Lock In Read Free

arrived. “It’s here,” I said.
    “Run it,” Vann said.
    “You want me to port it to the dash?”
    “I’m driving.”
    “Autodrive is a thing that happens.”
    Vann shook her head. “This is a Bureau car,” she said. “Lowest-bidder autodrive is not something you want to trust.”
    “Fair point,” I said. I fired up the arrest feed. It was janky and low-res. The Metro police, like the Bureau, probably contracted their tech to the lowest bidder. The view was fps stereo mode, which probably meant the camera was attached to protective eyewear.
    The recording started as the cop—Timmons—got off the elevator on the seventh floor, stun gun drawn. At the door of room 714 there was a Watergate security officer, resplendent in a bad-fit mustard yellow uniform. As the feed got closer the security officer’s taser came into view. The security officer looked like he was going to crap himself.
    Timmons navigated around the security officer and the image of a man sitting on the bed, hands up, floated into view. His face and shirt were streaked with blood. The image jerked and Timmons took a long look at the dead man on the blood-soaked carpet. The view jerked back up to the man on the bed, hands still up.
    “Is he dead?” asked a voice, which I assumed was Timmons’s.
    The man on the bed looked down at the man on the carpet. “Yeah, I think he is,” he said.
    “Why the fuck did you kill him?” Timmons asked.
    The man on the bed turned back to Timmons. “I don’t think I did,” he said. “Look—”
    Then Timmons zapped the man. He jerked and twisted and fell off the bed, collapsing into the carpet, mirroring the dead man.
    “Interesting,” I said.
    “What?” Vann asked.
    “Timmons was barely in the room before he zapped our perp.”
    “Bell,” Vann said.
    “Yeah,” I said. “Speaking of which, does that name sound familiar to you?”
    “Did Bell say anything before he got zapped?” Vann asked, ignoring my question.
    “Timmons asked him why he killed that guy,” I said. “Bell said he didn’t think he did.”
    Vann frowned at that.
    “What?” I asked.
    Vann glanced over to me again, and had a look that told me she wasn’t looking at me, but at my PT. “That’s a new model,” she said.
    “Yeah,” I said. “Sebring-Warner 660XS.”
    “Sebring-Warner 600 line isn’t cheap,” Vann said.
    “No,” I admitted.
    “Lease payments are a little steep on a rookie FBI salary.”
    “Is this how we’re going to do this?” I asked.
    “I’m just making an observation,” Vann said.
    “Fine,” I said. “I assume they told you something about me when they assigned me to you as a partner.”
    “They did.”
    “And I assume you know about the Haden community because it’s your beat.”
    “Yes.”
    “Then let’s skip the part where you pretend not to know who I am and who my family is and how I can afford a Sebring-Warner 660,” I said.
    Vann smiled and stubbed out her cigarette on the side window and lowered the window to chuck out the butt. “I saw you got grief on the Agora for showing up to work yesterday,” she said.
    “Nothing I haven’t gotten before, for other things,” I said. “Nothing I can’t handle. Is this going to be a problem?”
    “You being you?”
    “Yeah,” I said.
    “Why would it be a problem?” Vann asked.
    “When I went to the Academy I knew people there thought I was there as an affectation,” I said. “That I was just farting around until my trust fund vested or something.”
    “Has it?” Vann asked. “Your trust fund, I mean. Vested.”
    “Before I even went to the Academy,” I said.
    Vann snickered at this. “No problems,” she said.
    “You sure.”
    “Yes. And anyway, it’s good that you have a high-end threep,” she said, using the slang term for a Personal Transport. “It means that map of yours is actually going to have a useful resolution. Which works because I don’t trust Trinh to send me anything helpful. The arrest feed was