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  She herself found that she could no longer get drunk—the nanobytes in her system neutralized alcohol like it would any foreign body. Stupid nanobytes! But it had been fun to watch everyone else get silly. One thing about being a cybernetic organism: she was always the designated driver.

  She had a sudden vision of herself at age ninety, working her walker and jingling her keys enticingly. “I couldn’t not go. Besides, you’re not supposed to send for me. We’re done, remember?”

  “Should have gotten it in writing,” the Boss said rudely. “I need you to take care of something for me.”

  “If it’s your nail beds, them I’m your girl. Otherwise, tough shit.”

  “Never mind my nail beds,” he snapped, peeking at his fingers.

  Caitlyn folded her cybernetic arms across her chest and sniffed with her cybernetically enhanced nose. “With cuticles like that, I’m not surprised that’s your attitude.”

  “We’re getting off the subject. Fine, go to bed with innocent lives on your conscience. Me, I couldn’t do that, their dying screams would haunt me for eternity—“

  “Don’t talk about yourself and a conscience in the same breath unless you want me to die of laughter. And what are you talking about?”

  He slid a file across the desk toward her. She didn’t touch it, didn’t even twitch. “Break it down for me, buddy.”

  “After all the trouble my secretary went to to type all this up,” he whined. “Very well. One of our agents has gone rogue and is killing people. We don’t want him to do that anymore. Is that simple enough for you?”

  “Listen to me carefully,” she said. “I am a hair jockey. Not a cop. I think just about anyone else in this building, including your secretary, is better qualified to do this job than I am.”

  “Tough shit. You’re up.”

  “And I’m amazed you’re even asking me.”

  “Then you haven’t been paying attention the last few months. Good luck!”

  “I didn’t mean from the point of view of you should feel shame for bugging me again,” she explained through gritted teeth, “although you totally should. I meant you’ve probably got about fifty more qualified agents to do this and you darn well know it. Not to mention the Minneapolis Police Department.”

  “As long as you’re still here, get me another latte, will you.”

  “I can’t do it,” she said as if speaking to the very young or very stupid. “I wouldn’t know where to begin. And don’t be stupid on purpose and tell me how to work the foamer.”

  “Moi? Never. And you can begin by reading the file.”

  “No.”

  “Uh… do it or I’ll have you killed?”

  “You’d never,” she said smugly. “I’m too expensive.”

  “There are other ways to make you suffer.”

  “Worse than what’s happening right now? The mind reels.”

  “You know, most people are afraid of me.”

  Caitlyn yawned.

  “So are we still on for tonight, or what?”

  “Yes. Although how you can ask that question when you’re still hung over from last night is beyond me.”

  Stacy sat up and stretched, then clutched her head. Caitlyn had driven her home—Stacy was bunking at Casa James while her apartment was being painted from Easy Green to Coral Cockleshells—and had enough time to get Stacy’s sandals off before the woman passed out cold. “Hey, it’s not every week I sell a house. Well, actually, it apparently is every week I sell a house. Ugh, I need a Bloody Mary.”

  Caitlyn snickered into her coffee cup. “You need a 12-step program.”

  “Hey, we can’t all be—uh—whatever it is you are now. What, you don’t get hangovers anymore?”

  “I don’t get drunk anymore.”

  “Bummer.” Stacy said it with convincing sympathy… even horror. Then, hopefully, “Is there more coffee?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, gimme a cup. I’ll take it in the shower with me.” Stacy shrugged out of her blazer. “Although the thought of those heavy drops of water pounding the shit out of my poor skull is almost more than I can bear.”

  “You better toss those panty hose,” Caitlyn observed, getting up to retrieve the paper. “They’re a wash.”

  “So’s this whole outfit.”

  “Yeah, but I could have told you that last night. A mud brown blazer and a sunshine yellow dress?”

  “Natural colors, baby. It’s all the rage. Yellow is the new black.”

  “I thought brown was the new black.”

