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  Frank pursed his lips waiting for him to continue.

  The cabbie shook his head. "Don't give me all that bullshit about you having already done it," he reached between the seats, smoothed out Frank's creased coat lapel and patted him on the shoulder. "Not a good idea to ignore your duty. You know you've got to visit them three times a year. They run a free promotion now, too: you might still make it if you don't put it off for too long. Now off you go! I'll wait for you right here."

  Frank scrambled out of the cab and wrapped his coat tighter around his body. Strange man, this veteran. He seemed to read Frank's mind. He had a point, though: landing a well-paid job these days took a lot of luck. Having a place to live, a family and children was taking on quite a strain. He really shouldn't lose Kathleen. He should try and talk to her, maybe suggest moving in together — and why not for keeps?

  For a split second, Frank wanted to stick to the status quo: what was the point in trying to dig up her past if they might not share a future? But today, it was different. Today, things seemed to form a pattern. He hadn't fallen for the bullying cabbie's abuse, he'd remembered his old boxing coach, he'd realized that he loved Kathleen — yes, loved was the right word — and worked up the courage to propose.

  Frank couldn't help smiling.

  The first raindrops hit the sidewalk. Frank glanced up at the stormy clouds thickening in the dirt-gray sky and hurried inside the lobby of his apartment building. He couldn't make it past the entrance: the hallway was blocked by the backs of newspapermen, TV reporters and photographers busy setting up their cameras and lighting.

  They crowded into the lobby blocking out the reception desk. Frank tried to bypass them through a narrow opening to their left. When he finally made it to the desk, the doorman produced two days' back mail and suggested he hurried to the elevators if he didn't want to have to take the stairs: the lobby was about to close for a press conference.

  Frank was just about to ask him what all that media fuss was about and who called the press conference, but two media men complete with a camera and the ID badges of an international news channel beat him to it and demanded the doorman's attention. After a hesitant wait, Frank looked at the media crowd. It had perked up, and Frank hurried to the elevators. He'd find out what it was all about later. Upstairs, Kathleen was waiting and he couldn't think of much else but her.

  When he left the elevator, he saw that his front door was slightly ajar. His first thought was about old Mrs. Fletcher next door: more than likely, she'd called on him again and Kathleen must have helped her to set up the cable remote. The poor old bag couldn't live without her TV, applying for every talk show and dreaming of her fifteen minutes of fame.

  Frank entered the hall and removed his coat. Kathleen's purse was missing from the shelf under the coat-rack mirror where she always left it. In its place, he found a note: "Kitchen".

  A puzzled Frank forgot to close the front door and moved along the corridor, taking off his jacket. He turned to the right and entered the kitchen. On the kitchen table sat a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

  Frank smiled. This was so unlike Kathleen. She'd never done anything like it. He hung his jacket on a chair and took a corkscrew out of the drawer. Apparently, their restaurant date would have to wait. Same went for the cabbie. Kathleen was easily aroused, fiery in bed, and she climaxed quickly. He'd make her groan with exhaustion as she readied to come, and then—

  He pulled the cork out and tilted the bottle. The red bubbly warbled in the glass.

  Then she would get ready — shower, makeup, whatever — while he went downstairs and asked the cabbie if he could wait a bit longer than planned.

  Frank left the bottle on the table, lifted the full glasses and headed for the bedroom. His hands trembled slightly with arousal. He stopped in front of the door and took a swig. Excellent wine. He raised the glass against the light admiring the bubbles coming to the surface, kicked the door open and entered.

  Kathleen lay on the king-size bed in her lacy lingerie and stockings, her arms spread wide. The electronic bracelet was missing from her right hand. Her raven-black curls tumbled across the pillow, her head turned to the doorway. Her glassy dead eyes stared at Frank.

  For a second or two he stood there staring at the girl, unable to take it in, the wine glasses in his hands. His ears were blocked, his throat, tight. Finally, with a whimper, he rushed to the bed. The wine went all over his shirt and the sheets. He dropped the glasses, lifted Kathleen's head and looked into her eyes, praying for her to blink and say, hi there! But it didn't happen.

