Martin Greenberg - The Future We Wish We Had

I knew the answers, of course. And he knew I knew them. Another glower. Another shake.

“So there is no high profile tap. No third-party hack. It’s not financial. And there’s no way this was accidental.”

“So what’s left?” Curtis asked.

Strike a pose: roll the lower lip back against the teeth, one finger tracing along the line of my jaw. The Detective. About to say something profound. So it wasn’t murder. There wouldn’t be any headlines in the morning. But it was still a crime, and we still had a job to do.

“Personal,” I told him.

Then I shut my closet door.

Plugging into my virtual office, I dialed up some atmosphere. Overcast and heavy showers. The street lamps outside penetrated the gray rain just enough to wash me out of the shadows. A great noir moment.

Minus the trench coast and beautiful dame.

I paced in front of those too-large windows, the kind of office I’d never have on the force except inside The System, and thought. Something I was missing…

Well, my coffee, for one. I’d left that on a utility shelf inside my closet. If I wanted to check the mirror on the back wall, I could see it. And myself, sitting easy in my chair, twitching. Not Bogey-style twitching-that purposeful tic that made him such a character. Chasing rabbits.

I thought about programming up some cigarettes. Or dressing the part in a beige trench coat and a felt fedora. Then logged in my drone instead. He entered through the door behind me, keeping far back in the shadows. Probably slouched. Against the wall or standing alone in the middle of the room, Sam Spade had a great slouch.

“It’s got you tied in knots, don’t it?” the drone asked. The click of an old-fashioned Zippo cover. The strike of the wheel and a hiss-crackle as he pulled a cigarette to life. “You wanted into this business. Never forget that.”

“It has to be an inside job,” I said, ignoring the banter. Counting raindrops as they splashed against the window glass. “Three good suspects. If there was a body, we’d have a great locked room mystery.”

“You still got one of those,” the drone said. “A locked room, I mean.”

Check. The warehouse was large. Impressively so. But it was still a closed box and only three people had access. Score one for the drone, with extra points for style. It was programmed to run the same probability matrices as standard software and to check my facts. But to do so in a conversational manner. It helped me think.

“The thing about it is this,” I said. “The trace evidence I need to prove who did it will be hidden against that same background programming. If I can find a unique programming signature, it will be as good as any fingerprint.”

The drone made a tchk sound. My guess it was accompanied by that twitching smirk I’d never perfected. Not even in The System. “Fingerprints will get you so far,” Sam agreed. “Me, I usually followed the money. Or the dame.”

“I don’t have either.” I tried not to sound petty. I could have cast Samantha Blake in the role, I suppose, but she really didn’t fit the part. The dame always came from outside.

“Then use what you do have. Look for what doesn’t belong, and you’ll have them.”

There was a sharp exhale and the smell of cigarette smoke blowing in from over my shoulder. I hate that smell, and could have filtered it out. But, like I said, it was the little things which made a difference in The System.

The little things…

Strike a pose: leaning into the windowsill, letting the whole world fall away behind me until it is lost on the blur of the camera’s eye. The filtered light from outside pools in my eyes. There is a soft patter against the window, as fat raindrops splash into droplets and leave silver-gray trails down the glass pane. It was raining in The City. A steady rain. Strong enough to wash the trash out of the gutters.

If I had thought to program some trash into the gutters to begin with.

The little things!

Ah, hell.

He was waiting for us, Detective Curtis and me, in the datavault office. Even though it was after hours. Even though he could have lit out and made a good run of it in the hours since we’d first come by.

Franklin Torres sat in his plush wraparound chair. Turned to face the door. The lights were dimmed, which I appreciated given the loud color on the walls. He raised a hand in casual salute as we entered.

“What gave me away?” he asked. No preamble. Not even a pretense of innocence. He knew we were back to make an arrest, and had never doubted, apparently, that we wouldn’t come for him.

I decided to let him keep his pride. As much as I could. “The artistry.” I told him the truth. “The little touches you left behind, because you couldn’t help yourself. The dust and splintering wood. The sound effects. They were all just a little bit better than a keyboard jockey would bother fingering in.

“But the unique trait which I’m sure will match up against samples of your previous work, our providence, will be the fluid slick building up beneath that lift truck. It’s what doesn’t belong. It’ll have your signature on it.”

“Yes,” he said. “That will do it.”

And he sounded a little surprised that I had keyed on it.

“Actually, when I realized you had smashed open that small box, I thought you’d have jumped at the gold detective shields. That was what got me exiled here, after all. The chrome detective squad. When System cops didn’t pan out as the next big thing, we were all but thrown away.” He reached up to tap the chrome jack hiding behind his right ear. “I was tired of being forgotten.”

Which was when Curtis stepped forward. Of course.

“But you will be,” he promised, the avalanche rolling down his hangdog face. “You and all the wire-heads. Eventually the entire department will be free of VD.”

I’m telling you. He’s a goldmine.

Strike a pose: leaning back in my swivel chair, feet up on the desk and hands clasped behind my head. Staring up at the ceiling to watch the ceiling fan push the thick, muggy air around the room. And that’s the way it went down. One man tired of being forgotten. Another resigned to it. Two side of the same coin.

Agent Curtis and IAB grabbed what little kudos there were to claim for the arrest. No one was going to thank Virtual Division, especially when it had been one of our own who had “abused the privilege.” You’d think I’d have learned by now. No one does us any favors.

But maybe I’m okay with that. Not learning, I mean. Because it’s that little glimmer of hope that comes with every case that still separated me from Franklin Torres.

And like I said, it’s the little things that matter.

Especially when you don’t get the beautiful dame.

Roger hated Elwood Tweed. There was no denying Rit anymore. It had taken Roger several months to put a precise name to the churning in his gut whenever he entered Tweed ’s presence. When he had first come to work for the Understanding Network, he was certain that what he was feeling was awe. Here he was, a twenty-two-year-old English major fresh out of Gates College, working in television as personal assistant to Elwood Tweed, Ph.D., on-air book critic for 24/7 and host of The Good Word .

But awe had changed to anxiety when it became apparent that everything Roger Allman did for Elwood Tweed was wrong. He put too much cream in Tweed ’s coffee. He failed to highlight a stray mention of Tweed ’s name in the two dozen newsfeeds he surveyed each day for the great man. He gave Tweed his five-minutes-to-air call at four minutes and forty-three seconds, or five minutes and seven. By the fall Roger had convinced himself that it was jealousy that was eating at him. Tweed was not all that smart-his degrees to the contrary-and Roger had come to realize that his most firmly held convictions were at best wrongheaded and at worst pernicious. Tweed was nothing but a smile that had about twelve too many teeth, a buttery voice, and an unflagging self-confidence that was within hailing distance of arrogance.