Chapter 11
Zero
I decline the French fry Salay is offering with a quick shake of the head, fingers hovering anxiously above the keys to my “in case of an emergency” laptop that I always keep in the car for code red sitches. “I need more info.”
She casually dips the object in cocktail sauce and shrugs.
“Yeah, I don’t have more info, Little One.
” An open mouth bite is taken. “I told you what I could on the ship. I repeated myself in my jeep. And now at the table.” The smacking sound should be gross, but I find it oddly cute.
Maybe because she’s the complete opposite of the man on the other side of her who typically drinks more than he eats.
Like he has been all day. “Would you like me to draw you a picture in ketchup?”
Her attitude?
Very Maine Coon.
Very playful.
Generally fucking welcomed.
Right now?
Not so much.
I need her on some big tiger shit.
I need her fucking focused and territorial and ferocious.
Someone tried to. Fucking. Kill. Her.
Shit just got very survival of the fittest.
And I want her to survive.
Need her to.
“You probably do have more info than you realize,” I gingerly begin. “Happens all the time.”
“Eyewitness testimony is some of the most unreliable,” Garcia argues without bothering to look from his device. “Yes. The human brain is similar to a computer; however, it does not contain a flawless hard drive. It alters ‘files’ based on beliefs, new information, trauma, and even suggestibility.”
“Not. Helping,” leaves me in disapproving murmurs prompting her to snicker.
How?!
How is she fucking chill at a time like this?!
Is this shit just that norm for her?!
I mean…it is for me, but I didn’t think it would be for her.
What type of trouble has she gotten herself into in the past?
Is this person someone from her past or is it directly related to the hunt we’ve been sent on?
Why is my first Snap response telling me it’s that one?
“Repetir la misma pregunta tampoco ayuda,” Garcia grunts in return.
“Okay, whatever, at least my repeating the question is me trying to get some shit done,” I bite hard enough to collect a small glare. “How about a little more port support?”
“That sounds like a fucking speedo,” Salay sniggers between fry bites prior to shooting him a curious brow. “Have you ever worn a speedo?”
“No.”
“Would you ever wear a speedo?”
“No.”
“Would you ever-”
“Would you,” my voice harshens, sending her attention back to me, “please concentrate on me and recalling whatever we can about the person who legit tried to one-eight-seven you?”
Salay dramatically clutches her chest with her now fry free hand. “A Dr. Dre and Snoop ref?” Fake sniffles escape next. “You’re so young in the face and old in the heart.”
“I raised him right,” Garcia teasingly declares.
“You did not raise me,” escapes in an exasperated nature. “And I would appreciate everyone getting back on the same tab.”
“We are on the same tab,” Salay reminds at the same time she spins her finger in a circle around the table. “Garcia’s.”
“Generous of me,” he mirthfully mumbles.
“Forget what the lawyer said,” I command and lean a little closer. “The human brain is like a computer-”
“You said to forget what he said.”
“-which means it can be hacked.”
“Still in the territory of what he said.”
“We just need to collect the data that’s there, not alter it.”
Salay wordlessly picks up a piece of popcorn shrimp, indicating she’s listening.
“Could you see this person’s hair color?”
“No.”
“Eye color?”
“No.”
“Were they male or female?”
“What part of wetsuit is not computing for you?”
Frustration has me briefly squeezing my eyes shut before saying, “Think of their build. Body structure and composition from a purely average, scientific point, like you would if you were observing any other animal in the ocean.”
At that, her head curiously tilts to one side.
“Like a male orca’s dorsal fin differs from a female. Does shit happen? Sure. But the average distinction is what we are using for this analogy. It’s what I want you to use to transfer over the information to me.”
Seeing her brows pull tightly together pushes me to continue.
“You have been around swimmers and divers and mer people your whole fucking life.”
“Esto último no es cierto,” Garcia needlessly interjects.
“Of course, the latter isn’t true! Mer people aren’t real! I’m using it to make a point! Let me make my point!”
Our table attorney – reluctantly – concedes.
“Now, have you ever noticed variations between them?”
“Of course,” Salay quickly answers. “Natural buoyancy, tank usage, leading with your upper body versus lower. Men tend to rely more on the former. Same for rock climbers though.” She pauses midchew to add, “And parkour dudes.”
The information has me instantly using it to investigate, “The individual chasing you earlier they…?”
“Definite dick,” thoughtlessly escapes her, surprising us both. “Ohshit…Definite. Dick!”
“Stop screaming the word dick,” scolds Garcia as he glances up again.
“Stop being a pretentious one.”
“See!” I victoriously exclaim. “Your brain is an air gap system! We’ve just gotta physically tap into it.”
“Dirty talk,” she mockingly coos around more food gliding into her mouth. “Kinky.”
“Now, I have a starting point to feed into my algorithm…” my efforts hastily begin dancing across the keyboard. “Height estimate?”
A hum of contemplation noticeably precedes her replying, “I don’t know. Taller than me…but shorter than Ernie.”
“Wide range,” trickles out between my typing, “but the more information the better…”
“And he was packing an underwater speargun.”
“Vary in weight and awkwardness however most norms don’t just carry that shit around like a trophy that needs mounting, meaning if I find those rough dimensions,” the pads of my fingers click open a web browser to begin my search, “and estimated weight,” I continue theorizing out loud, digits moving to do the actions my words are indicating, “the likeliness that they were carrying it in something…” More frantic movement continues post the plugging in of my results.