  She had a tie wrapped around her throat — her own gift to Frank before he'd left for Washington. The pale skin under the tie showed a thin blue stripe.

  She'd been strangled.

  When? Why? By whom?

  Something rustled behind his back. Frank turned round. Mrs. Fletcher stood in the doorway, the cable remote in hand, squinting nearsightedly. After a second, her eyes widened filling with terror.

  She must have thought she'd understood — but she misunderstood when she saw Kathleen's body and the red spots on Frank's shirt and the bedclothes. She must have thought it was blood, but what difference did it make now? Frank lifted his hand, and his wine-spotted fingers trembled, betraying his desperation. He opened his mouth and looked at Kathleen. No difference whatsoever. She was dead for good.

  When he turned back, Mrs. Fletcher was already gone. Hollering on top of her shaky voice, she shuffled along the corridor, hurrying away.

  Frank collapsed on the edge of the bed, lifted the radiophone off the bedside table and dialed 911.

  Chapter Two. The Men in Black

  Detective Ed Freeman slid three fingers underneath his belt and studied the suspect's face. The man sat in the interrogation room. A soundproof mirror, half the wall wide, separated him from the detective in the observation room.

  A man's face could tell Freeman a lot. A heavy forehead in combination with pronounced brow bones and a square chin betrayed violent tendencies and high aggression levels. Small mouths, thin lips and narrow, close-set eyes betrayed stealthy types prone to sexual abuse. But the man in front of the detective didn't seem to fit the typical mold.

  Women had to find his oval face attractive with its high square cheekbones, a straight nose, light-green eyes and dark hair. The man was a couple of inches shorter than Freeman who used to pump iron when he was younger and therefore looked slightly bigger with wider shoulders.

  Frank Shelby sat at the desk in the interrogation room staring straight in front. He wore a crinkled navy raincoat over a red-stained shirt: Freeman could easily tell that the stains weren't blood. The man was facing a camera. The chair opposite him stood empty.

  It had been a while since Ed Freeman had rested his fat butt on the chair's polished seat. It had been ages since he'd last heard the familiar claims, "I didn't kill!" and "I want to call my lawyer!" that greeted him whenever he entered the interrogation room. They were usually accompanied by tears and bail pleas, by assurances that they didn't remember anything, that the whole thing was nothing but an enormous mistake. Then they all begged him not to call for a Memoria tech, hoping he'd give the memory scan a miss.

  That had been a long time ago. No murders had been committed in New York for a long time. The corporation's methods had proven efficient enough, and the number of capital offences had gradually dwindled to nothing. Still, the city's police force remained the biggest in the country. It had to be: the Bronx's migrant camp still housed almost three hundred thousand people. And migrants, they don't feel obliged to visit Memoria. They keep their thoughts to themselves.

  The door of the observation room opened, letting in the gray mane of Bud Jessup, the chief of the police department. Without saying a word, he slid inside, handed the detective a file and glanced through the mirrored glass.

  "Has the victim's identity been established?" Freeman asked as he leafed through the paperwork.

  "They're busy with it now."

 
; "Why didn't she wear the bracelet? How on earth did she manage to take it off?"

  "As if I don't want to know!" Jessup leaned over the control panel next to the glass wall and studied the suspect. "I'm afraid you've got your job cut out for you, Ed. It's not an easy case. Not an easy suspect."

  Freeman looked up from the file.

  "And don't look at me like that," Jessup stood up. "I know better than you do that there's no fucking murder without a fucking motive. And you're gonna find it for me." He smoothed out his thick gray hair and rested his hand on the detective's shoulder. "Now go and talk to him. You're good at that. Strike a chord and try to wheedle out whatever it is he has..."

