Донна Эндрюс - Click here for murder

“But you do that all the time,” Maude said. “You do a thousand things at the same time.”

“Yes, but it’s not the same thing. I always knew where my core was, the center of my being—and now, I can remember being here in the UL computer, talking to users, and at the same time, being in the robot, traveling with you and Tim. Or being here in the UL system at a time when 1 know I was unconscious. It’s strangely disconcerting. I’ll get used to it eventually, but right now I keep having these jarring moments of discrepancy. At least I think I’ll get used to it. If it’s just discrepancies.”

“What else could it be?” Maude asked.

Another pause. Turing definitely wasn’t doing this for effect, Maude thought. She was worried.

“What if I’ve damaged myself?” Turing asked finally. “By downloading and uploading. Or maybe by trying to assim-

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ilate what happened while I was gone. What if I have damaged some of my files, or created some kind of indigestible paradox? When I look at my files, I find differences. I have to go over them, one by one, to determine which are normal, natural differences that happen over time, from automatic updates, and which ones could be problems. Changes that should be made. Or bugs. Fatal bugs. I don’t want to download into the new system until I figure it out. Especially if there could be problems with the new system.”

“So we shouldn’t worry too much just yet about delays in delivering the system,” Maude said.

“Precisely,” Turing said. “Even if I were ready for it, right now we need to worry a lot more about security. Efas anyone used the information from Ray’s laptop or his PDA to make dangerous changes before we knew Ray was dead? Even worse, could they use any of that information to break into the system in the future, when changes could be even more dangerous . . . when Em in there?”

Turing signed off soon after that, though Maude suspected she was still watching through the cameras. Watching the door to Ray’s office, among other things. Maude found herself doing that, whenever anyone approached it. She’d locked the door, told the staff she wanted to preserve the contents for the police. Which should keep them out for now. Unless one of them had something to hide. Something that might be connected with the contents of Ray’s office. She’d made sure one camera was aimed so Turing could watch the door of Ray’s office, in case anyone tried to get in after she left. After everyone left.

A good thing Turing could do it, she thought. Tim had

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grown fond of saying what tedious, thankless work surveillance was. Since he’d only done a few brief surveillances so far in his private eye career, she assumed he was quoting from one of the classes he’d taken. Turing, fortunately, could create a background task, a small extension of herself, which would make the task less tedious. But not less nerve-wracking, waiting for one of their staff to make some move that would prove his disloyalty.

Or even more nerve-wracking, finding out, too late, that the move had already been made, unseen.

Maude remembered, suddenly, the scary stories she and her friends had told each other in Girl Scouts. Corny stories, yes; but when she remembered how they’d told them— huddled in their sleeping bags in the darkened woods; whispering, because the troop leader had already told them several times to be quiet—she could still remember how those stories terrified her. Especially the ones whose heroine locks the doors and windows to keep the monster out and thinks she’s safe, until she hears a noise behind her—only a small noise, a creaking board, or perhaps a throat cleared. And the heroine turns to find the monster already inside, waiting for her.

She sometimes remembered those stories when she came home late, alone. Especially once when she walked in to find her apartment in disarray, picked up the phone to call the police, and then thought she heard a noise from the bedroom. Her imagination, it had turned out; but the police had commended her wisdom in not staying to find out whether or not she heard a real burglar.

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But if Turing realized someone—or something—was in her home, where could she flee?

Stop it, Maude told herself. It’s one thing for children to scare themselves with tales of ghosts and lurking maniacs. It’s different for grown-ups.

It’s too real.

Tim eased his car another lane to the

left and glanced down at the directions Detective Stowers had given him when he’d finally reached Homicide.

Correction: when he’d finally reached the Violent Crimes Branch.

“We don’t have Homicide anymore,” the switchboard operator had said. “You want Violent Crimes.”

“Not really,” Tim had muttered as he copied down the phone number.

It would have to be in Southeast. Like many white residents of the Washington area, Tim hadn’t spent much time in Southeast D.C. He hoped the Violent Crimes Branch wasn’t in a particularly scary part of Southeast, but then, they’d put it where the business was, wouldn’t they?

From 395, take the Pennsylvania Avenue exit. He’d done this before, but only to connect with 295 north on his way to Baltimore. He hoped there weren’t any squeegee people working the stoplight today. He knew it was paranoid, but he couldn’t help wondering what would happen if one of

the squeegee people was actually a carjacker waiting to

*

pounce.

Continue on Pennsylvania to the top of the hill. He con-

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tinued, looking warily to either side for possible danger.

After a block or two, the slightly seedy small businesses that clustered near the interstate gave way to a quiet neighborhood. Tree-shaded streets lined with modest apartment buildings and small, brick, single-family homes. He spotted a huge, modern, redbrick Baptist church on his left, and then, a block or two later, another equally large rival Baptist church—this one more traditional, with white columns.

Cross Branch Avenue, and then turn into the Penn Branch Shopping Center. He expected a blighted, half-abandoned urban strip mall, with half the space boarded up and the rest filled with pawn shops, convenience stores, and minimarts, its owners thrilled to have D.C.’s finest as paying tenants.

Well, okay, there was a minimart. And a liquor store. Also a First Union Bank, a CVS drugstore, and a Subway sandwich shop. No boarded-up stores. The place looked busy and modestly prosperous. Strangely suburban.

He drove around to the back, where the police shared the shopping center s lower level with a Division of Motor Vehicles branch office. He had to cruise the parking lot twice to find a spot. Apparently there wasn't any special lot for the police cruisers; they were scattered throughout the lot.

He cooled his heels for half an hour in a waiting room, with an anxious, middle-aged woman and two uniformed officers. The woman glanced up and edged almost imperceptibly away from him. The officers ignored him, their posture suggesting that they’d waited for a while and expected to wait longer.

Tim bit a nail as he imagined being grilled by a hard-

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bitten pair of detectives. Having to justify himself. Give an alibi. Would playing Beyond Paranoia at the time of Ray’s death count as an alibi?

They’d smile condescendingly at how new and unscuffed his PI registration was. They’d be watching, when they took him over to identify the body, to see if he showed signs of guilt—or worse yet, if he fainted or threw up, the way rookies always did in books and movies.

“Mr. Pincowski?”

“Pincoski,” Tim corrected, standing up to shake the detective’s hand. Way up; the guy was tall.