“Combine that info with the dock we unplugged from…and the time we set sail…” my concentration becomes hyper focused, “and the time it took to reach our lo-cal…” the remainder of the world fades, “and the trajectory of the current…and the estimation of the time of attack…” only me, the screen, and flow of my fingers matter, “potential starting coordinates for the assailant in relative comp coming from likely a parallel starting position and…”
I’m not entirely sure if it’s been mere minutes or hours that have passed by when I’m finally pulling up a true possible prospect, but it doesn’t matter.
What matters is that I have something rather than nothing.
That we have more than we did.
“Hello, Varun Wooten, resident of Chicago for the past four years, borrowing his brother’s Disney streaming account as well as his wife for the last two.” Additional clacking is accompanied by more chatting. “Let’s see what else we can find out about you…starting with your call and text log.”
“You can do that?!” Salay squeaks tempting me to pause and shift my stare to her.
“I can do a lot with an internet connection, baby.”
Seeing her grin out of the corner of my eye is almost as amazing as hearing our other table resident chuckle.
“For instance, I could show you something boring like the motion to enforce that Garcia is currently reviewing for another client or something more fun like the last four generational based toks Garcia’s sister sent him,” I announce in spite of having no true intention on pulling it up.
“She sends at least two every day. Typically, in the morning before her first patient or at lunch when avoiding going back in.”
He immediately cuts his glare over to me. “How do you know that?”
“You know how, my guy.” This time I do meet his gaze. “You’ve seen firsthand what I can do with an internet connection.”
“Most of that shit is highly illegal.”
“And?”
“Heavily invasive.”
“And?”
“And incredibly sexy.”
Redness tints my cheek; however, I realign my focus to where it needs to be.
Flirt later.
Fixate now.
We need to know who this motherfucker is.
“Texts are mostly to his brother’s wife – and so are his dick pics,” is quietly proclaimed, “with a few to his brother himself – mostly lying to him about his whereabouts – a couple friends – one who is desperate for a strip club buddy.” A few more quick clicks remove information, visually narrowing things down.
“Call log itself is pretty scarce, but…if I check out his messaging apps,” the newest round of clacking precedes me nodding, “I can see here that for the past three days he’s had steady contact with a guy named Ernie Hatosy. ”
“Yeah?” Our waiter/bartender – who we first met when we came to this exact spot searching for Salay – looks up from where he’s reaching for her empty plate.
There’s practically no hesitation from our real-life mermaid to pick up the nearest fork, and even less when she drives it into the back of his hand.
It looks purely primal.
Instinctive.
Very sexy in a totally violent way.
“Fuckkkk!” barely has the opportunity to leave him thanks to her full force push kick to the balls. Garcia and I wince in tandem while she removes the utensil to relocate it into his now available collarbone territory. “Fu-”
“Just because I fuck you doesn’t mean you get to fuck me,” Salay viciously declares at the same time she twists her wrist. “Why are you trying to have me killed?”
“Whaaaattttt?!” he loudly cries out.
I bet the dude’s wishing the outdoor area we’re occupying was a bit more crowded the way it was earlier.
Not sure it would be to his benefit.
My gut is telling me she still would’ve stabbed him.
“Play stupid games,” she digs the metal object in deeper, summoning blood to collect near the tips, “win painful prizes.”
“Legally,” Garcia casually joins the conversation, “all my client is doing is executing her right to self-defense.”
“I didn’t attack her! She attacked me!”
“Hiring a hitman-”
“What hitman?!”
“-constitutes as an intended attack. Pre-meditated murder to be exact.” A contemplative hum is delivered alongside a raised palm. “Attempted murder could be added as an additional charge to the proceedings depending on jurisdiction. Perhaps even conspiracy to commit murder.”
“Attempted murder with a fucking speargun of all things,” growls our bombshell on a third grind.
“What?!”
“You know I come from a family of doctors,” Garcia casually taunts. “My parents are doctors. My grandparents. My sister.”
“You would be a terrible doctor,” I teasingly throw out around the man’s groans.
“I know. And winning that argument certainly aided in me finding my true calling as an attorney.” Garcia casually relinquishes his phone to the table in order to fold his hands in his lap.
“You, sir, could use one of them with that open wound; however, she, on the other hand, requires my particular skillset at the moment to keep her feet in the sand instead of a cell, which I will help her do, by informing the cops or court or jury that my client is clearly executing her right to self defense or if someone were to see this footage-”
“Which they wont,” I interject.
“We could argue due to the discovery of the new information that you were involved in the attack on her life – just hours ago – that she suffered from a momentary, trauma induced, psychological break that resulted in her stabbing you.”
“Twice,” is cheekily added by me.
“Why’d you put a hit out on me, Ernie?”
“I didn’t!” The injured male swears, agony thickening his tone. “I-I-I I swear, I didn’t!”
“Then why have you been in steady contact with Varun Wooten aka the man who tried to kill her?” I swiftly interrogate. “Why were you calling him constantly over the last few days?!”
“Kill you?!” Confusion coats his expression, temporarily replacing discomfort. “Varun was only supposed to follow you!”
“Why?” Her question has all three of us eagerly listening. “Why would you want him to follow me, Ernie? You trying to get me to move back into your place?”
“No!”
“Trying to get me back into your pants?”
“No!”
“Trying to get me to scare off your ex again?”
“No!”
“Then why?”
“To figure out where you’ve been diving!”
“Why?”
“Because…” The lack of adaquete wording has her digging the utensil in even further, likely scraping bone. “Ou!!! Fuck! Fuck!”
“An answer,” demands our bikini babe. “Now.”
“Because she paid me an ass load of cash to figure that shit out!”
Begrudgingly – because I would bet my annual donation to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Donation on already knowing the answer – I cautiously ask, “Who?”
“Princess Temperance Weslington.”