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Inspector's way.
He passed an open door that revealed a bedroom beyond. It was neat and tidy. There was no indication
that it had been abandoned in haste, no sign that its occupant had fled in confusion. From the holos of
metazon stars that blinkered on the walls to the clothing projector to the silent audibub generator that
ejected floating sound bubbles, the room reeked visually of contented preadolescent female. One
audibub drifted close. He burst it with a fingertip, releasing a five-second yowl of what passed these days
for popular music.
As he approached a second bedroom, the voice they had heard earlier made him halt. "I'm just putting
on some clothes. Please wait in the den." Surtsey Anderson again. Reassuring, polite, friendly inviting,
even. Cardenas's eyes widened ever so slightly. There was one important overtone missing from that
voice.
Concern.
For all anyone could tell, today was a day like any other. A day for shopping, for work, for visiting her
daughter at soche, for making a date at the beauty parlor, for having lunch with friends. Anything but a
day for identifying a murdered maybe-husband. And still no apology for missing her meeting at the
morgue. For that matter, she had not even asked her visitors to identify themselves. He and his partner
might as well be two spizzers out for an afternoon's larking slice-and-dice.
"Ms. Anderson, it's me, Rocko Sanchez from the Nobodega Brothel. You're late for work."
"Just onemore minute I'm still putting on my face," replied the voice.
Whirling, the Inspector broke into a desperate sprint.
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He shouted at the startled Hyaki as he burst out of the hallway, racing for the front door, his lungs
pounding. Observing the expression on his partner's face, the sergeant erupted from the couch where he
had been relaxing, scattering hardzine and peanuts in several directions. Cardenas's hand reached for the
door handle.
There was no door handle.
He had not looked to see if one was present when they had entered the house. It was, after all, a not
unnatural assumption that there would be a handle on the inside of the door. But there was nothing: only
smooth, wood-grained composite. Nor did the barrier before him respond to verbal command, or the
anxious press of hands. From behind them, from somewhere within the distant bedroom, a feminine voice
chillingly declared, "Almost ready. I hope you're not getting too bored waiting for me."
Waiting for what?anincreasingly frantic Cardenas wondered apprehensively as he scanned the sides of
the doorway. Of one thing he was now confident: it would not be an appearance by Surtsey Anderson.
Stepping back, he pulled his gun and flipped up the projectile barrel. Hyaki turned his head away and
closed his eyes as the Inspector fired. In the narrow enclosed space of the entrance hallway, the sound of
the shell striking the door was ear-rattlingly loud. When the minced composite cleared, it revealed a hole
in the material the size of a man's head. Unfortunately, behind the hole flashed the hard gleam of solid
metal.
"Interesting door for a mid-income cleanie to have installed," he rumbled as he stepped aside to make
room for Hyaki. Throwing himself against the barrier, the sergeant hit the obstruction with every kilo of
his considerable mass. It shook but failed to give. With a second charge, he bent one hinge.
"Maybe together," he rasped tersely, his broad chest heaving.
On the third try, the two men succeeded in snapping the middle hinge and bending the door halfway
outward, though Cardenas gave himself no credit for the accomplishment. Scrambling through the
opening, he stumbled out onto the sun-drenched glassite walkway. Alook back showed Hyaki struggling
to fit through the gap they had made.
"Need a hand?"
The sergeant did not smile. "I'm not overweight I'm just like the coffee I drink. Papua Robusta."
Behind him a cheery, by-now familiar voice piped up clearly, "I'm ready thanks for waiting for me!"
Then the house blew up. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]