The Terminal Experiment

CHAPTER 27

Detective Inspector Alexandria Philo had a love-hate relationship with this part of her job. On the one hand, questioning those who had known the deceased often provided valuable clues. But, on the other, having to pump distraught people for information was an unpleasant experience all around.

Even worse was the cynicism that went with the process: not everyone would be telling the truth; some of the tears would be crocodile. Sandra’s natural instinct was to offer sympathy for those who were in pain, but the cop in her said that nothing should be taken at face value.

No, she thought. It wasn’t the cop in her that made her say that. It was the civilian. Once her marriage to Walter was over, all the people who had earlier congratulated her on their engagement and wedding started saying things like, “Oh, I knew it would never last,” and “Gee, he really wasn’t right for you,” and “He was an ape” — or a Neanderthal, or a jerk, or whatever the individual’s favorite metaphor for stupid people was. Sandra had learned then that people — even good people, even your friends — will lie to you. At any given moment, they will tell you what they think you want to hear.

The elevator doors slid open on the sixteenth floor of the North American Life tower. Sandra stepped out. Doowap Advertising had its own lobby, all in chrome and pink leather, directly off the elevators. Sandra walked over to stand in front of the receptionist’s large desk. These days, most companies had gotten rid of the fluffy bimbos at the front desk, and replaced them with more mature adults of either sex, projecting a more businesslike image. But advertising was still advertising, and sex still sold. Sandra tried to keep her conversation to words of one syllable for the benefit of the pretty young thing behind the desk.

After flashing her badge at a few executives, Sandra arranged to interview each of the employees. Doowap used the kind of open-office floor plan that had become popular in the eighties. Everyone had a cubicle in the center of the room, delineated by movable room dividers covered in gray fabric. Around the outside of the room were offices, but they belonged to no particular person, and no one was allowed to homestead in one. Instead, they were used as needed for client consultations, private meetings, and so on.

And now it was only a matter of listening. Sandra knew that Joe Friday had been an idiot. “Just the facts, ma’am,” got you nowhere at all. People were uncomfortable about giving facts, especially to the police. But opinions … everybody loved to have their opinion solicited. Sandra had found a sympathetic ear was much more effective than a world-weary get-to-the-point approach. Besides, being a good listener was the best way of finding the office gossip: that one person who knew everything — and had no compunctions about sharing it.

At Doowap Advertising, that person turned out to be Toby Bailey.

“You see ’em come and go in this business,” said Toby, spreading his arms to demonstrate how the advertising trade encompassed all of reality. “The creative types are the worst, of course. They’re all neurotic. But they’re only a tiny part of the process. Me, I’m a media buyer — I acquire space for ads. That’s where the real power is.”

Sandra nodded encouragingly. “It sounds like a fascinating business.”

“Oh, it’s like everything else,” said Toby. Having now established the wonders of advertising, he was prepared to be magnanimous. “It takes all kinds. Take poor old Hans, for instance. Now, he was a real character. Loved the ladies — not that his wife was hard to look at. But Hans, well, he was interested in quantity, not quality.” Toby smiled, inviting Sandra to react to his joke.

Sandra did just that, chuckling politely. “So he just wanted to put more notches on his belt? That was the only thing that mattered to him?”

Toby raised a hand, as if fearing that his words might be construed as speaking ill of the dead. “Oh, no — he only liked pretty women. You never saw him with anything below an eight.”

“An eight?”

“You know — on a scale of one to ten. Looks-wise.”

Pig, thought Sandra. “I imagine in an advertising firm, you must have a lot of pretty women.”

“Oh, yes — packaging sells, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.” He seemed to be mentally thumbing through the company’s personnel files. “Oh, yes,” he said again.

“I noticed your receptionist when I came in.”

“Megan?” said Toby. “Case in point. Hans set his sights on her the moment she was hired. It didn’t take long for her to fall for his charms.”

Sandra glanced at the personnel roster she’d been given. Megan Mulvaney. “Still,” said Sandra, “did Hans have any particular likes or dislikes when it came to women? I mean, ‘pretty’ is a broad category.”

Toby opened his mouth, as if to say something stupid like, “so to speak.” Sandra gave him points for stopping himself before he did so. But he did seem quite animated, as if talking about beautiful women to a woman was in itself a turn-on. “Well, he liked them to be, ah, well endowed, if you catch my meaning, and, I don’t know, I suppose his taste was a little more toward the sultry than my own. Still, almost anyone was fair game — I mean, one would hardly call Cathy or Toni sultry, although they’re both quite attractive.”

Sandra stole another glance at the roster. Cathy Hobson. Toni D’Ambrosio. More starting points. She smiled. “Still,” she said, “a lot of men are all talk and no action. A number of people have mentioned Hans’s prowess, but tell me truthfully, Toby, was he all he was cracked up to be?”

“Oh, yes,” said Toby, feeling the need now to defend his dead friend. “If he went after somebody, he got her. I never saw him fail.”

“I see,” said Sandra. “What about Hans’s boss?”

“Nancy Caulfield? Now, there’s a character! Let me tell you how Hans finally got her…”

For Spirit, the life-after-death sim, there was no such thing anymore as biological sleep, no distinction between consciousness and unconsciousness.

For a flesh-and-blood person, dreams provided a different perspective, a second opinion about the day’s events. But Spirit had only one mode, only one way of looking at the universe. Still, he sought connections.

Cathy.

His wife — once upon a time.

He remembered that she had been beautiful … to him, at least. But now, freed from biological urges, the memory of her face, her figure, excited no aesthetic response.

Cathy.

In lieu of dreaming, Spirit cogitated idly. Cathy. Is that an anagram for anything? No, of course not. Oh, wait a moment. “Yacht.” Fancy that; he’d never thought of that before.

Yachts had pleasing lines — a certain mathematical perfection dictated by the laws of fluid dynamics. Their beauty, at least, was something he could still appreciate.

Cathy had done something. Something wrong. Something that had hurt him.

He remembered what it was, of course. Remembered the hurt the same way, if he cared to, that he could summon the memories of other pains. Breaking his leg skiing. A skinned knee in childhood. Bumping his head for the dozenth time on that low ceiling beam at Cathy’s parents’ cottage.

Memories.

But finally, at last, no more pain.

No pain sensor.

Sensor. An anagram of snores.

Something I don’t do anymore.

Dreams had been great for making connections.

Spirit was going to miss dreaming.