone slips up now and then, right? A guy’s got needs…”

  “Enough, ‘Tony,’” Patrick intervened. “You’re embarrassing all of us.”

  “Yeah, don’t give me that. I’m sure everyone in the force is a saint. You’ve spent this whole interview staring at this bitch and touching yourself.”

  The sound of the “Italian Chicano’s” head hitting the aluminum table was as satisfying as the idea of arousing the Irish cop who tried so hard to resist her.

  “Leave him, Patrick. He’s just speaking the truth. Better he answers me,” she turned to the prisoner. “If it wasn’t you, and assuming I believe you, who could it have been?”

  “I have no idea. If it helps, it couldn’t have been anyone from the Ukrainian neighborhood. The boss promised me nothing would happen to those who paid me. He’s a man of his word—supports us in our business.”

  “And you just implicated him in extortion.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You can’t use what I say here if it’s not being recorded, and it’s illegal to record an interrogation.” All the criminals knew that trick—another absurdity of the 2076 Act.

  “For a cop, dumbass,” she could have recorded the session with her holox if she’d wanted to. “But I’ll be nice to you because I think you’re telling the truth. I won’t have a Ukrainian mobster send someone to stab you with a toothbrush in prison.”

  “To?o” said nothing more. He didn’t seem to know anything particularly useful, though ruling out the mafia was somewhat of a breakthrough. Rachel left the interrogation room, followed by an embarrassed Patrick. He spoke before she could turn to him.

  “Sorry it wasn’t much help, sweetheart.”

  “Pat, you’re exhausting me,” she replied, still with her back to him. “Do you want something with me or not? I don’t care anymore, but don’t rev my engine if you’re not going to ride me—not that I’d let you try. Anyway, thanks for everything.”

  “Was that a motorcycle joke?”

  She turned, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled his face close to hers—close enough for him to smell her lipstick, hear her ragged breathing, feel her fiery breath like dragon flames, and see up close those blue eyes she knew he adored. Then, as if driven by an irresistible primal impulse, she finally decided…

  And kneed him in the stomach with all her strength. Just before walking out with firm steps, her heels echoing on the floor like a sentence that said, “never again.”

  Plan “B”—it was time to see Bit.