Future Crimes Part 57

"I'm still working on it," Tinker answered finally.

"That's interesting," said the private investigator.

"One of my informants this morning hinted that the whole serial killer idea is a diversion."

Tinker nodded his silvery head.

"Been done before," he agreed.

"Kill a bunch of people, make it look like the handiwork of a certifiable loon. And out of all the victims, there're maybe only one or two you really wanted knocked off."

"That's what I'm thinking about. Have you dug up anything that--" "I'm still burrowing, boss."

Jack leaned back.

"Maybe you shouldn't have sent out that press release this morning," he told the dog.

"That's going to irritate both the law and Polly."

"We're doing this for publicity," reminded Tinker.

"The first step in going after publicity is to alert the populace as to what you're up to. If that annoys anybody, well, tough taffy." When he shrugged his shoulders, they made a faint ratcheting sound.

"But annoying Polly might--" "What an interesting coincidence." The dog c.o.c.ked his head to the left.

Polly Bowers, fully dressed in an orange sin silk lunch suit was striding across the see-through floor toward them. Clutched in her tanned right hand was a single sheet of buff-colored recycle paper.

"Listen, you .." She halted beside the table, taking a deep breath.

"I'm trying to remember what I can call you in public without having those doddering shysters who represent you sue my a.s.s."

"Goof," supplied Tinker, "That's allowed, as are sap and moron."

"Listen, you goof," said Jack's former spouse, "what's the big idea of challenging me?" She slapped the sheet of paper down on the table over his menu screen

It was a small newspaper t.i.tled The Nitwit News.

He asked, "What the h.e.l.l is this?"

"My computer prints this out for me every morning, sap," explained Polly, angry.

"It sums up what you've been up to during the previous twenty-four hours.

Usually it's a d.i.n.ky little thing and one can stuff all the news about a nonent.i.ty like you .. ." She paused, glanced at Tinker.

"Am I allowed nonent.i.ty?"

"Perfectly acceptable," replied the dog.

"You can stuff all the news about a nonent.i.ty like you in a gnat's b.u.t.t. But today, no, today you hand out your insipid press release and have the temerity to--" "Actually, Polly, it was Tinker who--"

"Typical, pa.s.sing the buck yet again," she accused.

"The point is that only someone suffering from severe delusions would dare pit his d.i.n.ky little pathetic detective agency against mine and claim he's going to beat me to the solution of the Slicer case. I've already got it nearly solved now."

"So don't worry, then, Polly."

"It exasperates me when a pitiful shamus like you sticks his snoot in my business," continued his onetime wife.

"Just make sure, Jack, that you don't get underfoot and screw up my investigation."

"We are no longer wed," he reminded her.

"As I understand SoCal law, Polly, I am therefore no longer obliged to listen to your hectoring and fish-wifery. Begone, shoo."

She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the copy of The Nitwit News.

"You better move fast on this, moron," she told him.

"Because I'm within a day of clearing the whole mess up."

She turned on her heel and went walking away.

"Say what you will about her," commented Tinker, ^her rear end is still in great shape."

The voxbox in the rattling elevator wheezed when it announced, "Lower Depths, last stop, coming up."

Through the dirt-blurred plaz walls of the descending car. Jack could see the shadowy streets of the Ground Level Sector of Greater Los Angeles. The neo metal pillars that held up the pedramps were scrawled with curses and protests; sc.r.a.ps and tatters were abundant on the rutted pavements. Near the gutted remains of an overturned land car two wild mutt dogs were having a snarling fight over what looked to be somebody's arm.

The cage came to a thumping, thunking landing.

"You sure you want to get out here, pal?" inquired the dangling voxbox.

"I can run you back up to Level Ten."

"That's okay." He absently patted the stun gun in his shoulder holster.

"This is a business call."

"I'd hate to be in your business," wheezed the elevator as the door s.h.i.+mmied open.

"You ought to do something about that wheeze."

He stepped out into the hot, gray afternoon.

"No kidding? h.e.l.l, I've been on the repair waiting list for nearly five months."

Easing around a sprawled cyborg whose left foot was missing. Jack started for his destination.

On the next corner three skinny teens were, roughly, dismantling a Salvation Army robot. It kept saying, in a squeaky voice, "Bless you, my children. Bless you, my children."

The skinniest of the youths, wearing a ragged overall suit, eyed Jack.

"We're collecting for charity, a.s.shole.

Let's have a contribution."

"What a shame. I left my Bam card at the office."

The detective yanked out his stun gun set it on the lowest setting with a nudge of his thumb and shot the thin young man.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," remarked one of his companions.

The stun gunned youth lost the use of his legs and fell down.

"Hey, that's no fair," he muttered as his head bonked against the broad metal chest of the fallen SA got.

"If there's no objection, I'll continue on my way."

"You've crippled Oskar for life," accused the lean youth in the sequinned overcoat.