  Stacy looked at her pityingly. “Five years ago maybe. Gripes. They need to cybernetically modify your fashion sense, m’girl.”

  “Look who’s talking,” she mumbled, sitting down with that morning’s edition of the Trib. Pure force of habit; if she wanted, she could have the day’s stories downloaded directly into her head via the World Wide Web. But frankly, the thought of downloading anything directly into her head—hex head!—was a little creepy.

  She stopped when she saw the headline, and nearly sprayed out her coffee. “Oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “What, I’m dying here, what oh shit?” Stacy hobbled over, clutching her temples, and peeked over Caitlyn’s shoulder. “ ‘TWO MORE FOUND DEAD IN’—what? I mean, it’s sad and all, but what’s it got to do with—oh.”

  “I don’t work for him,” she said, almost spat out. “Them. We went over the whole thing. Again. I made it pretty clear. And it was lame that I even had to, I mean, a bionic manicurist is still a manicurist.”

  “Sure. I mean, you’re not the police, right?”

  “Damn right. And I—I’m not qualified to go after a serial killer. A fucking serial killer! Shit, the FBI’s barely qualified to go after them. And it’s—it’s their mess. Not mine.”

  “Caitlyn , I totally agree with you. It’s not your job. You do heads. Let the cops do killers.”

  “Right.”

  “Right.”

  “Shit.”

  “That too.”

  Chapter 13

  “I’m looking for Caitlyn James,” the Boss said. He looked around the busy apartment with interest bordering on alarm. There were, at rough count, about a thousand people crammed into the nine-hundred-square-foot apartment. He’d never seen such a fire hazard in his life. And he’d been at fires. The newest Beyonce CD was on the stereo, and the whir of blenders kept punctuating the air. “I’m her supervisor.”

  Stacy blinked at the man, who was exactly her height and had the most evil eyes she had ever seen. Also the most expensive suit and the palest eyebrows. She was instantly captivated. “Hi,” she said, sticking her hand out. The Boss shook it, then dropped it. “I’m Stacy Gwen.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve seen pictures.” He paused, then added somewhat awkwardly, “They don’t do you justice.”

  “Thanks. I think. It’s nice of you to come to the party.”

  “I wasn’t exactly invited,” he said, weirdly compelled to tell the truth to Stacy Gwen, whose surveillance photos, driver’s license photo, and government file did not convey a tenth of the woman’s charm.

  “Yeah, I know. Which is quite a trick, for one of these parties. um, Caitlyn’s around here somewh—“

  “Who’s this?” Dara cried, bouncing up to them like Tigger after one too many margaritas. “Oooh,” she said, fingering the Boss’s lapel. “Great suit!”

  “This is Caitlyn’s new boss. The one she’s been, um, talking so much about. The postmaster general of Minnesota.”

  The Boss rolled his eyes as Dara looked suitably impressed. “Is that like being a military general?” she asked, letting go of the Boss’s spotless lapel. “Or is it more like being, like, a civilian?”

  “No, and no. I’m here to see Caitlyn.” Then, as Dara shrugged and turned away, he said to Stacy, “Postmaster general?”

  “Well, you know. She took that civil service exam and all. That was during her ‘I’d better have something
to fall back on in case Mag doesn’t work phase. And even though you said she could tell everybody she’s like, Super Alias, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  The Boss took a closer look at Caitlyn’s friend. “That was fast thinking.”

  “Oh, I’ve had, like, a week to come up with it. It wasn’t fast at all.” She grinned, showing perfectly straight teeth, the results of an adolescence spent in the heartbreak of braces. She looked good, which was par for the course, and she was just drunk enough to not be intimidated by the guy, who was old enough to be her uncle but dressed way better. “Drink?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, well, we got margaritas and margaritas.”

  “I’ll have the latter.”

  “So, you’re here about the dead guys, I bet,” Stacy said, shooing three Delta Delta Delta fraternity fellows away from the blenders. “We saw them in the paper this morning. It’s okay if we talk about this, right?” she nearly shouted, desperate to be heard over the din.

