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But that wasn't for a mere mech unit to question. Dave got his helmet out of the locker under his feet, put it on while Sheila was taking them into the curbside lane, plugged into the collar unit that was already plugged to the tactiles, put the gloves on, and put the visor down, in the interests of checkout and time—
"Greet The Public," Sheila said with a saccharine and nasty smirk— meaning Department Po-li-cy said visors up when you were Meeting the Man: people didn't greatly like to talk to visors and armor.
"Yeah, yeah." He finished the checks. He had a street map on the HUD, the location of 29-R
sector on the overall building shape, the relative position of the cruiser as it nosed down the ramp into The Arlington's garage. "Inside view, here, shit, I'm not getting it, have you got Library on it?"
"I'll get it. Get. Go."
He opened the door, bailed out onto the concrete curb. Car treads had tracked the rain in, neon and dead white glows glistened on the down ramp behind them. High and mighty Arlington Complex was gray concrete and smoked glass in its utilitarian gut. And he headed for the glass doors, visor up, the way Sheila said, fiber cameras on, so Sheila could track: Sheila herself was worthless with the mech, she'd proven that by taking a shot from a dealer, so that her right leg was plex and cable below the knee, but as a keyman she was ace and she had access with an A with the guys Downtown.
She said, in his left ear, "Man's in the hall, name's Rozman, reports screaming on 48, a man ru
"Mr. Rozman," he said, meeting the man just past the doors. "Understand you have a disturbance."
"Ms. Lopez, she's the next door neighbor, she's hiding in her bedroom, she said there was screaming. We had an intruder on the fire stairs—"
"Man or woman's voice in the apartment?"
"Woman."
"What's your address?"
"4899."
"Minors on premises?"
"Single woman. Name's Emilia Nolan. Lives alone. A quiet type . . . no loud parties, no complaints from the neighbors . . ."
Rozman was a clear-headed source. Dave unclipped a remote, thumbed it on and handed it to the man. "You keep answering questions. You know what this is?"
"It's a remote."
"—Sheila, put a phone-alert on Ms. Lopez and the rest of the neighbors, police on the way up, just stay inside and keep behind furniture until she gets word from us." He was already going for the elevators. "Mr. Rozman. Do you log entry/exits?"
On his right-ear mike: "On the street and the tu
"Any exceptions?"
"No. —Yes. The service doors. But those are manual key . . . only maintenance has that."
"Key that log to the dispatcher. Just put the d-card in the phone and dial 9999." The exception to the log was already entered, miked in from his pickup. "And talk to your security people about those service doors. That's city code. Sir." He was polite on autopilot. His attention was on Sheila at the moment, from the other ear, saying they were prepping interior schemas to his helmet view. "Mr. Rozman. Which elevator?" There was a bank of six.
"Elevator B. Second one on your left. That goes to the 48s . . ." He used his fireman's key on the elevator call, and put his visor down. The hall and the elevator doors disappeared behind a wire-schema of the hall and doors, all red and gold and green lines on black, and shifting as the mid-tier elevator grounded itself. He didn't look down as he got in, you didn't look down on a wire-view if you wanted your stomach steady. He sent the car up, watched the floors flash past, transparenced, heard a stream of checks from Sheila confirming the phone-alarm in action, residents being warned through the phone company—
"Lopez is a cardiac case," Sheila said, "hospital's got a cruiser on alert, still no answer out of 4899. Lopez says it's quiet now."
"You got a line on Lopez, calm her down." Presence-sniffer readout was a steady blue, but you got that in passageways, lot of traffic, everything blurred unless you had a specific to track: it was smelling for stress, and wasn't getting it here. "Rozman, any other elevators to 48?"
"Yeah, C and D."
"Can you get off anywhere from a higher floor?"
"Yessir, you can. Any elevator, if you're going down."
Elevator stopped and the door opened. Solid floor across the threshold, with the scan set for anomalies against the wire-schema. Couple of potted palms popped out against the VR. Target door was highlighted gold. Audio kept hyping until he could hear the scuff of random movements from other apartments. "Real quiet," he said to Sheila. And stood there a moment while the sniffer worked, filling in tracks. You could see the swirl in the air currents where the vent was. You could see stress showing up soft red.
"Copy that," Sheila said. "Warrant's clear to go in." He put himself on no-exhaust, used the fire-key again, stayed to the threshold. The air inside showed redder. So did the walls, on heat-view, but this was spatter. Lot of spatter. No sound of breathing. No heartbeat inside the apartment.
He de-amped and walked in. A mech couldn't disturb a scene— sniffer couldn't pick up a presence on itself, ditto on the Cyloprene of his mech rig, while the rig was no-exhaust he was on internal air. It couldn't sniff him, but feet could still smudge the spatters. He watched where he stepped, real-visual now, and discovered the body, a woman, fully dressed, sprawled face-up by the bar, next to the bedroom, hole dead center between the astonished eyes.
"Quick and clean for her," he said. "Helluva mess on the walls."
"Lab's on its way," Sheila said, alternate thought track. "I'm on you, D-D, just stand still a sec." The sniffer was working up a profile, via Sheila's relays Downtown. He stood still, sca
Thin, pale woman. Dark hair. Corporate style on the clothes. Canadian immigrant to Mars, returned to Earth on a Canadian passport. "Door was locked," he said.
"I noticed that," Sheila said.
Sniffer was developing two scents, the victim's and a second one. AMMONIA, the indicator said.
"Mild ammonia."
"Old-fashioned stuff," he said. "Amateur." The sniffer was already sepping it out as the number three track. Ammonia wouldn't overload a modern sniffer. It was just one more clue to trace; and the tracks were coming clear now: Nolan's was everywhere, Baruque, the sniffer said—
expensive perfume, persistent as hell. The ammonia had to be the number two's notion. And you didn't carry a vial of it for social occasions.
But why in hell was there a live-in smell?
"Male," Sheila commented, meaning the number two track. "Lovers' spat?"
"POSSeL-Q the manager didn't know about, maybe, lovers' quarrel, clothes aren't mussed. Rape's not a high likely here." Stress in both tracks. The whole place stank of it. "Going for the live one, Sheel. Hype it. Put out a phone alert, upstairs and down, have ComA take over Roz-man's remote, I don't need him but he's still a resource."
Out the door, into the wire-schema of the hall. The sniffer had it good this time: the stress trail showed up clear and bright for the fire-door, and it matched the number two track, no question.