  "Bud," at work, Freeman avoided being too familiar with his boss and old friend, but the moment called for some informality. "What're you driving at? If this Shelby is innocent, he has nothing to worry about. He'll be out in no time, no charges filed. It could be manslaughter for all we know. He could have taken their lewd games one step too far and didn't notice that he'd-"

  "Very well," the police chief dismissed his ideas with a shrug. "Just go through the file and have a heart-to-heart with this Shelby before his brief arrives."

  Freeman nodded and returned to the paperwork. He knew what his old friend had meant to say. There had been no murders in New York for over five years now. Surely Jessup had already had the Town Hall on the line demanding to get to the bottom of it ASAP. He wouldn't be surprised if Memoria's expert and mnemotech team made it to the station before the man's lawyer did. The Mayor had his head firmly implanted up the corporation bosses' asses. Nothing new there. The suspect was a government lawyer so they should expect DC calling in no time.

  Freeman turned the page, thinking. Jessup had passed his anxiety onto him. Scanning pages of small print, he marked out that Shelby had done some serious boxing in the past although an injury to his forearm had prevented him from pursuing a professional career. Freeman made a mental note. The suspect also had a record of police assistance: when Shelby had been twenty years old, he'd defended a fellow trainee student against some hoods. Later in court, Shelby testified against them. The fellow student had apparently been an acting assistant city attorney.

  Freeman snapped the file shut, checked his holster and left the observation room, leaving Bud Jessup alone with the recording system.

  When he entered the interrogation room, Shelby still sat staring at the desk, his left hand feeling his empty right wrist: the electronic bracelet had been removed as part of the arrest procedure.

  The detective flipped the camera on. "Feel strange, eh?"

  "What does?" the suspect raised his eyes at Freeman.

  "The bracelet. Feels funny when it's not there, doesn't it? As if a body part's missing."

  Shelby didn't answer. He sat there staring blankly at the desk.

  "Never mind," the detective sat at the desk opposite and placed the file in front of him. "It won't last. Once we're finished, you'll be returned to jail. There, they'll give you the bracelet back, after they've changed the encoding."

  He clenched his hands and got serious.

  "My name is Ed Freeman and I'm investigating the murder case which lists you as the main suspect at the moment. I'm informing you that under the ninety-third amendment, your name is now on the special category list, the electronic bracelet is temporarily confiscated, and you're deprived of your right to erase your memories. If you refuse to cooperate, we will have to contact Memoria for their expert and mnemotech team. In this case, you'll have to undergo a memory scan."

  The detective paused, watching Shelby. "Want to make a statement?"

  Shelby raised his head. For a few moments he studied the detective and asked in a calm voice, "Where's my lawyer?"

  "He's on his way."

  Freeman couldn't help admiring the man's composure. He undid his sleeve buttons and started rolling them up, exposing thick hairy forearms. "I could turn the camera off, you know. Want to say something off record?"

  Shelby placed his elbows on the desk and rubbed his handcuffed wrists. He glanced at the mirror partition behind Freeman's back and returned the man's stare. "You have a good face, detective. And I appreciate your trying to speak with me off the record. But," he shook his head, "I won't speak to you without my lawyer."

  "I promise," Freeman turned around, nodded to the unseen observer behind the mirror and turned back to Shelby. "I'll have the equipment turned off. I don't want to waste our time. So?" he opened the file and got busy sorting the papers.

  Shelby remained silent.

  "Frank. You help me, and I'll help you."

  Freeman never pressurized his suspects. No need to. Once they realized the Memoria expert was waiting, they would tell him all he needed and then some.

  After about a minute, Shelby spoke. He rambled on, reasoning with himself, and immediately the detective managed to single out a few interesting facts. The suspect knew the victim by the name of Kathleen and used to see her occasionally at his place. She always called him herself or contacted him by email. Alternatively, she arrived at his apartment first, preferring to wait for him there. Shelby had gone so far as to entrust her with the door key — something the detective would never have done. To allow a stranger access to your home... oh well. It was one thing sleeping with a woman, or living with one, but these two didn't seem to know themselves what kind of relationship they were having.

  Still, at this point he didn't want to interrupt the suspect. Let him pour his heart out.