  “It’s fine. Nobody’s paying any attention to us. And yes, I’m here about the dead guys. We could use your friend’s help.”

  “Oh, dude. That’s not why you’re here, is it?” Stacy’s mussy hair seemed to stand up in horror. “Do you really think that’s a good idea? Don’t you think you should have, like, a team of Alias types on this? Instead of dumping it on Caitlyn?”

  “She’ll have support,” he said defensively. “Thank you.” His tongue darted out, snakelike, and licked some of the salt off the rim of his glass. “Don’t you think she owes it to her country?”

  “Dude, don’t get me started, okay?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means drink up.” They drank in silence, broken by Stacy after a minute, “So, you’re like, the head of this super-secret government agency, huh?”

  “Something like that. And you’re a real estate agent as of fifteen days ago.”

  “Yeah, well. So, do you like your job?”

  “I love my country,” he said robotically.

  “Uh-huh. Listen, do you want to get out of here?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But I can’t. I have to talk to Caitlyn.”

  “Well, listen. Take some advice from a gal who has known Caitlyn lo these many years.”

  He snickered. “Lo?”

  “If she sees you here, crashing her party just to bug her about her patriotic duty—so not the button to push, BTW—she’ll just get her back up. But you know what she spent the day doing?”

  “Yes. I’m sure there’s a file somewhere.”

  “Right, well, do you know what it means?” Stacy asked patiently. “She spent the day explaining to me, in great and dull detail, why it’s not her job to go after your rogue-killer dude. And she explains why she shouldn’t do something only when she’s just about made up her mind that she’s gonna do it. So if I were you, I’d just let Caitlyn come to you.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “So, I repeat: do you want to get out of here?”

  The Boss studied her. “I really shouldn’t. It’s—it’s not like me. And I don’t like to leave unless I’ve gotten what I want.”

  “Well, maybe you just didn’t know what you wanted exactly.” Stacy refilled his glass. “You know what I mean?”

  “No. Why don’t you explain it to me? And may I say, that is a lovely blouse.”

  “It’s the new black, dude.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Oh, dude!” Stacy rolled over, tried to find her bra amid the pile of coats, gave up, and flopped back.

  “Ditto. That was—“

  “Quick. But nice,” she added hastily. “Look, I usually ask this question before nudity rears its ugly head, but in all the excitement, I forgot.”

  “Two hundred thirty thousand a year.”

  “Not that. But good to know, BTW. What’s your name?”

  “Uh…”

  “And don’t make something up either, because I have, like, a total sixth sense about this stuff.”

  “Well, everybody just calls me the Boss,” he said cautiously, running his knuckles down her bare arm.

  “I know that. What’s your mama call you?”

  “I never had a mother.”

  “What’s the name on your birth certificate?” she asked, exasperated.

  “Baby Boy Tyler.”

  “Oh. Uh, never mind. But damned if I’m going to call you Boss. How about Fred?”

  He grinned in the dark. “Do not call me Fred.”

  “Marty?”

  “Pass.”

  “Bill?”

  “Do I look like a Bill?”

  “I dunno what you look like,” she said. “A scary white guy is what I thought. But you’re all hype.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Damn, where’s my underpants?”

  “Under my—there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “No, I just like to know where my underwear is. Besides, you did a pretty good job jamming the door closed with Caitlyn’s office chair; I don’t think anybody’s gonna barge in on us.” She giggled. “God, she’s going to die when I tell her I nailed the Boss.”

  “I thought I nailed you.”

  “Dude, we kind of nailed each other. God bless the margarita.”

  “You’re not drunk,” he said with total certainty.

  “Naw. But I never would have had the guts to even talk to you without one or two of those suckers in me.”

  “Really? But you’re so beautiful.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ve been blessed with good skin and great hair,” she said in a jaunty shampoo-commercial voice, which made him laugh, “and never mind what Caitlyn says about my roots.”

  “Seriously. I wouldn’t think someone like you would be nervous about talking to anybody.”

