The receptionist reads from the monitor in front of her. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m a Collections Agent.”
She glances at her monitor again and sees that the scanners have picked up my ID from my phone. It’s probably also been confirmed via facial scans from one of the security cameras no doubt hidden liberally throughout the lobby. “So you are. Welcome, Agent Dare. I’ll let them know you’re on your way up, but I can’t guarantee that anyone is in.” She punches in clearance. “Lift six,” she says, pointing the way to a bank of elevators recessed against the broad back wall between two of the larger storefronts. “It’ll take you to floor thirty-seven. The unit number is 3726.”
I nod thanks. As I cross the floor, I glance over my shoulder, getting the strange feeling that I’m being followed, but there are only a few people in the lobby, and none of them seem to be tailing me.
The doors open for me as I approach, and I take the elevator to thirty-seven. I step out into a corridor as wide as a street encircling the column of utilities channels in the arcology’s center. The light’s all artificial here, and the floors, ceilings, and walls are bare, worn-down cement, nothing like the sanitized facade of the lobby. The vague groans and grinds of machinery blend together, not fully muffled by the walls, drowning out the hum of a forklift passing by with a pallet of agricultural supplements. Utilitarian signs in Korean and French and simplified Chinese and English hang above the doors of the businesses, which include everything from shipping rights resales to low-atmosphere packing solutions.
I get my bearings and head toward 3726. Passing a dentist’s office so spare and shoddy looking that it must be a black-market tooth buyer, I make a mental note to come back here at some point and see if there’s a bust to be made. Who would come to a dentist here, anyhow?
The Law Offices of Troy Sales is a single door with simple, gold-tinted lettering in English, set between a shrimp hatchery and a fly-by-night insurance broker. I try the control, and it opens, letting me into a tiny lobby with four chairs and an opaqued reception window. I hit the call button, and a second later the window goes transparent and a young female receptionist greets me, a bored look in her not particularly thoughtful eyes.
“Can I help you?”
“I need to speak with Troy Sales.” My voice is slightly more forceful this time.
“Do you have an appointment?”
I hold back a frustrated sigh. “I’m a Collections Agent. Tell him it’s urgent.”
She pretends to check a monitor. “Mr. Sales is not available today. Would you like to leave your contact info?”
“One of his clients is dead. Get his ass out here.”
She looks at me for a second. “One moment.”
The glass opaques again, and after a minute or two, the door next to it slides open. A thin-haired middle-aged man with a weathered face and a slightly-too-loose suit leans out, grinning at me. “Hello,” he says, “Troy Sales, what can I do for you?”
I can’t place his accent, but I’m fairly sure it’s from off-world somewhere. “Mr. Sales, do you represent a Dr. Marvin Chan?”
“In certain matters,” he responds, cautious. “Why?”
“He’s dead.”
His grin falls as that sinks in. He didn’t know. “You’re sure?”
“Guarantee it.”
He bites his lower lip, deciding what to do. “Come on back.” He leads me through the door, down a short hallway, and through another door into his office, a small, square room with a couple of framed degrees on the wall and not much else. He got his schooling at online colleges, both of which are popular among interstellar travelers. Must have come from off-world, got his credentials en route. He sits down behind the desk, which looks like it’s made from real wood, and I take a seat in one of the two chairs on the opposite side.
“How do you know Marvin Chan is dead?” he asks.
“Because,” I answer, “I killed him.” His brow creases with barely perceptible surprise, and I can tell that I’ve got his full attention. “It hasn’t been made public yet, so as not interfere with an ongoing investigation, so keep it quiet.”
He nods. “When did it happen? How?”
His interest in this interests me. “I shot him dead. He tried to pull, I was quicker.”
“There must have been some misunderstanding,” he says, his tone dead, his face deliberately blank. “Mr. Chan is not the sort of man to attack a law enforcement officer.”
“He was trafficking contraband.”
Now his eyebrows raise. He leans back, making a show of his surprise. “You’re sure?”
This little game is a waste of time. “He tried to bribe me, too. But don’t worry, Mr. Sales. You’re not in trouble here.”
“That’s a relief.”
“I do want to know about a three thousand dollar payment he made to you earlier this year.”
He blinks. “Attorney’s fees.”
“For what?”
He tenses up again, maintaining eye contact, his tone flat. “Advice on a medical malpractice issue. That’s all I can tell you, at least until you answer a few questions for me.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“How did you discover my client’s wrongdoing? Alleged wrong-doing, that is.”
I remember Jessi Rodgers, wheezing and out of breath, picking strawberries at that hydro farm, and I have to remind myself not to raise my voice. “He was poisoning people. One of his victims tipped me off.”
“Not anonymous, then.”
Why does he want to know? He’s not hiding his curiosity at how I caught Chan, but the reason he wants that information eludes me. “No,” I answer, unable to think up some clever tact to take. I’m not a subtle person, and I’m bad at this kind of intrigue. “Why does it matter?”
“My client was afraid of being set up some day. This victim, who did he tell?”
“Me,” I answer. “And it was a she.”
“Is there a record of it? Video?”
“Of the tip? No.”
His mouth moves just slightly as he glances away, and I can tell that he thinks I’m lying to him. “I’m afraid that’s all the time I have right now, miss… ”
“Agent,” I correct him, trying to wrest the upper hand back, “Dare. And I’m not finished here.”
But he just gets up, steps past me, and opens the door. He stands aside it, refusing to budge. “I’m sorry, Miss Dare. For anything more, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back with a warrant.”
I stare at him for a second, fuming silently, knowing he’s right. Defeated, I stand and walk past him, and he returns my icy glare with a blank, polite smile. Seething and annoyed, I exit through the lobby. The door opens on my way out of the office, and I nearly bump into a courier who’s carrying a box through the door. He nods to me and slips past.
As I walk back toward the bank of elevators, my thoughts brooding on Troy Sales’s suspicious behavior, something seems wrong for some reason I can’t pinpoint. I stop and turn around. The courier is coming out of Sales’s office, walking at a brisk pace toward the elevators.
No. Not the elevators; he’s walking toward me.
I step aside defensively as he nears, and he glances at me like I’m crazy and simply moves on. Stop being paranoid, Taryn. Think clearly.
As I watch him call the elevator and wait for it with a couple of others, I take a deep breath and follow. I’ve only made it a few steps when a deafening crack pierces the air. A sudden force throws me to the ground.
My ears ringing, I scramble back to my feet, stunned. The Law Offices of Troy Sales have been completely destroyed, the wall blown out and collapsed into rubble. A chemical smell fills the air. People scream and panic and run for the elevators.