'Fuck-all, I think,' said the detective. 'He probably hasn't done a stocktake since he bought the place, and if there is an inventory on his system, it's going to be cased in enough ice to sink the Titanic. Same with anything from the security cameras. We'll let the hackers have a go at it, but I don't see it as a high priority. Any idea of the time of death?'
'There's no aura, and rigor has well and truly set in, so at least twelve hours. No insect activity, though, so it probably happened after sunset. It looks as though the shop was still open when it happened, so probably before eleven last night…' He opened his case and removed a rectal thermometer. 'I can give you a better estimate in a minute, but I won't know for sure until we get him back to the lab.'
'It started pissing down sometime after four,' she reminded him, 'and didn't let up much until sunrise. Visibility less than a meter. If it happened after that, I don't think we can expect much help from witnesses. Not unless they could breathe water.' • • •
Magnusson, clad in an old bathrobe, walked into his combined kitchen and alchemy lab and did a double-take when he saw an attractive leather-clad woman and bald black dwarf sitting at the breakfast bar. Mute smiled slightly at his expression. 'Sorry,' she said. 'I knocked, but no one answered, so I let myself in.'
The mage bit back a testy reply: Mute, he knew well, was an expert at not making any noise, and at getting into places that were supposed to be off-limits. 'What's up?' he asked.
'We have a job,' said the dwarf, 'and we'd like some magical back-up.'
Magnusson sighed as he filled the kettle. 'I'm flattered, but I haven't been on a shadowrun in years-decades, even. Get someone younger.' He glanced at Mute. 'Where's that leopard shaman girlfriend of yours?'
'Denver. And she's not as good as you-well, not at this kind of thing.'
'What kind of thing? Do you want tea? Coffee?'
'Coffee, thanks,' said 8-Ball. 'The job's… well, it's sort of an extraction, except that we have to find him first, which is why I thought you could help. Problem is, he's cybered to the max and possibly beyond, and he's very good at hiding. One of the top scorers in Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape training.'
Magnusson leaned back against the kitchen counter. 'Who is he?'
'His name is Lucas Fletcher, but his friends call him Thresher,' 8-Ball answered. 'He's a former Navy SEAL who volunteered to test out new Saeder-Krupp military-grade biotech and cyberware, something called Project Ultramarine. Among other things, they gave him gills, more durable than the old OXSYS implants, and cyberlegs with waterjet engines in the shins.'
The professor closed his eyes. 'What else?'
'Some new form of specially streamlined orthoskin. Enhanced senses, to cope with the underwater environment-sonar, thermographic vision, that sort of thing. Retractable fins. And a lot of other military grade implants-wired reflexes, adrenaline pump, digestive expansion, synthacardium, muscle mods, boosters, compensators, and possibly some headware as well. Zurich knows more about it than I do, and he's trying to see what else he can dig up.'
'What went wrong?'
'What?'
'Why is Fletcher hiding?'
'He killed his wife and his lieutenant, then ran,' said the dwarf. 'NCIS isn't being all that helpful when it comes to details, but they've confirmed that both victims were found in the bedroom of Fletcher's house. It looks as though the wife and the lieutenant were having an affair, and the lieutenant may even have tricked Fletcher into 'volunteering' for Ultramarine just to get him out of the way for a while. Whether that's true or not, it's pretty clear that it was Fletcher who shot them: their forensics matched the rifling marks to a Multi-6 he owned. The gun safe is empty, and that had a print scanner maglock. Then he disappeared.
'They found his car in the parking lot in Gig Harbor, and they think he stole a boat there, an old Aztech Nightrunner. Disabled the RFIDs, of course, and it hasn't turned up yet.
'The navy wants him back, even though they think he's gone rogue, and so does SK, but he's been missing for nearly a week now and word has gotten out. SK is offering a reward: sixty thou, half in nuyen, half in shares. Are you in?'
'Probably not,' Magnusson replied. 'Why can't they track him down through his implants? Aren't they online?'
Mute and 8-Ball glanced at each other, and the dwarf grimaced. 'All his cyberware has a stealth mode-an override that prevents anyone hacking into any of it and taking control, or even locating it. The Navy won't tell us anything more'n that, neither will SK, but Zurich's heard that he can take himself offline any time he's conscious. That way, no one can find him or send him false data when he's doing anything covert…but if he's wounded and blacks out, the override switches off, and the Navy can find him and bring him back in.'
'What if he's asleep?'
'I'm not sure… but if he sleeps somewhere which is well enough insulated, he should be okay. Like in a Faraday cage.'
'Or underwater,' added Mute.
'And?' asked Magnusson, sensing that there was still more they weren't telling him.
8-Ball hesitated. 'The Navy thinks the implants have made him paranoid and given him a hair trigger-a worse one than he had before. And the same Multi-6 he used to kill his wife was used to kill Picket, night before last.'
'Picket?'
'The fence,' explained Mute. 'George White, Western War Surplus. Bought and sold a lot of guns, and other gear. You never dealt with him?'
'No,' said the magician, coldly. 'I never needed money that badly. Or guns. And I still don't. So unless you can give me a better reason than that, count me out.'
'Oh, come on, Maggie,' said 8-Ball, lightly. 'It's never been just about the nuyen. It'll be fun.'
'I helped defend the Crypt because of my oath to the coven,' said Magnusson, 'and I'd do it again, if necessary. But I won't do wetwork; I'm not a hired assassin.' The kettle boiled, and switched itself off. He grabbed three mugs from hooks above the stove, slammed them down on the counter. 'Besides, the Navy will be looking for him, so will SK, and Knight Errant… and from the sound of it, so will other shadowrunners. And the first two of those will have material links for him, even if the others don't, and wagemages, and other resources. So what makes you think you can get there first?'
'He's already managed to evade them for five days,' Mute replied. 'I don't know enough about magic to know exactly how, but as Ball said, he's trained in SERE-and nowadays, that includes evading an astral search as well as an electronic or visual one.'
'And he trained alongside at least some of the people who'll be looking for him,' said the dwarf, nodding. 'He'll be expecting the Navy, and probably the SKs, and maybe even Lone Star… but he won't be expecting us.
'The Navy seems to think he's hiding somewhere away from people, either in the water or close to it- somewhere with enough life to mask his aura.. Saeder-Krupp think he's left the UCAS completely, maybe with the help of some of his old shipmates, which is why they've called in runners. If he did leave, though, he must've stowed away or paid a people smuggler, because he's too easily recognized to have caught a passenger flight. And if he's still in town, well, we know the hiding places here better than anyone in SK or the Navy. But it'd speed things up if someone could summon up a few smart watcher spirits…besides, the Knight Errant forensic mage who's working the case is a former student of yours. Marcus Shawn.'
The magician handed Mute her mug of tea, and spooned sugar into his own. 'What makes you think Marcus is going to tell me anything that isn't on the record?'
'Because he wants to find Picket's killer,' said Mute quietly. 'And he knows you can help.'
Magnusson sipped at his tea. 'Okay,' he said. 'I'll call him. But that's all. I'm not going to kill, or run a greater than usual risk of being killed, just for money. I have too much other work to do.' • • •
The forensic report from Marcus Shawn arrived in Magnusson's commlink's inbox while he was teaching his three o'clock class in basic conjuring. He glanced at it when he returned to his office before forwarding it to Mute and diving into a thesis on the role of different industrial pollutants on the formation of toxic water spirits. He was staring at a table of statistics when Reyes knocked on his door, but his pleasure at being interrupted was short- lived. 'What's wrong?'
'I can't reach Paul. He's not answered his commlink all morning. Have you heard from him?'
