DETECTIVE MOXLEY, Part 12: “I Know A Guy”
“Don’t let it go to your head, kid.”
Moxley shook his head as the duty officer handed him a polymer bag full of his personal effects. He glanced back at the desk, then to Weber.
“I guess they’re not going to give it back,” said Mox.
Weber’s eyes bulged. “Kid, you don’t have the brains God gave a cop. Shut your mouth and pick up your feet.”
Moxley looked around. Weber continued to amble out of the stationhouse. His gait was wobbly but unhurried. If a man could walk grumpy, Weber did so.
“I’ll get another,” said Mox.
“No you won’t,” said Weber. “I told you to get a gun, not a blade. Blades look bad. They always look bad. You’re lucky the Day Sergeant owes people money.” They reached the parking area and Weber climbed into the driver’s side of his brand-new Monkton Dayliner. He gestured impatiently for Moxley to climb into the vehicle. The car pulled away before Mox had closed his door. “What got into your head, kid?” Weber said. “What holing notion made you think it was okay to stab a guy to death?”
“Self-defense.”
“Not my point.”
Moxley didn’t answer for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Nobody will sell a gun to me.”
Weber snorted. “The dishonorable again?” he said. “Is that all? Hell, you could have said so. How do you think I fixed your credentials in the first place?”
“You can do that?”
“I already did it,” said Weber. “We can add a gun to your detective ID, easy. That councilman, what’s his name, the one who took his picture with you last month. He can pull this string. I just gotta make a call.”
“I did save his career.”
“Yeah, you’re a real hero,” said Weber. “He kills a hooker who likes it rough, you cover it up so his liability policy stays intact. You’re a man among men.”
Mox shot Weber a look. “But—”
“Don’t get sandy,” said Weber. “I’m just saying that in this job you’re gonna meet plenty of powerful scumbags. You’re gonna do favors for them. They’re gonna be grateful. They’ll shake your hand and grin for the cameras. If it can’t come back to them they’ll even grease the wheels for you sometimes. But the second you could hurt them, the moment you’re a danger, they’ll cut you loose. You can’t make friends with politicians, kid. Remember that.”
Moxley stared out his window. The Dayliner churned smoothly through the Hongkongtown traffic. Weber drove in silence for several blocks.
“He was going to kill me, Web.”
“They’re all gonna kill you,” said Weber. “Hongkongtown.”
“Hongkongtown,” said Moxley.
* * *
“Great plan, Mox,” said Lobby. He dumped the plastic bag at the foot of the sofa. Moxley, whose pain had overcome his reservations about Lobby’s furniture, managed to scoop up the bag with some difficulty. He removed the plastic bag of bourbon, zipped open the mouth, and drank deeply. The stuff was cheap, cheaper even than what Moxley usually bought. It burned going down. It would burn coming out.
“I’ll pay you back,” said Moxley.
“No,” said Lobby. “You won’t.” He went back into the kitchen, where the body of whatever had been imitating Sheb was lying on the countertop. How Lobby had gotten the corpse — if you could call it that — up on the counter, Mox couldn’t say. He quickly added the fact to the long list of things he didn’t care about just now.
“What I want to know,” said Lobby, poking at the remains of the creature’s head with a digital spanner, “is how you figured rolling that car at 140 kay pee aytch wasn’t going to kill you.”
“That car was next year’s model,” said Moxley. “Auto drive, passive restraints, you name it.”
“Then how did you figure it would kill this thing?” said Lobby. “You said it didn’t even flinch when you shot it.”
“It didn’t,” said Mox. “And I didn’t. Figure, I mean. Crashing the car was the only thing I could think of.”
“It’s that kind of decision making,” said Lobby, sounding distracted now as he dug deeper into the creature’s shattered skull, “that has propelled you to the success you enjoy today.”
Moxley washed back a retort with more discount bourbon. He needed Lobby right now. When he could feel his throat again, he said, “So what is it?”
“Beats hell out of me,” said Lobby. “It’s not an Oggy, but it’s like no robot I’ve seen. Far more advanced. Synthetics of this kind… it’s got some kind of electric matrix that makes its skin unstable. Keeps shifting under my fingers.”
“Shifting how?” said Moxley.
“I think it’s camouflage,” said Lobby. “Like a chameleon. Changes color to match its environment. Makes sense. If this is some kind of infiltration unit, built to look like your friend, then it would have other advanced capabilities. To make it a better spy.”
“And a better killer,” said Moxley. He rubbed his face with his hand. The bourbon was starting to turn his lips numb.
“So how do you rate a… a synthoid spy assassin?”
“Synthoid?”
“Have to call it something,” said Lobby. “So?”
“I don’t know, Lobby,” said Mox. “It was asking me about Ray. Wanted to know what he told me.”
“Well, what did he tell you?”
“That’s just it,” said Moxley. “Nothing. Nothing that I can think of, anyway. That’s why I need his case files. You gotta hurry, Lob. I think I’m big trouble here.”
Lobby looked to the synthoid, then back to the detective. “You? Try both of us, Moxley.”
“Yeah,” said Mox. He considered the bag of bourbon in his fist. “Looks that way.”
Lobby went to the cupboard above his stove, stood on his tiptoes, and removed a sawed-off rotary shotgun. He broke it, checked the chambers, and closed it again. “So what now?”
“Now we call for help,” said Moxley.
“But who?” said Lobby. “I’m out of my depth here, Moxley.”
“I know a guy,” said Mox.