  “Well, I am. But thanks.” Then, “Someone like me?”

  “Oh, you know. You look like an escapee from a Glamour photo shoot, not like a real person. And when you talk to people, you’re really good at putting them at ease.”

  “Well, thanks. You’re good at—um—“

  “Never mind.”

  There was a long, comfortable silence, broken by his halting “Gregory. It’s Gregory.”

  “Well, all right. It’s better than Marty, God knows.”

  “That’s true.” He paused again, then said, “I’d appreciate it if this stayed between us.”

  “All right, ya weirdo. Uh, listen, Gregory…” Now it was her turn to struggle with words. “I… I gotta… um…”

  “Oh, dear. You’re breaking up with me already?”

  She snorted, then wrenched it out. “Thanks for saving my friend, okay? I mean, bottom line, she’s alive because of your guys, what you told them to do. And—and I don’t know what I would have done, you know?”

  “No, I guess I don’t know. Not like I know the weight of light or the twenty-ten budget.”

  “Light has weight?” she said, appalled. “That’s so lame!”

  “No, it’s science. Anyway. I don’t have any friends,” he said, “but I have a vivid imagination. It doesn’t sound very nice. So, you’re welcome.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve figured out where my bra is?”

  “It’s in my front left pants pocket. I was, uh, planning on taking it home.”

  “Oh. That’s kind of cute. No, creepy. No, cute.”

  “Thanks,” he said dryly.

  Chapter 14

  Caitlyn wondered where Stacy had disappeared to. Literally disappeared… her scans didn’t show her anywhere in the building. Maybe her new fella had taken her out for a late cup of coffee or something. Which fella? Had she decided between Mark and Tim? Caitlyn figured her cybernetic enhancements would be put to good use just keeping Stacy’s love life straight. That lucky bitch.

  Of course, with those big brown eyes, Stacy just had to bat her eyelashes at some poor schlub and he followed her anywhere.

  Caitlyn sighed. It was enoug
h to make a girl want to poison her best friend’s ice supply. Sometimes.

  The party was winding down, which was just as well since she had to be at Mag at nine A.M. tomorrow. Later today, actually. Which was fine with her—she set the schedule.

  “Caitlyn James?”

  “Yeah?” She looked… and nearly fell off the kitchen chair. The best-looking guy in the entire world was in her apartment—her kitchen, actually—scowling at her.

  He was tall—seventy-six inches, her chip reported helpfully—and two hundred ten pounds, not a bit of it flab. He had the blackest hair she’d ever seen, and blue eyes that put Terrance-the-former-virgin to shame… they were the color of the Caribbean on a cloudless day. She’d never seen eyes that color before unless colored contacts were involved.

  He had a strong jaw that bloomed with dark stubble, and broad shoulders set off splendidly by the black greatcoat he wore.

  “You work for the O.S.F.?”

  She forced her mouth, which had popped open, to form the word no.

  His scowl deepened, if that was possible. Instead of scaring her, it made her horny. Terrance had been fast but not terribly skilled. Not skilled at all, frankly. Well, it was understandable… poor fellow spent all his time writing code, and zero time trying to get laid. But this guy. This guy looked like he knew what he was doing. Regarding everything.

  “Oh. Then my information is incorrect.”

  She blinked. “Okay.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Bye. Thanks for coming.”

  Okay, she thought as he swept out of her apartment, the greatcoat flapping behind him like some black bird of prey. That was weird. Question is, what am I going to do about it?

  Nothing. If the O.S.F. wanted to send some gorgeous weirdo to her apartment, but then he had the good manners to leave, she wasn’t going to do anything about it. Was she? No.

  Er, why?

  Because she couldn’t. That would be admitting she worked for those conscienceless bastards.

  But oh, she could dream…

  Chapter 15

  The Boss entered the building at 5:32 A.M. and skimmed some files on the elevator ride to his office. Since he knew ahead of time what the Trib and the Pioneer Press would print, it was a waste of time to read the paper.