A long time ago, I learned that appearances mean nothing—should you decide to look beyond them, that is—so I had to up my game a little. When I meet a stranger, I treat him like a machine.
Machines all look the same on the outside, generally speaking. So do humans; two arms, two legs, a head in the usual place. The fascia might be a little more pleasing on some, but only if you’re thinking with your next orgasm, and not with the last shred of logic clinging to its rough edge. Today, despite minimal sleep and not enough caffeine, I’m doing my best to think with my brain, and since the only way to figure a machine out is to take it apart, that’s how I’ll play Agent Chen.
This whole thing is like a macabre parody of Gwen’s interview last week, but instead of rounding the corner to my office to meet pleasant, polite Gwen, I’m met with the bulk of Agent Chen, FBI, who obviously played college football at some point and now likes to Hulk-Smash out of suits for funsies. He appears young and oddly creased at the same time; dark hair mussed up as if it’s fashionable, dark eyes mussed up because all the sleep got sucked out. When he stands to proffer his badge, I can practically hear him creak.
“Sorry to keep you.” I rummage around in my tote bag for the office keys. “I came as quickly as I could.”
“Much appreciated.” He comes up behind me, blocking half the fluorescent corridor light in the process. “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
I shove the door open, usher him in. “Have a seat.”
It’s barely six thirty, and the sunrise is still in watercolor, threatening to burst through gold-edged clouds. The walls are lit faintly with a distant glow.
I probably shouldn’t stare at the way he’s maneuvering himself into the plastic chair, but then I’m hardly trying to make him comfortable. “I thought FBI types were meant to be inconspicuous.”
He cocks an eyebrow, and his face warms with a half-smile. “Is that a compliment, Miss Reeves?”
“An observation.”
“I can give chase with the best of ‘em.”
“Huh.” I smooth my skirt down before taking a seat behind my glass desk, dipping sideways to switch on the computer. “So what exactly can I help you with?”
He fishes around in his pockets—no mean feat, since his pants are pulled tight across mammoth thighs. Eventually, he produces a crumpled piece of paper and pushes it into my hand. A date is scrawled across the center in blunt black handwriting, along with JFK and an email address.
“I’m informed that you have footage from said location on said date,” he says. “Is that correct?”
“We have a lot of footage from a lot of places.” But I remember this one.
Of course I do.
This was Ash’s big homecoming, and Aeron is on the clip.
“I’ll have to look through our database,” I tell him. “This could take a few minutes—we have thousands of clips uploaded every day.”
Now he pulls a memory stick from the same pocket. “You can email me the files, but I’d like them on here as well, if you don’t mind.”
I have to force my fingers to move across the keyboard. First, the database has to load. There are three separate passcodes required for each folder, and then—
“You keep this shit locked down pretty tight, huh?” Agent Chen observes loudly.
“We have to. Half of it isn’t exactly family-friendly.”
“Worried your employees are having home-made porn binges on their lunch breaks?”
I press my lips together. “Probably the least of my worries, to be honest.”
“Guess so. With a serial killer on the loose.” He sits back, eyes fixed on me with the kind of focus that could make a girl feel uncomfortable. You know, if she wasn’t trying to dismantle him right back. “I assume you’ll be busy here today, given the new developments on the case.”
“Is it your case?”
“It’s the FBI’s case.”