Her patience was at an end. So were my thoughts on how to save Zoe. I thanked her for her time and left. I don't remember the walk from her office to the pert that took me back to my apartment.
First I cursed Zoe. I never asked her to do me any favors. Death is any job's ultimate occupational hazard. I knew that. She could've let me stay dead. She never asked whether I wanted to come back. Death could've been so terrifying that I might've hated her for making sure I'd have to do it at least once more. By any reasonable standard, I owed her nothing. She did what she wanted. I benefited. We had no contract, no understanding of any sort.
Or did we? Maybe we make contracts all the time, if we are honorable people—unspoken, one-way contracts that can't be broken because they're based on who we are, not on what others do. Whether Zoe thought she had obligations to me was irrelevant. I had obligations to her, because I liked her, respected her, and, so much as anyone can, based on a long day of being together, loved her. I would never respect myself if I did not honor a contract of the heart. I didn't know if she was now a friend or a lover or something in-between or something entirely different, but I knew I would give my life for hers. From her point of view, I suppose I'd already done that. Why should I be surprised that she would risk her freedom to give my life back?
Crossing the Santa Monicas reminded me of our trip to see Tauber. All I had wanted to do then was sleep. Now I could sleep all I wanted. Zoe could only sleep when her day at the camp came to an end.
My part of Crittertown had barely been touched by the riot. Though a grocery store run by a very nice Guatemalan couple was boarded up, a sign on the door said that it would reopen soon. Felix was at his newsstand. I didn't feel like talking, but he called, "Hey, skin! Where you been?"
"Around, Felix. How're you?"
"Cheese, wine, and me, we just keep getting better. You still seeing that pretty cat?"
"I'm working on it."
"Well, I wish you luck. She seemed like a good one."
"They all seem like good ones to you, Felix."
"Treat 'em right, they all are."
Passing Huston Street, I remembered Zoe ditching the copbot that Blake had assigned her and wondered whether she was safe from the killers now. Since the police knew where she was, the killers must, too. But if she was out of circulation for the next thirty years, and the earring with her, they might think they didn't need to do anything about her now. I had no choice but to hope that was true.
My apartment was full of memories of Zoe. Approaching it alone reminded me that we had left together when we went to Chain's charity event. She had waited for me inside the front door while I put on my shoes. She had slept on the couch with her mouth slightly open and the pink tip of her tongue resting between her teeth. She had sat on the counter eating my soy cheese, and she had miaowed at the balcony door. And the entire time she had been there, my only wish had been to get rid of her.
The bedroom was haunted by a different ghost. On seeing the bed where I'd done the ecstatic octopus with the thing that killed Tauber, I yanked the sheets and threw them onto the dirty clothes at the bottom of my closet. Then I realized that my second set of sheets also needed washing. I stood in the middle of the room, trying to decide whether to put the first set back on, to spend Christmas Eve washing clothes, or to sleep on the couch.
I said, "Oh, Cat, why'd you do this to me?"
I needed a long, long walk, or maybe a run, or maybe to go down to the gym to work until I was exhausted or I hurt myself. I decided those were things I could always do later. If I had to deal with a broken heart, I should do it in the traditional way. I went to the phone to call Eddie to see if he wanted to go drinking.
The message light was blinking repeatedly. The first message was from Rita, calling me from the Hague to wish me a Merry Christmas. The next two were from people who had heard about me on the news: One wanted to hire me to look for a runaway chimera; the other wanted to option my story to sell to Hollywood. The fourth was from Mycroft.
Chapter Fourteen
The message came without video. A pleasingly modulated, rather high-pitched voice said, "I'm Mycroft. Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner—I spend so much time online when I'm working that I stay off for days when I can. I'll do whatever you ask to see justice done for Amos Tauber. Come to One Waterman Way in Malibu at any time. I much prefer personal interaction to its electronic simulation."
The next message was from my mother, who said, "Season's Greetings, child of my womb! Why don't you visit? The weather's wonderful, and so am I." That degree of cheer meant she was well into the second bottle of wine.
