I thought you said we knew two things.

“Now I'm theorizing."

Oh. Please continue, then.

“Third, she's somehow connected with Ray Loogan, who killed our fellow Brain Hotel resident, Brad Larsen."

Paul paused to mull it over. Kind of makes you wonder how you got called in on this case, doesn't it?

“To a point. Our ‘Stan Wojciechowski’ is a backup vendor at the Brown Agency, and Brown is the best there is. They're the Pinkertons of the ‘70s. It's no wonder Gard called them, and they decided his rinky-dink babysitting gig was something for a freelancer, not one of their own boys. Very well could be a coincidence."

Sure. And my mother was Betsy Ross. She used to sew me diapers made of rejected American flags.

He was right. There was something I was missing. “What are you saying?” I asked. “The Association set this up? Why? What's the motive?"

The Association? Paul shook his head. Oh, yeah. That's what you call it. No, I don't think it's something The Man would pull… I mean, it's too damned indirect. He's usually blunt, to the point. Unless… He snapped his fingers. Wait a minute… unless he's somehow on to your investigation, and connected it to the name Stan Wojciechowski.

“I see where you're going, I said, “but it's impossible. Wojciechowski is a name I use for my freelance business. I purposefully kept it that way so the money stays clean. Or, I should say, Association-free."

Stan has never done a little digging for your investigation?

“Not a single shovelful."

Well, we've got to resolve this one way or the other. I don't think approaching our client point-blank is the way to do it, though.

“I agree. Better keep this particular part of the investigation in-house for now. I'm thinking of grilling Brad Larsen."

Sounds perfectly groovy to me.

A tap on Paul's shoulder interrupted the conversation. The view on the screen snapped up to the greasy, tired face of our waitress. Can I get you and your imaginary friend anything else? she asked.

No, Paul said. We're fine.

Then, to me: You know, we've gotta start having these little conferences inside the hotel from now on.

Eighteen

Case Solved

Hours later I was sitting at Brad's table in his Brain Hotel room. I purposefully chose his room-spare as it was-to make him comfortable. If he was going to freak out and start foaming at the mouth and hurling profanities, better he do it in here.

“I have something important to show you,” I said. “Something you've been waiting a long time to see."

“You do?” he said, a spark of hope in his eyes. It was the first time he'd resembled a living person since I'd absorbed him eight months ago.

“Yes.” I slapped two photographs on his kitchen table. They were photos of Ray Loogan and Leah Farrell, extracted from my Brain footage of the cab scene. Years ago, Robert had graciously shown me a way to burn a memory onto a sheet of Brain film, then develop it. I'd never thought the skill would come in handy. What did I know?

“Well?” I asked. “Anything?"

Brad's face shifted slightly.

“It's a simple question,” I said.

Brad nodded. “That's them."

Finally. Confirmation after all these months. We had our killers. It was a matter of time before we reeled the bastards in.

Brad didn't seem terribly excited about the case being solved. It was all he'd talked about for months: Find my killers. Well, break out the cake, ice cream and candles-I finally found the bastards. And the most Brad could do was nod?

Maybe he was confused. I tried it again. “Are you sure these are the people?"

Brad's eyes slowly lifted from the photographs and zeroed in on me. “Of course I'm sure. This prick shot my wife in the throat, and this bitch cut me up like a pound of lunchmeat. You don't think I can remember their faces?"

“I don't doubt it, Brad. But you don't seem particularly happy about it."

“There's nothing happy about looking death in the face. You of all people should know that. You do it for a living. Are you a happy man?"

I decided to change the subject. I slapped a third picture-a photo of our client, Susannah Winston-on the table. “Do you recognize this woman?"

Brad gave it a once over, then shook his head. “Nope. Should I?"

“You haven't seen here anyway? Even recently?"

“No, I haven't."

I didn't think Brad hung out much in the hotel lobby-otherwise, he would have seen thousands of hours of Susannah's face up on the screen. But it was worth a shot.

“So as far as you know, she's not a member of the Association?"

“Again with your ‘Association.'” Brad smirked. “Nice try. But I've told you already. No information until I'm able to take a hot steaming piss on our killers’ graves."

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You're admitting it's possible you do know this woman? Are you holding back something?"

“Sure, it's possible. But not in this case. Look: I don't know this woman."

There was a knock at the door. I was startled. Another knock. It took me a moment to realize it came from reality, not the Brain Hotel.

“You'd better answer it, Del,” Brad said. “It's probably your girlfriend. I'm going to spend the rest of my day wallowing in some personal misery, if you don't mind."

I assumed control of my physical body and stood up from the couch. I answered the door, and sure enough, it was Amy, holding her hands behind the apartment wall, out of view. “Surprised?” she asked.

“Yes, very. Uh… Amy…"

“I brought you something."

I shook my head and spread my hands as if to say, You shouldn't have, but Amy insisted. “It's a housewarming present. Come on, close your eyes."

“Okay.” I took a few steps back, then closed my eyes. “Come on in.” Involuntarily, the Brain Hotel lobby started to materialize, but I squeezed my eyes tighter and wiped it away. What was that about? Normally, I had to make the effort to port myself to the Brain Hotel. Maybe I hadn't snapped out of it completely.

“Where's the TV?” Amy asked.

“I don't have one."

“Oh. Thought I heard voices."

God, I thought, horrified. Was I broadcasting that conversation? Sometimes the other end of the Brain Hotel conversation would slip through, like a mumble, creeping out of my physical body. Yikes. I heard the door close, and sensed Amy walking to my right. A paper bag rustled on the floor.

“Well?"

“Wait a minute…” she said. “Okay. Open up."

I did. And I saw a small gray rat running around on my hardwood floor. No, wait; it wasn't a rat. It was a kitten. A tiny gray kitten with white paws. It darted forward, to the beat-up houndstooth couch, then sunk its claws into the side and hoisted itself up to a cushion. “Surprise!” Amy laughed.

“It's a cat,” I said.

“Whew! What a relief. For a moment there, Del, I wasn't sure if you'd be able to identify basic animal species."

“Why did you bring me… a cat?"

“Face it, champ-you're lonely down here, all alone with your ugly couch and rusty toaster. Everybody needs someone to come home to."

The cat dug its claws into the couch and pulled them back. I heard strands of material strain and pop.

“Hey, kitty,” I said, trying to be a sport about the whole thing, despite visions of Cat Chow and kitty litter and turd logs dancing through my head. “Come here. Pss-wss-wss-wss. Come on, girl."

“Boy,” Amy said.

The cat took one look at me and froze. An anguished chirp issued from its lungs, and it quickly lunged for the hardwood floor, scratched its nails in a frenzied attempt to run, and squeezed itself beneath the couch.