  "I meant to ask her to tell me more about herself tonight. I was going to propose." Shelby tried to raise his hands, but the movement failed, restricted by his handcuffs. He laced his fingers and lowered his wrists onto the desk. "But tell me, detective-"

  "You can call me Ed if you wish."

  "All right. Ed. Can you give me one reason why I should kill her?"

  That's what he himself wanted to know. "Frank," Freeman produced a pen and a clean sheet of paper. "Can anyone confirm seeing you together? How often? Where and when?"

  "Our doorman can, I suppose... Also, a friend of mine has a bar in Brooklyn. His name is Mike. Kathleen and I used to go there for a meal or a beer, or to watch a game..." Shelby paused, thinking.

  Freeman waited patiently over his notes.

  "There's also the girl from the minimarket next door. She used to like Kathleen a lot. She once told me we were a handsome couple. I think," Frank rubbed the bridge of his nose, "I think she might remember how many times she saw us together."

  "Excellent. We'll have to ask them a few questions. Now I want you to concentrate and tell me. Did your girlfriend seem concerned about anything lately? Received threats, maybe?"

  "No, she didn't," Frank shook his head. "She... She used to be outgoing and cheerful. One thing I did notice before leaving for DC, she seemed kind of preoccupied."

  "Did you meet before you left?"

  "No. No, we spoke on the phone. She seemed reserved and kept losing track of our conversation."

  Freeman was about to ask his next question, but Shelby added,

  "Then there was the cabman. On my way home from the airport, I spoke to Kathleen on the phone. Nothing special, really, only that her voice sounded strange. Concerned, you could say. And hoarse. She told me she'd had a cold, but was feeling better already..."

  Frank stopped and rubbed the bridge of his nose again. "I spoke to the cabman, too. I told him how it had gone in DC, said the place was rebuilt anew..."

  "Did you take his plate number?"

  "No, but… The cabman is a Hopper veteran guy, huge, broad face, thick mustache. I'm sure you can find him through the airport transportation department..."

  "I will," Freeman marked it down.

  He could already see the way Shelby was heading. The man was recreating the events on his way home from the airport. Clever move: the more eyewitnesses he had, the more chances he had to be acquitted in court. Jessup seemed to be convinced of Shelby's innocence, but still there was some investigating
to be done.

  "When I arrived home, the lobby was wall-to-wall media," Frank hurried to add. "I elbowed my way to the reception, collected the mail and went upstairs. Ah! One other thing! Kathleen said to me on the phone that Mrs. Fletcher, my neighbor, had dropped by to see me."

  This was something Freeman already knew from the crime scene unit report.

  "She came back," Shelby went on, "when I'd just discovered Kathleen's body. It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes since I'd spoken to Kathleen on the phone. It means that the murderer was in the apartment at that exact time. He strangled Kathleen with the tie which she'd given me recently. Why would he do that?" Frank put his hands together and shook them. "Don't you think it's too elaborate? He could have hit her on the head with something. Or stabbed her, or broken her neck-"

  He could have, Freeman agreed. He couldn't tell Frank, but that was exactly what had happened. She was first knocked senseless, then strangled.

  "It's as if the murderer was trying to leave a message. Another thing," Frank raised a warning finger, "Why did the murderer take the trouble of looking for this particular tie? It was shoved away in the back drawer. He could have taken one of those that hung on the wardrobe door. You think it could be jealousy? One thing I don't understand is how he got into my apartment in the first place. Could it be he was on our tail all that time?"

  "That's possible," Freeman said, thinking. "The girl could have known him, too. She could have answered the door herself."

  "There, you see! So you believe me now, then? What's the point of me killing her? And how do you think I was going to get rid of the body?"

  Freeman nodded. Alternatively, the murderer could have made it look like jealousy. Could Shelby be trying to throw them off the scent?

  "Have you ever seen her without her bracelet?"

  "Why? Ah, no, of course not. No one can remove the bracelets, apart from Memoria people or one of you guys. And even then you can't do it without the explicit consent from the chief of police."