In the morning, they ate breakfast and went their separate ways.
Charlie fixed her usual Friday morning meal of two eggs and toast, then changed into her blue jumper that still bore the stains of the day before and left for work. Though she was a capable mechanic who owned a repair garage of her own, her mind was elsewhere--somewhere far from the garage with its single large lift and tiny office that had the same proportions as her closet at home. Business had been slow lately, but she passed the time by reading the ragged copy of Heaven is for Angels she'd smuggled from Tommy's office. Something about the story, with its rigid, almost archetypical characters and winding plot, had dug its claws into her, and she'd been unable to shake it off. All she could do was finish it and hope that the feeling went away. As much as she loved him, she didn't want to be dragged into the same world as Tommy, obsessing over a paperback reality.
Tommy, on the other hand, enjoyed his usual chilled can of oil and left early for his own office, where he also passed the time by reading another of Rick Armstrong's adventures. Shortly before ten, there came a knock at the door, and Tom Steel, PI, rushed to answer it. A bicycle messenger wearing a tight, brightly colored jersey, a white plastic helmet, and an indented scar strangely bearing a resemblance to the shape of his bike's handlebars stood on the other side. He held a large manila envelope in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Without a word, he handed them both to Tommy, pointing at the X on the clipboard page where the signature was expected. Tommy signed the receipt, and the messenger took off before the door was even shut.
There was a folder tucked inside the envelope, and Tommy examined the contents as he returned to his desk. There were photographs paper-clipped and stapled onto pages filled with information about Fifty-two and a man named Francis Heap, Helena Beame's former husband. Tommy read the documentation first, divided into sections that felt more like full, carefully crafted profiles than a loose packet of information. There were plenty of facts, both about Fifty-two and the life of Francis Heap, but he quickly realized that it lacked any of the sentimentality Beame had displayed the night before. There was little mention of Beame and Fifty-two's relationship and no hint of any sort of contempt Beame bore toward her ex-husband. Tommy found this interesting, but he also conjectured that Beame may have put a great amount of effort toward maintaining a sort of professionalism, offering up only the details that would directly affect the case.
After he'd thoroughly read and processed every scrap of information, he scanned the images into his hard drive and studied the physical photographs. Heap looked like the career criminal he was--unshaven, shaggy hair, right down to the beady eyes. He looked the way average thugs were described in Johnny Lightly's books, and his rap sheet was just as long. There were a few charges Beame had neglected to mention, including a few counts of burglary, two counts of illegal drug possession, and one count of arson. He'd been in and out of prison since his first stint in juvenile hall, leaving Tommy to wonder exactly when his marriage with Beame began and how long it lasted.
Fifty-two appeared to be an average domestic robot, one designed to clean houses and watch after children. It didn't surprise him that a woman like Beame had owned one. Something about the photograph felt off, though. Tommy scanned his personal database for information on domestic bots, specifically ones manufactured approximately twenty years back, if he was estimating Beame's age correctly. There were some slight discrepancies when he compared the appearances of those particular models to Fifty-two. Beame had also said that the name Fifty-two came from the unit's model, but the only models from that era bearing that number were designed for commercial communications purposes. The profile Beame had provided did mention that Fifty-two had been a custom robot, which might have explained his lack of information, but he still felt that something wasn't right. It was a gut feeling--intuition, and anyone who would argue that robots can't have an intuition had never met Tom Steel.
Charlie fixed her usual Friday morning meal of two eggs and toast, then changed into her blue jumper that still bore the stains of the day before and left for work. Though she was a capable mechanic who owned a repair garage of her own, her mind was elsewhere--somewhere far from the garage with its single large lift and tiny office that had the same proportions as her closet at home. Business had been slow lately, but she passed the time by reading the ragged copy of Heaven is for Angels she'd smuggled from Tommy's office. Something about the story, with its rigid, almost archetypical characters and winding plot, had dug its claws into her, and she'd been unable to shake it off. All she could do was finish it and hope that the feeling went away. As much as she loved him, she didn't want to be dragged into the same world as Tommy, obsessing over a paperback reality.
Tommy, on the other hand, enjoyed his usual chilled can of oil and left early for his own office, where he also passed the time by reading another of Rick Armstrong's adventures. Shortly before ten, there came a knock at the door, and Tom Steel, PI, rushed to answer it. A bicycle messenger wearing a tight, brightly colored jersey, a white plastic helmet, and an indented scar strangely bearing a resemblance to the shape of his bike's handlebars stood on the other side. He held a large manila envelope in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Without a word, he handed them both to Tommy, pointing at the X on the clipboard page where the signature was expected. Tommy signed the receipt, and the messenger took off before the door was even shut.
There was a folder tucked inside the envelope, and Tommy examined the contents as he returned to his desk. There were photographs paper-clipped and stapled onto pages filled with information about Fifty-two and a man named Francis Heap, Helena Beame's former husband. Tommy read the documentation first, divided into sections that felt more like full, carefully crafted profiles than a loose packet of information. There were plenty of facts, both about Fifty-two and the life of Francis Heap, but he quickly realized that it lacked any of the sentimentality Beame had displayed the night before. There was little mention of Beame and Fifty-two's relationship and no hint of any sort of contempt Beame bore toward her ex-husband. Tommy found this interesting, but he also conjectured that Beame may have put a great amount of effort toward maintaining a sort of professionalism, offering up only the details that would directly affect the case.
After he'd thoroughly read and processed every scrap of information, he scanned the images into his hard drive and studied the physical photographs. Heap looked like the career criminal he was--unshaven, shaggy hair, right down to the beady eyes. He looked the way average thugs were described in Johnny Lightly's books, and his rap sheet was just as long. There were a few charges Beame had neglected to mention, including a few counts of burglary, two counts of illegal drug possession, and one count of arson. He'd been in and out of prison since his first stint in juvenile hall, leaving Tommy to wonder exactly when his marriage with Beame began and how long it lasted.
Fifty-two appeared to be an average domestic robot, one designed to clean houses and watch after children. It didn't surprise him that a woman like Beame had owned one. Something about the photograph felt off, though. Tommy scanned his personal database for information on domestic bots, specifically ones manufactured approximately twenty years back, if he was estimating Beame's age correctly. There were some slight discrepancies when he compared the appearances of those particular models to Fifty-two. Beame had also said that the name Fifty-two came from the unit's model, but the only models from that era bearing that number were designed for commercial communications purposes. The profile Beame had provided did mention that Fifty-two had been a custom robot, which might have explained his lack of information, but he still felt that something wasn't right. It was a gut feeling--intuition, and anyone who would argue that robots can't have an intuition had never met Tom Steel.
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