abruptly, reached for the handset before she could change her mind. There was no point in not contacting Cerise, not now, but she still felt oddly embarrassed by the sudden strength of her need to work with the other woman. She punched in the numbers with more force than necessary, steeling herself for the buzzing of an empty line, and was startled when Cerise herself answered.
“Yes?”
“It’s me.”
“Figures,” Cerise said.
Trouble could hear her relax, and imagined her sudden smile. “I need your help with something,” she said, and Cerise laughed softly.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not on the phone, no,” Trouble answered.
“Ah. Well, I have some news for you, too,” Cerise said. “Shall I come to you?”
Trouble looked around the little room, reminded again that Treasury had been there the night before. She had swept for bugs and taps again as soon as she returned, with no result, but Treasury was good. There was no reason to take unnecessary chances. “Probably not,” she said, with some reluctance. “Why don’t I meet you back at your place?”
“I’ll be expecting you,” Cerise answered, and the line went dead.
Trouble walked back across the bridge into Seahaven proper, her portable system and the disk-bound toolkit heavy on her shoulder, and threaded her way through the crowd of shoppers along Ashworth Avenue. They were mostly corporate, out on holiday, mixed with a few of the richer locals, and she was glad when she reached the entrance to Eastman House. Cerise had left word at the desk; the attendant, another young woman, sallow and thin, not flattered by the deep red uniform jacket, motioned for Trouble to take the elevator. Trouble nodded her thanks, and went through into the lobby. The elevator came quickly enough—Eastman House didn’t seem to be particularly busy at the moment—and she found herself hurrying down the hallway toward Cerise’s room. She made a face, but did not slow her step until she was right outside the door. She knocked, and was obscurely pleased when Cerise answered instantly.
“So what’s up?” she asked, and stepped back out of the doorway.
Trouble followed her in, impressed again by the expensive furniture and the view of the slough and the trees through the enormous window. The sunlight spilled across the carpet, and the tide waters gleamed like steel in the channels of the marsh; the trees were red and gold and green against the sky. Cerise closed the door, and Trouble turned again to look at her, as slim and expensive as the furniture and the view, vivid against the decorous cream walls. She bit down the sudden flood of desire, said, “I’ve got a line on newTrouble.”
“Have you now?” Cerise said, soft-voiced, and grinned suddenly. “I didn’t find Silk. I left a watchdog, though, that may help.”
“Mine’s in the real world,” Trouble said. “Mollie says he lives in one of the Headlands apartments.”
“The fancy towers?” Cerise asked. “How the hell does he afford that?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering, and so have Mollie and Nova,” Trouble answered. “Mollie says she doesn’t think he’s hustling.”
“And he’s not selling what he takes off the nets,” Cerise said, her eyebrows drawing down into a faint, unconscious frown. “I’d trust Blake to know a hustler when she sees one.”
“Exactly.”
Cerise nodded, looked back at Trouble. “So what did you want, sweetheart?”
Trouble grinned. “I already tried The Willows’ IC(E)— they own the Headlands, did you know that? I didn’t.”
“I might’ve guessed,” Cerise muttered. “How’s your head?”
“It’s not my head that hurts, it’s my elbow,” Trouble said, with perfect truth. “I didn’t get very far—I didn’t think it would be smart to push it.”
Cerise nodded again. “So how do you want to play it?”
Trouble felt a brief thrill of pleasure. It was flattering for Cerise to assume that if Trouble couldn’t break that IC(E), neither could she; more than that, it was like the old days, the casual trust, making it easier to ask. “I think we’re going to have to go through the city database, and that was always your specialty. You want to help me program the sieve?”
“God,” Cerise said, “that takes me back. I don’t think I own one anymore, certainly not in this memory.” She gestured vaguely toward her system, snugged up against the main media console.
“Working in the light’s got you spoiled,” Trouble said. “As it happens…” She let her voice trail off, and slipped the heavy bag from her shoulder.
“Help yourself,” Cerise said, and went to the console, typed in codes to open the system. After a moment’s search, Trouble found the disk she wanted, and fed it into the drive Cerise indicated. A light flickered on, and Cerise typed the run codes before Trouble could recite them.
‘“Your memory’s good,” she said, startled, and Cerise looked up at her, eyes hooded.
“You better believe it, darling.”
That sounded promising, looked promising. Trouble shivered in spite of herself, said quickly, “The code’s already in there, I downloaded it an hour or so ago. It was eighteen hours old then, so it should still be all right.”
Cerise nodded. “They usually change every twenty-four hours up here,” she said absently, her fingers already busy on the keys, calling up the main program and the search routine. “So. What do we know about this newTrouble?”
“He’s young,” Trouble answered promptly.
“How young?”
Trouble shrugged one shoulder, thinking. “Under twenty-five, would be my guess, probably younger. Mollie said he looked sixteen, seventeen.”
“Can I bring it down to twenty, do you think?” Cerise asked, her hands poised over the keyboard. Trouble came to stand behind her, staring at the search screen.
“Make it twenty-one,” she said, after a moment. “I’ve just got a feeling he isn’t legal yet.”
Cerise nodded, entered the number in the correct box. “I wonder if he lives alone?”
“Alone or with one other person,” Trouble said.
“Yeah, that would be my thought, too,” Cerise said. “Should I be looking for a keeper, maybe put an age restriction on the household?”
Trouble hesitated, tempted—despite what Blake had said, she had to think that someone was paying newTrouble’s bills—but shook her head. “I have to trust Mollie,” she said. “And she says he’s not a hustler.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s not being kept,” Cerise argued, but moved on to the next field. “Profession or professions?”
“God, I don’t know.”
“Well, what would you tell the IRS?”
“As little as possible,” Trouble said. “I don’t know, consultant, maybe? Technical trades/miscellaneous?”
“You know, I’m inclined to leave it blank for now,” Cerise said. “I’ll use that to sort the results later.”
“You’re the wizard at this,” Trouble said, with perfect truth, and Cerise smiled up at her.
“I know.”
“And modest, too,” Trouble said, not quite under her breath. Cerise laughed, and turned her attention back to the screen. She worked quickly now, pausing only to ask a quick question now and then. Trouble did her best to answer, but knew that her responses were less than adequate. When at last Cerise was finished, she leaned back in her chair, shaking her head.
“I’m going to get at least thirty names out of this, even restricting it by location, maybe as many as fifty. How’re we going to sort it out?”
“I don’t know,” Trouble admitted. “I liked your idea of sorting by profession—”
“Assuming that newTrouble lists himself as something technie,” Cerise said. “What do you call yourself, sweetie?”
“A syscop,” Trouble answered.
