F Wilson - Sims

“No. But we will.”

Truth was, he’d set tails on Sinclair-2 a number of times but they always lost him. Looked like he’d have to tail him personally.

I can spread myself only so thin, damn it.

“Starting when? Tonight?”

“No, not tonight. But soon.”

He had a more pressing matter to attend to. He and Lister had spent much of the day setting up an op for tonight. The target, Romy Cadman, knew Luca’s face so he could not be directly involved, but he’d be on standby, eagerly awaiting the results. By the end of the night he’d have established a solid link of money and information between Cadman and Ellis Sinclair.

And then there’d be no need to follow anyone anywhere.

3

MANHATTAN

“Really,” Romy said as their cab climbed the on-ramp to the Brooklyn Bridge, “this is unnecessary. I’m more than capable of finding my own way home.”

“You heard what our friend said this afternoon,” Patrick replied. “‘Be careful.’ And that’s what we’re doing.”

Beside him, in the darkness of the rear seat, he saw her shake her head. “An awfully long trip.”

“Not if I’m with you.”

Light from a passing car reflected off her smile. “What a nice thing to say. But perhaps I should have phrased it a little differently: This is going to be an awfully longround trip.”

As the bejeweled towers of Lower Manhattan dwindled behind them, Patrick thought about the day. A good day. Any day with more ups than downs was a good day. After the shock of learning who was behind the SLA and the globulin farm murders had worn off, and Patrick had settled down from his initial elation over the news of the pregnant sim, they’d brainstormed ways to find Meerm. Reverend Eckert’s exhortation to his followers to track her down for him instead of for SimGen—a message he’d be hammering into his viewers day after day—would help, but they still hadn’t figured out a way to fit Tome into the equation.

As darkness fell they’d called it a day, Zero taking off in the van, and Romy accepting Patrick’s invitation to dinner. They’d walked downtown and found a bistro in Chelsea that looked inviting. A pair of Rob Roys before and a shared bottle of pinot noir during a meal of various pastas and sauces had left Patrick in a genial mood. He figured Romy, who’d matched his Rob Roys with Cosmopolitans, had to be feeling mellow herself.

“Am I that bad?”

“No,” she said. “Not bad at all.” He felt her take his hand, interlace her fingers with his, and give it a little squeeze. “In fact, you’re good. Taking Tome in like you did is, well, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone doing that for a sim.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. The scent of her hair and the wave of warmth seeping up from where their hands coupled enveloped Patrick, making him feel as if he were riding a cloud.

What is it with this woman? he wondered. We’re only holding hands but it feels like we’re having sex.

He rode that cloud all the way to Brooklyn, and too soon they were stopped in front of a neat, four-story brick-faced building.

“I’ll walk you to your door,” he said.

Romy shook her head. “No, you won’t.”

“We’ve got to be careful, Romy…”

She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. “You’re not walking me to my door. You’re coming up.”

“For a nightcap?”

“A drink, coffee, anything you want.”

Patrick couldn’t see Romy’s face in the dimness, couldn’t read her eyes. His first impulse was to ask her to repeat her last statement, but he feared she might take it as a wisecrack. Some sort of spell had been woven here tonight and he wasn’t about to risk breaking it.

“Let’s go,” he said, and fumbled his wallet out of his pocket to pay the cabby.

The stairway within was too narrow to ascend abreast so he had to follow Romy, which positioned her hips at eye level before him. Their rhythmic sway within her cleathre coat only exacerbated the electric ache in his groin.

They stopped climbing at the third floor. Romy keyed open a door marked 3A. She stepped through, turned, and pulled Patrick inside. Without turning on the lights she slammed the door and slipped her arms around his neck. Patrick responded instinctively, pulling her close. His lips found hers, he felt her left leg sliding up the outside of his thigh as he slipped his right hand along her ribs toward her left breast—

—and then the lights came on.

Romy spun, ending up beside him, hands out, ready to fight.

But the blond-haired guy with one hand on the lamp switch held a silenced automatic in the other. A second man, his dark hair tied back in a neat little ponytail, sat in an easy chair and held an identical silenced pistol. Both wore dark suits and white shirts buttoned to the top.

The seated man smiled as he spoke. “Well, well. Look at this, won’t you. A two-for-one special.” He had a faint Texas accent.

Amazing how fast lust can fade—Patrick’s insides had already turned to ice.

“What do you want?” Romy said.

“You, Ms. Cadman,” Ponytail said. “Not for anything carnal, I’m sorry to say, although I’m sure that would prove to be a mutual pleasure. We simply wish to ask you some questions. And as long as your lawyer friend is here, we have questions for him as well.”

“Forget about it,” she said, turning and reaching for the doorknob.

“Please don’t,” Ponytail said. “These silencers aren’t in place for show. Wewill shoot if necessary. Not a killshot—a knee, a thigh, just to get across the point that we have questions that we intend to have answered. We can do this friendly, where no one gets hurt and you both walk away wound-free, or we can do it messy. I prefer the friendly path, don’t you?”

“Friendly sounds good, Romy,” Patrick whispered, nudging her with his elbow. “Especially when we’re outgunned two to zip.”

She didn’t look at him. All he heard was a soft, “Shit!”

Patrick raised his hands, hearing the words to that old blues song about being a lover, not a fighter. “Let’s do friendly.”

“A practical man,” said Ponytail. He rose and moved toward two ladder-back chairs sitting side by side on the carpet. “We took the liberty of moving these in from the kitchen.” He did a mocking, maitre d’-type flourish. “Both of you remove your coats and be seated, s’il vous plait.” It sounded weird with that Texas accent.

Patrick tossed his herringbone overcoat onto the couch and guided Romy to one of the chairs.

“Portero sent you, didn’t he?” she said as he helped her out of her coat.

“Portero…Portero…,” Ponytail said slowly. “No, I don’t believe we’ve met. Is she as pretty as you?”

Blondy guffawed.

That laugh says it all, Patrick thought as he seated Romy, threw her coat on the couch, then dropped into the other chair. He tried to relax but quailed as he felt the muzzle of Ponytail’s silencer suddenly press against his temple.

“Ms. Cadman,” the man said, “my associate will put down his weapon while he affixes you to the chair. You will allow him to do so without resistance. If you resist you will end up with a very messy carpet and we will be faced with the unfortunate circumstance of having only one person to interrogate.”

Patrick’s bladder clenched. He wasn’t cut out for this. He’d been trained to pose logical arguments based on law and precedent in an arena overseen by a supposedly impartial magistrate. If he won, great; if he lost, at least he could walk away knowing—hopefully—that he’d acquitted himself well in the contest. But this…the loser here didn’t walk anywhere.

The blond guy laid his pistol on the carpet far from Romy. He produced a roll of aluminum duct tape and began taping her arms and legs to the chair. When he finished he bent over her and cupped one of her breasts in his hand.