city blues 01 - dome city blues Read Free

body like clouds being chased by the wind.  I tried not to stare as one of the transparent patches flowed diagonally across her rib cage and up around the curve of her breast, revealing the cinnamon-toast brown of her nipple.
    Cinched tight around her waist was a broad black belt with leaves of ivy embroidered in metallic green thread.  Her shoes were those impossibly high stiletto pumps that street kids call fuck-me shoes .
    She was beautiful; as beautiful as surgical boutiques and DNA-modifying viral cultures could make her.
    Beautiful.  Perfect.  Artificial.
    “Wow,” John said softly.  He tipped his drink slightly in the woman’s direction and then took a sip.
    A second later, the woman stood beside our table.  She looked at John.  “Are you David Stalin?”
    John hooked a thumb in my direction.  “There’s your man...”
    The woman turned toward me and held out one of my old business cards.  “I called your office,” she said, “but the number is out of service.  I tried the address on your card, but it looks like they’ve turned that whole building into a pump shop for commercial steroids.  If you’ll tell me where you’ve moved your office, I’ll be glad to drop by during business hours.”
    Her perfume was delicate, but overtly sensual.  It must have been packed with pheromones, because it was down-loading sexual imperatives to my reproductive system on a frequency that I barely managed to ignore.
    “I didn’t move my office,” I said.  “I closed it.”
    I took another sip of scotch, and paused while it ran down my throat.  “I’m out of the business.”
    John watched me, nodding his head slightly as if encouraging me to somehow take advantage of the situation.
    The woman’s shoulders slumped a little.  She stared down at the table top.  “I need your help Mr. Stalin.”
    “I’m sorry, Ms...”
    She glanced up.  “Winter,” she said.  “Sonja Winter.”
    “I’m sorry Ms. Winter, but I don’t do that kind of thing anymore.”
    Her eyes were glassy, as though a tear might find its way down those long lashes any second.  “I need your help,” she said again.  “I’ve run out of options.  You’re the last hope I’ve got.”
    As I stared into her eyes, I realized that her eye shadow and lipstick were not makeup.  They were tattooed on.
    I cleared my throat softly.  “I’m not anybody’s last hope.  There are a thousand private detectives out there that are as good as, or better than I ever was.  All you have to do to find one is walk to the nearest public terminal and access the business directory.”
    The entire situation was right out of an old Mike Hammer vid, but even the bizarrely cliché quality of our conversation didn’t stop me from feeling like a totally heartless bastard as the first tear rolled down her cheek.
    “If you’ll let me tell you…”  Her voice trailed off.  “If you’ll please just... reconsider…”
    “Cut her some slack,” John said.  “It might do both of you some good.”
    “There’s nothing to reconsider,” I said.  “I’m out of the business, and I’m not going back.”
    The woman closed her eyes for a long second.  The first tear was joined by a second, then a third.
    She swallowed heavily.  “It’s my brother,” she said.  “He’s been... he was murdered.”
    “Then you’ve definitely got the wrong guy for the job,” I said.  “You need to call the police.”
    She opened her eyes and brushed her fingers across her cheeks, wiping away tears.  “The police know all about it,” she said.  “They’re not interested in finding the killer.”
    Out of reflex, I nearly asked the only logical question.  I caught myself just in time, and shut my mouth.  She was a smart one.  She was dangling the bait right in front of my lips.  A murder had been committed, and the cops had decided not to investigate.  The very idea suggested either ineptitude the part of the police, or some kind of cover-up.