Next of Kin

Chapter Six: 49%

“John was an asshole,” I said. My screen flashed red, as my approval dropped to 43%; but I didn't care. He was an asshole, and even dead, he didn't deserve to have that forgotten. The only complaints in the chat seemed to be based around the curse; the only other activity seemed to be a discussion on the relative merits of tattoos, and a perpendicular discussion of Lisa's sexuality.

“Was?” she asked.

“I'm investigating his death.”

“Damnit. And here I am, going on about how big a tool he was.”

“Very tooly,” I said, “can't argue there. The worst part about the dog is I don't think the dog was a jerk; it just learned to be a jerk from him.”

“Can I get you a beer?” she asked.

A message arrived on my interface. “Investigator Tip: Drinking while performing the duties of an advocate can lead to lapses in judgment. It has also been linked to much harsher audience rating.”

Before I could even acknowledge the first message, a second appeared. “Investigator Tip: Refusing hospitality can lead witnesses to become less cooperative, or even hostile.”

I wanted to sigh, but I knew she'd think it was for her. “Tempting,” I said, “but I've got more doors to go to. I got to think some folks will be less likely to let in a man who's boozy.”

“Mind if I?” she asked.

“Weren't you going for a ride?” I asked.

“Not for a while. We'll talk, then I'll wallow for a few minutes thinking about mortality. Then I'll eventually decide to ride, anyway, to feel alive while I can. But I'll be stone sober by then.” Her fridge spat out a beer, and she used a mounted lever to crank the top off. She upended the beer and drained a third of it, and when she lowered the beer I could finally read the word “CHIC” on her other hand.

“Were you around last night? About 11:25?”

“I work nights. I tend bar, at the Snake Pit.”

“I assume you can corroborate that.”

“My boss keeps me GPSed to make sure I stay on the premises- inside, even. One of his old waitresses was hooking out of the bar; she'd take customers out to their cars. Not that I blame her, the wages he pays, but the cops tried to say he knew about it, and seize the bar.”

“Seize the bar?”

“Yeah. By claiming that he was using the bar as a brothel. They couldn't prove he was pimping the girl. But the burden of evidence was lower with the brothel accusation, because they were technically prosecuting his bar, and his bar doesn't have any Constitutional protections- the cops were allowed to presume guilt. Between the time he was shut down, and the cost of proving that his bar wasn't a brothel, he lost over ten grand. So he watches our whereabouts on the job. But if you want something more old-fashioned, there's about a dozen drunks and perverts who could vouch for me.”

I got a notification, that the footage was complete. “Just got a message. You mind if I take a second?” I asked.

“Knock yourself out.” I started with the camera outside John's place. I played through it at 64 times normal speed. A car parked in front of the house, or, rather, in front of both John's and Lisa's. I looked at the angles from the camera on Lisa's doorstep, and Agness'. Neither got a look at more than the edge of the car, or could get me a look at the driver. I pulled up a camera from across the street.

When he got out of the car, I got a good look at him, though it was dark enough that his features were partially shrouded in shadow. I tried to pull an ID off the image, but it came back unknown. “Investigator Tip: Some undesirables may use illegal interface modification to hide their ID from public databases.”

I shared the image of the car and the man with Lisa. “Recognize either of these?”

“That's your brother's friend, I assume? The car I know, because he was always parking outside my place, leaving me nowhere to put my bike.”

“You never met him?”

“Nope,” she said.

Damn. “Okay.” I shared my contact information. “If you think of anything else, get in touch.”

“And if I don't think of anything else?” She smiled at me. Mercifully, the door shut before I had to figure out how to respond.

“Now how the hell am I going to track this bastard down?” I asked. My rating fluttered down.

But a message popped up. “Investigator Tip: Vehicle and individual matches can be pulled from surrounding cameras automatically, reducing the manual labor involved.”

“Okay,” I said. “Do that.”

A follow-up message informed me it would take several more hours to process. I spent those hours talking to neighbors circling around the home. The further I got out, the less anyone seemed to know, about John or the gunshot.