Then came two more inquiries about work, one to follow a wife to see how she was honoring her wedding vows, one for a bodyguard for a woman who smiled too much. I suspect the latter was someone with too much money who wanted to seduce the Famous Unkillable UNSEC Detective—but I admit my vanity can get in the way of my judgment.
The last message was from Eddie, who said, "Hey, Captain, glad you made it. Damn shame about Zoe. For a critter—well, I guess you know that. I'm off to spend Christmas with Dolores and her kids. Want to grab a meal when I get back and fill me in? I know a great noodle place in Little Tokyo. Have a merry!"
Merry didn't seem to be in the plan. I called Mycroft's number. A slender blond man in a white lab coat answered. Hung from the wall behind him were the sort of equipment you'd expect in the office of a doctor or a torturer. "Hello?" In the background, something whimpered in pain.
"Mycroft?"
He smiled; he seemed like a man who found life more entertaining than I did just then. "Paul Zweig. I work for Mycroft." There was another cry of pain, and he leaned partly out of the projection.
So Mycroft hires cheerful sadists, I thought. Maybe I should reconsider my plan. When the blond man came back, he said, "Sorry about that. How can I help you?"
"I'm Chase Maxwell. Mycroft told me to call."
"Ah! Can you hold for a minute? He's in the house, but this place is a maze."
"Don't bother. I wanted to make sure he wouldn't mind a visitor on Christmas Eve."
"Not at all. We'll expect you anytime."
I hung up, then tested the Infinite Pocket. I didn't drop the SIG this time.
Life was much better with a plan. I went into the kitchen for a beer, popped an onion bagel into the toaster, scraped the mold off the hummous, cut the soft bits off a cucumber and sliced what remained into slivers, and assembled a sandwich. After the first bite through warm chewy bagel, cool crisp cucumber, and smooth hummous, I realized I was starving.
I carried Zoe's computer and my second sandwich to the phone and began sending messages. All of the business inquiries had left full contact information, so I composed one message for all: "Thank you for inquiring about my services. I'm unable to consider new cases at present. You might try the Brady Xi Agency—tell them I sent you. Sincerely, Chase Maxwell."
Then I wrote, "Rita, Holidays were always wonderful for us—I'll never forget Ibiza. I hope you and Janos are having a great time. Max."
The next was more difficult. "Dear Mom. Nondenominational felicitations to you, too. I'm working through Christmas. I have no idea how long this job will take. I'll call when it's over. If you heard I was in the hospital, don't worry. I'm fine. But it did get me thinking that I've been assuming you know things I haven't been saying. So, for the record, I love you. Max."
The last was easiest: "Eddie, Sorry to put you through that. Dunno if you heard, but Arthur and Bruno are facing serious time, and the orca, Rashid, is dead. I'll call when I can, but that may be a while—I'm going to find a way to help Zoe. Have one hell of a time with Dolores and her kids. We both suffer from Groucholalia, but there's a lot to be said for joining a club that wants you as a member. Max."
That was all the tidying of my life that I could do for free. The landlady would have to wait until I knew I didn't have a better use for the hospital refund.
Since evening was coming on, I changed to my favorite work clothes, a plain dark gray suit of heavy cotton, a light gray mock turtleneck shirt, black deck shoes. And since Malibu at night in December would be chilly, I added a black coat, then tucked gloves, nightshades, and a scarf in its pockets.
The pert to Malibu took forty-eight minutes, according to its display. I have no idea whether that was accurate. The sun was setting over the Pacific. I watched it go, and wondered whether Zoe was working into the dark, and what they had her doing.
Not five minutes after I set up the PowerPad to take my calls, it vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and turned it on. Vallejo appeared in the projection field. I flicked a finger through "respond, no video" and said, "Hello, Detective."
"Don't say I didn't get you anything for Christmas, Mr. Maxwell. Django Kay says the injections they gave the chimeras were distilled water to scare them. The weasel simply panicked. As for the earring, he says he heard that the chimera who'd killed Tauber had taken something from Singer Labs worth half a meg." As I frowned, he added, "Kay's in a position to hear rumors."
"How'd he know the something looked like an earring?"
Vallejo looked decidedly sheepish. "Singer went public after we showed them the subway video."
