“I’m immune to secondhand smoke, if that’s what you’re asking,” I said.

“Cute.” She fished out a cigarette and punched in the car lighter to warm it up. I dialed down my sense of smell as she did so. “Access my box on the FBI server and tell me if the arrest feed is there yet,” she said.

“How am I going to do that?” I asked.

“I gave you access yesterday,” Vann said.

“You did?”

“You’re my partner now.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. “But what would you have done if you met me and decided I was an untrustworthy asshole?”

Vann shrugged. “My last partner was an untrustworthy asshole. I shared my box with her.”

“What happened to her?” I asked.

“She got shot,” Vann said.

“Line of duty?” I asked.

“Not really,” Vann said. “She was at the firing range and shot herself in the gut. There’s some debate about whether it was accidental or not. Took disability and retired. I didn’t mind.”

“Well,” I said. “I promise not to shoot myself in the gut.”

“Two body jokes in under a minute,” Vann said. “It’s almost like you’re trying to make a point or something.”

“Just making sure you’re comfortable with me,” I said. “Not everyone knows what to do with a Haden when they meet one.”

“You’re not my first,” she said. The lighter had popped and she fished it out of its socket, lighting her cigarette. “That should be obvious, considering our beat. Have you accessed the arrest feed yet?”

“Hold on.” I popped into the Bureau’s evidence server and pulled up Vann’s box. The file was there, freshly arrived. “It’s here,” I said.

“Run it,” Vann said.

“You want me to port it to the dash?”

“I’m driving.”

“Autodrive is a thing that happens.”

Vann shook her head. “This is a Bureau car,” she said. “Lowest-bidder autodrive is not something you want to trust.”

“Fair point,” I said. I fired up the arrest feed. It was janky and low-res. The Metro police, like the Bureau, probably contracted their tech to the lowest bidder. The view was fps stereo mode, which probably meant the camera was attached to protective eyewear.

The recording started as the cop—Timmons—got off the elevator on the seventh floor, stun gun drawn. At the door of room 714 there was a Watergate security officer, resplendent in a bad-fit mustard yellow uniform. As the feed got closer the security officer’s taser came into view. The security officer looked like he was going to crap himself.

Timmons navigated around the security officer and the image of a man sitting on the bed, hands up, floated into view. His face and shirt were streaked with blood. The image jerked and Timmons took a long look at the dead man on the blood-soaked carpet. The view jerked back up to the man on the bed, hands still up.

“Is he dead?” asked a voice, which I assumed was Timmons’s.

The man on the bed looked down at the man on the carpet. “Yeah, I think he is,” he said.

“Why the fuck did you kill him?” Timmons asked.

The man on the bed turned back to Timmons. “I don’t think I did,” he said. “Look—”

Then Timmons zapped the man. He jerked and twisted and fell off the bed, collapsing into the carpet, mirroring the dead man.

“Interesting,” I said.

“What?” Vann asked.

“Timmons was barely in the room before he zapped our perp.”

“Bell,” Vann said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Speaking of which, does that name sound familiar to you?”

“Did Bell say anything before he got zapped?” Vann asked, ignoring my question.

“Timmons asked him why he killed that guy,” I said. “Bell said he didn’t think he did.”

Vann frowned at that.

“What?” I asked.

Vann glanced over to me again, and had a look that told me she wasn’t looking at me, but at my PT. “That’s a new model,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sebring-Warner 660XS.”

“Sebring-Warner 600 line isn’t cheap,” Vann said.

“No,” I admitted.

“Lease payments are a little steep on a rookie FBI salary.”

“Is this how we’re going to do this?” I asked.

“I’m just making an observation,” Vann said.

“Fine,” I said. “I assume they told you something about me when they assigned me to you as a partner.”

“They did.”

“And I assume you know about the Haden community because it’s your beat.”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s skip the part where you pretend not to know who I am and who my family is and how I can afford a Sebring-Warner 660,” I said.

Vann smiled and stubbed out her cigarette on the side window and lowered the window to chuck out the butt. “I saw you got grief on the Agora for showing up to work yesterday,” she said.

“Nothing I haven’t gotten before, for other things,” I said. “Nothing I can’t handle. Is this going to be a problem?”

“You being you?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Why would it be a problem?” Vann asked.

“When I went to the Academy I knew people there thought I was there as an affectation,” I said. “That I was just farting around until my trust fund vested or something.”

“Has it?” Vann asked. “Your trust fund, I mean. Vested.”

“Before I even went to the Academy,” I said.

Vann snickered at this. “No problems,” she said.

“You sure.”

“Yes. And anyway, it’s good that you have a high-end threep,” she said, using the slang term for a Personal Transport. “It means that map of yours is actually going to have a useful resolution. Which works because I don’t trust Trinh to send me anything helpful. The arrest feed was messy and fuzzy, right?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“It’s bullshit,” Vann said. “Metro eyewear feeds autostabilize and record at 4k resolution. Trinh probably told Timmons to shitty it up before sending it. Because she’s an asshole like that.”

“So you’re using me for my superior tech abilities,” I said.

“Yes, I am,” Vann said. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“No,” I said. “It’s nice to be appreciated for what I can do.”

“Good,” Vann said, turning into the precinct house parking lot. “Because I’m going to be asking you to do a lot.”

Chapter Two

“WHO’S THE CLANK?” the man asked Vann, as he met us at the precinct. My facial scan software popped him up as George Davidson, captain of the Metro Second Precinct.

“Wow, really?” I said, before I could stop myself.

“I used the wrong word, didn’t I,” Davidson said, looking at me. “I can never remember if ‘clank’ or ‘threep’ is the word I’m not supposed to be using today.”

“Here’s a hint,” I said. “One comes from a beloved android character from one of the most popular films of all time. The other describes the sound of broken machinery. Guess which one we like better.”

“Got it,” Davidson said. “I thought you people were on strike today.”

“Jesus,” I said, annoyed.

“Touchy threep,” Davidson said, to Vann.

“Asshole cop,” Vann said, to Davidson. Davidson smiled. “This is Agent Chris Shane. My new partner.”

“No shit,” Davidson said, looking back at me. He clearly recognized the name.

“Surprise,” I said.

Vann waved at Davidson to get his attention back over to her. “You’ve got someone I want to talk to.”

“Yes, I do,” Davidson said. “Trinh told me you would be coming.”

“You’re not going to be as difficult as she’s been, I hope,” Vann said.

“Oh, you know I’m all about cooperation between law enforcement entities,” Davidson said. “And also you’ve never crossed me. Come on.” He motioned us forward, into the bowels of the station.

A few minutes later we were staring at Nicholas Bell through glass. He was in an interrogation room, silent, waiting.

“Doesn’t look like the guy to shove someone out of a window,” Davidson observed.

“It wasn’t a guy,” Vann said. “The guy was still in the room. It was a love seat.”

“Doesn’t look like the guy to shove a love seat out of a window, either,” Davidson said.