Taking the Highway

ANDRE TOSSED HIS DATAPAD onto the scratched surface of the conference table. He’d already connected his pad to the network five times, but the waveguide kept bouncing him. He leaned back in the squeaky chair, stared at the flickering fluorescents above him, and remembered why he hated coming to the Downriver suburbs. Few of his cases from the city spilled over this far, for which he was exceedingly grateful. Downriver, with its additional pressure from Toledo and other poorer points south, spent almost its entire budget on manpower, leaving none for facilities.

He checked the time. Was Sergeant Gao going to keep their appointment or not? He’d give her five more minutes. He reconnected with the network and looked at her profile picture again. Okay, maybe ten. After all, a request-to-acquire was a delicate thing. Andre hoped to bypass a lot of interdepartmental bullshit by making a personal visit, but if he left in a huff, he could forget about Gao ever giving him her cases.

Sergeant Gao ambled through the door a moment later, neither hurried nor ruffled. She wore a blue blazer and pants, a white blouse and flat shoes. Give her a necktie, Andre thought, and she could pass for a fourth. Her long, dark hair was bundled neatly at her neck and her ID was clipped under an American flag lapel pin.

Andre stood. “I almost gave up on you.”

“Busy. You know, Monday?” She held out a hand. “Detective Sergeant Sofia Gao.”

“Detective Sergeant Andre LaCroix.” He shook, watching her evaluate him from the top of his combed hair to the tips of his polished loafers. He waited, daring her to find something amiss.

“Have you been working here long?” he asked. Easy icebreaker. Fourthing talk.

Sofia pulled out her own datapad and frowned at it. “About a year.”

More like eight months, Andre thought, but did not say it. They were technically the same rank, though he’d held his for three years longer. “I’m surprised they don’t have you on that new Triad thing coming up from Ohio,” he said instead.

Sofia looked up in surprise. “They would, if I spoke Chinese.”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m fluent in swear words. Other than that, I can barely say ‘happy new year’ to my grandmother.”

Andre glanced at her lapel pin. “Hmmm. Very American.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Is it?”

He shrugged. “Don’t ask me. My Dad’s one generation from Paris and my mother would move back to Quebec tomorrow if they were still part of Canada.”

She gave him a look with a scalpel edge. “My family has lived here for a hundred years.”

“Well, baseball and apple pie,” he said. “Let’s roast a turkey.”

Sofia gave her head a pointed downward tilt, glaring just below his belt, as if she’d rather roast something else at the moment. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“I believe the word is charming. You’re supposed to like me and want to work with me.”

“I can work with you even if I hate you.”

“True.” Andre walked around the table, testing every chair, looking for the least-broken one. He found the one he wanted at the opposite end and plopped into it. “But it won’t be as much fun.”

“Or it could be even more fun.” Sofia gazed at him across the giant expanse of wood, her eyes showing their first glimpse of humor. She pulled out her datapad and poked the screen a few times. This was work, not social, so ignoring him in favor of the datapad wasn’t rude. Still, the transition to business was so abrupt he wondered if he’d only imagined the tiny smile he’d seen.

She held up the pad. “These cases you want, I suppose you found them in the open file database?”

He reconnected his datapad to the police network, scrambling to keep up with her.

“Uh, yeah. That’s what it’s there for.”

“You go ahead and keep telling yourself that,” she mumbled.

“If we can’t share information—”

“The open file database does not exist to help us cooperate, okay? The OFD exists to make the politicians look good. They put check marks next to each closed case. Tick, tick, tick. Making Detroit safe for press releases everywhere.”

“Oh . . . kay.” Andre traced a jagged scar in the tabletop with one finger. “But I’ve thwarted the mayor’s evil plan. I’ve used the OFD to actually find out something.”

“You’re trying to link two of my bodies to two of yours.”

Just one of yours and one of mine would be sufficient. He forced his eyes away from Sofia’s and consulted his datapad again. “Right. I sent you the file numbers I wanted. Take a look at mine.”

She frowned at the small screen and aimed her datapad at the wall, projecting the image onto it. All four files lined up for comparison, her own cases broken down with neat bullet points and hyperlinks, not a single missing form or blank space. His own were hastily scrawled, forms half done, arrows and strikethroughs and words spilling outside the gridlines.

Sofia pursed her lips and paced in front of the wall, scanning the forms, occasionally pointing either hand at two different files, as if trying to connect them. She shook her head and sat at the head of the conference table, her datapad in front of her. “I see four murders here. What I don’t see is any reason why they should all belong to you.”

Andre stood and held up one finger. Damn waveguide had kicked him out again. Sofia didn’t seem to be having a problem with hers.

“One?” she asked. “As in, ‘hold on one second?’ or ‘these are all one case?’“

“Both.” Andre circled the table and stood behind Sofia’s chair. He leaned over her shoulder and commanded her datapad to pull up the murdered men’s badges from the Minimum Passenger Requirement Act riders registry. He stepped back when it was done, exhaling regretfully. Sofia’s hair smelled of citrus, and under it, something spicier.

He read off the names. “Arthur Yalna, Homer Carcassi, Douglas Ming, and just this morning, we found Matthew Davis Shepler. All murdered within the last three weeks and they all worked as fourths. That is why I need them all.”

Sofia swiveled in her chair. “Why should I give my cases to you?”

Andre found himself so distracted by the way her lips puckered when she said the word you that he almost missed what she said next.

“And how did you know they were paid riders?” She gestured wildly at the wall. “Of course, it’s right there, but how did you know? Neither of mine were wearing fourthing badges at the time of their deaths.” She fumbled with the datapad until she got her own case files back. “That’s just . . .”

“Incredible police work?” Andre tried. “Great intuitive thinking?”

“Nobody makes a leap like that. I don’t care how long you’ve been a cop.”

Andre pulled his fourthing badge out of his pocket, and attached it to his lapel. He waited, eyebrows raised.

“Oh. So this is personal.”

Andre shrugged. “You’re going to think it, no matter what I say.”

“Which doesn’t answer my question. Why kill fourths?”

“I bet Ugly Ben will have a theory. So will Marcia-in-the-Morning and Naked Jay.”

Sofia shot out her hand as if to chop him in half. “No. The news spinners can not have this. No way.”

“Give me your cases and they won’t.”

“You could just as easily turn your cases over to me.”

Andre gave a mock bow. “We’ve danced this number once before, my lady, but if you’d care to take another waltz around the floor, I do believe they’re playing my song.”

Sofia made a hmph sound in her throat. “Typical fourth.”

“Meaning what? Persuasive? Enchanting?”

“Full of yourself. You’re not getting my cases.”

“Yes, I am. I already have the request-to-acquire waiting on my captain’s desk.”

“Your captain approved this?”

“I just came to you as a courtesy,” he said. “To give you a head’s up.”

“I was so wrong.”

“It’s okay.”

“So, completely wrong.” She shook her head in mock sadness. “Working with you isn’t fun at all.”