In the classifieds he was listed as Dr. Morgan Friar, Private Investigator, Wekba specialist. Huh, so everyone knew he was a doctor but her. She called him up on her brand-new player, which was a goddamn necessary expense for sure. He answered on the first ring.

“Hello, Saru,” he said. He was in what must have been his office, or maybe laboratory was a better word. She saw what looked like a missile in the background. “I was expecting your call.”

“Really?” she said, dumbly. Tiramisu.

“Yes. You’re the best in your field of course; it’s natural they should ask you after me.”

“I guess you know the word then.”

“Guess is correct, but I should have warned you—the Gaespora are very persuasive.”

“Yep. Well I took the case.”

“Ah,” he said. He looked sad, and that look was enough to bring back the terror. The reception wasn’t perfect, the image was a little choppy, but for the first time she realized how old he was.

“Are you going to tell me how stupid I am?”

“No, no. But I would advise you to reconsider.”

“I don’t think that’s an option.”

“No, maybe not. I hope you won’t take this as a critique of your professionalism, but perhaps you would allow me to offer some advice? Some information that may be of use?”

“That’s actually why I called. You’re the expert.”

“It would be better if we met in person. When are you free?”

“Now, if you like.”

“Very good, here is my address.”

He sent her the address and she hailed a cab. No walking for this rich bitch. She tipped the cabby a hundred—there you go bud, buy yourself a toothbrush—and he dropped her in front of a nondescript brownstone. There was no plaque announcing who lived there; even the number was tiny and hard to read. That was just like Friar—attention to detail, subtlety, discretion; he was like her polar opposite.

She knocked softly, noticing the door was not wood, as it appeared, but some sort of hard alloy. She guessed it was bullet proof and fire and acid resistant. She looked at the stone and wondered what was beneath—reinforced concrete? Steel micromesh? This wasn’t a house; it was a fortress. She wondered who the neighbors were. No neighbors of course, he would own the other two houses and they would be just as tricked. Interesting. Not a lot of crime in this part of the city, so what was he expecting? Enemies? Old scores? The apocalypse?

The door swung open and he was there, tit-height and grave-faced.

“Come in please,” he said, ushering her in with his hand. He wore the same tweed jacket that she now suspected was more than just tweed. She stepped inside. Yes, it was like she expected—the house of an old bachelor professor, a little dusty, full of knick-knacks and relics, artwork, carved wood furniture, globes, and other gilded trash. She would buy it all when she solved the case and cram it into her foyer so you’d have to shuffle sideways to get through the maze.

“This way please.” He guided her down the hall; she caught a glimpse of the living room with a grand piano and the dining room with a crystal chandelier. They passed the kitchen (“Would you like anything?” “No thanks”) and he lead her down to the basement. This was more like it. It was part workshop, part lab, part hospital room and—oh my God there was a man in a cage. No, not a man. An elzi, a once-man. That was a little shocking.