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“See, I know I ’ad free sticks o’ gum las’ monnin’, roit, guv? But afta I got ’ome, there’s only two, an’ I know t’wass’n me what took ’em. So, I ask meself, ’oo’s been inta me stuff?” Mr. Dickney grumbled as he set up his desk next to Frinch’s workstation. “’tain’t roit fer a man t’ come ’ome ’n’ find ’is fings been messed wiff. It’s a roit bovva, ’swhat it is.”
“He’s faking that accent, you know,” Jon rumbled through his earpiece. “Did you have to find a guy this weird?”
“Did you have to steal a piece of his gum while rifling through his things?” he shot back under his breath, barely moving his lips. “You know he’s paranoid. I told you that he picks up on little details of his environment with alarming ease. A little self-control, Mr. Reece, might be warranted in future.”
“Hey, I managed to ghost into his apartment, go through all his things, break the security measures on his laptop, plant bugs on half his furniture, and the only thing he notices was the missing gum? I think you should cut me some slack here, Frinch.”
“Discretion was one of the reasons I hired you,” Harlod murmured, watching Mr. Dickney head off to his first appointment of the day. He quickly pulled up the data they’d gathered so far, and started sipping his matcha latte as he sorted through it. “At any rate, we’ll need to check into his previous position to determine—”
“Send me the info; I’ll set Josie on the trail.”
Harlod frowned. “Not to disparage Detective Carver or her usefulness to this team, but do you think that’s wise? Given the events of last week—”
“That’s my lookout, isn’t it? I’m the one who put him there.”
“And I’m the one who spoofed his record; I’d say we’re equally guilty if anything goes wrong. It’s not as though we had a lot of choice at the time.”
“I’m the one who was careless enough to let him get blackmail material in the first place.”
A message popped up just as Harlod was pulling up records for Frisco, Ryan L. Harlod sat up straighter. “Billy’s found the warehouse,” he said tersely.
“Should I head over there?”
Rolling his eyes, Harlod sighed. “Really, Mr. Reece, I can’t see how you’d improve the situation. Billy can handle himself; we need to trust him.”
“Look, just because he’s Nate’s kid—”
“Who stays aware of his surroundings, is well schooled in street fighting, and has fired a weapon in combat on more than a few occasions. Whereas you, Mr. Reece, refuse to even pick up a gun again. I have the greatest respect for your martial arts skill, but when you’re on the trail of a cold-blooded murderer, there’s something to be said for lethal force.”
Jon was silent for a while, but Harlod refused to take it back; in other circumstances, Jon’s pacifism might have been laudable, but it was the kind of liability that they didn’t need.
The guilt, both ancient and far too recent, welled up inside him: Harlod’s well-meaning pacifism that had gotten his best friend killed. He couldn’t go back to that. Not until Nate’s killer was brought to justice, and maybe not even then.
“Uncle Harlod?” Billy’s voice came over the earpiece. “There’s, uh, there’s no one here.”
He switched channels to speak directly to his godson. “Say again?”
“It’s empty. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a long time, and most of the stuff in here is broken. There’s some weird graffiti on the wall, too; here, let me send you a few pics.”
The photos made Harlod’s breath catch.
BEWARE THE ARTIFICIAL OVERLORDS
BEWARE THE RISE OF THE MACHINE
He switched back to Jon. “I was wrong,” he blurted. “Get over there immediately; Ruth’s been there. Might still be there.”
“On my way,” Jon said without hesitation. Then Harlod picked up on his other call:
“Yeah, scary-suit, whatcha want?”
“Sending you an address, Ryan. Meet me there.”
Frisco growled. “What for?”
“Ruth’s been in the area. I need a few more eyes on the ground.”
“What, that crazy anti-AI activist? The gal who kidnapped your ball-and-cane?”
“That’s the one.”
“You realize, if I catch her, I’m just gonna turn her over to Alias. He could use a gal who’s good at dismantling technological systems. No offense to Starface, but he’s more of a wetwork kinda guy.”
“As long as Alias keeps her away from Frinch, I don’t see a problem with that; I just want her out of our way.”
“You realize this hunt for the Gingham Killer is gonna get you both killed, right?”
“That’s my lookout.”
“Yeah, well, if you bite the bucket, Josie’s gonna need some comforting.”
“Ryan,” Jon drawled, his voice gone smooth and silky and lethal, “please tell me you’re not threatening to do unsavory things to my sister.”
“Hey, whoa—no. Definitely not.”
“Good,” Jon said, and ended the conversation.
Luckily, Ruth wasn’t there to threaten Billy; unluckily, it was another dead end. And on the other half of the case, Harlod was able to get Mr. Dickney out of the line of fire without leaving enough evidence for Dickney to figure out that Harlod Frinch had not, after all, been a five-year employee under Penewict, Dumble, & Gatch.
Another day, another case laid to rest, and yet they were still no closer to finding the man who had murdered Nathan Gingham.
But there was nothing for it but to move on: Another day, another case.
“So who’s the gal with the gun?” Jon asked as he leaned in over Harlod’s shoulder.
“Our latest number,” Harlod said, “although she might be a bit hard to keep tabs on. Her partner got killed, apparently by their own agency, and she was so traumatized by the events that she’s taken on a sort of split personality: half cold, stoic deduction, half unquenchable rage.”
“Sounds like fun. She got a name?”
“Apparently, she calls herself ‘Coleslaw’.”