"Kay wouldn't take the kind of risks he took on spec. Someone wanted the earring, so he went after it."
"I can see why you'd want to think that."
"What's that mean?"
"Your client's attractive, if you don't mind dating outside your species. It's hard to think she fooled you."
"You could've told me she'd been arrested."
"Would you, in my place?"
I let him have that. "If you're so sure Zoe's the killer, why's her location a secret?"
"There are enough variables in this case, Mr. Maxwell. Why inject more?"
"If she's a killer, why did she save my life?"
"Maybe she realized she couldn't get away, so it'd be wise to have a good deed behind her. Maybe that was her idea of atonement. I'm not her shrink or her priest. Be content with where, when, and how. You'll spin your wheels forever if you go for why."
"I suppose. Anything else?"
"No. Merry Christmas, Mr. Maxwell."
"And a shiny new year to you."
I rode the rest of the way thinking he was right about one thing: I wasn't being objective. But who is? Humans are rationalizing animals. The best of us poke our assumptions now and then to see if they still work, but we can't escape from forming beliefs that fit our needs. Vallejo needed to solve this case. Pinning it on Zoe did that. I needed to do something for the woman who had saved me. Maintaining her innocence did that for me.
The sun had set by the time I reached Malibu. An Electricab call button was mounted just outside the pert stop, but I ignored it. Some people complain that pert stops along the beach should be as close together as they are in towns. I'm not one. I walked a little over a mile along the bike path, appreciating the smell of the sea and the lash of the wind. The moon would not rise for several hours, but my nightshades showed the world clearly in silvered hues. I saw seabirds, a coyote, a young man and woman walking arm in arm. Only the thought that I was expected kept me from removing my shoes and walking along the sand.
The house at One Waterman Way looked at first glance like most rich people's homes in the hills along the Pacific Coast Highway. At second glance, it showed greater concern for its setting. Its low silhouette suited the rise it sat on, as did its materials, dark pine and bricks the color of sandstone. Its landscaping was so subtle I thought its grounds had been abandoned, until I realized that native plants would not arrange themselves so attractively if left to themselves.
A stocky, brushed aluminum butler with green optics opened the front door as I approached. "Mr. Maxwell?" Something about its voice and build suggested great patience, competence, and discretion. If it had been human, it would've been a British army sergeant who had left one service for another as a gentleman's gentleman.
"Yes."
"I'm Chives. Do come in. You're expected. May I take your coat?"
Gloves, scarf, and nightshades went with the coat. I had a moment to admire the inner room, which consisted of colonial Spanish chairs, a koi pond, and three sliding doors. An LED glowed discreetly over each of the sliding doors, green over the outer ones, red over the center one.
The left-hand door opened. An Irish Setter pup with a bandaged foreleg ran up to me, its tongue lolling and its body shaking in delight at meeting a new visitor.
Paul Zweig followed the pup. "I was afraid she'd be scared of people."
"Why?"
He motioned at her leg. "She was hit by a car. I found her on the highway a few days ago."
"You were changing her bandage when I called."
"Yes. Why?"
"I thought I heard her."
"Do you need a dog?"
"Nope. Tiny apartment, impossible hours."
"A shame. She likes you." He caught her collar as I stood, and the pup quit washing my hands and neck. "You think Mollie suits her?"
"Or Meg. You're a vet?"
He grinned. "Effectively."
"Meaning?"
"The formal handle's xenophysician." The light over the central door changed from red to green. "Ah. Mycroft's ready to see you." He offered his hand. "Good meeting you in person."
"Likewise." Which was true. Paul may've been a multiple murderer, but anyone gets bonus points for being good with animals. We shook hands, and he headed out with the pup, saying, "C'mon, Meg." I looked at the central door and frowned.
Paul pointed at it. "Mycroft's back that way. Just follow the lights."
Follow the lights. The butler could've showed me the way, but the mysterious Mycroft wanted me to set off like a kid in a fun house. I shrugged and walked through the door, entering a long windowless hall with light pine wainscotting and pale green walls. The ceiling lights gave a soft, diffused glow. Stars were visible through a tilework of skylights. A channel of water ran along the wall, deep enough for swimming laps.