Men Are Trouble | Page 2

we began. I
nodded as I settled behind my desk, grateful to have something between the two of them
and me. George dragged both chairs out into the little reception room. The devil spread
its wings and swooped up onto my file cabinet, ruffling the hardcopy on my desk. It filled
the back wall of my office as it perched there, a span of almost twenty feet. George
wedged himself into a corner and absorbed his legs and arms until he was just a head and

a slab of gleaming blue bot stuff. The devil gazed at me as if it were wondering what kind
of rug I would make. I brought up three new icons on my desktop. New Case. Searchlet.
Panic button.
"Indulge this one to speak for Seeren?" said George. "Seeren has a bright desire to task
you to an investigation."
The devils never spoke to us, never explained what they were doing. No one knew
exactly how they communicated with the army of bots they had built to prop us up.
I opened the New Case folder and the green light blinked. "I'm recording this. If I decide
to accept your case, I will record my entire investigation."
"A thoughtful gesture, Fay. This one needs to remark on your client Rashmi Jones."
"She's not my client." It took everything I had not to fall off my chair. "What about her?"
"Seeren conveys vast regret. All deaths diminish all."
I didn't like it that this devil knew anything at all about Rashmi, but especially that she
was dead. I'd found the body in Room 103 of the Comfort Inn just twelve hours ago.
"The cops already have the case." I didn't mind that there was a snarl in my voice. "Or
what's left of it. There's nothing I can do for you."
"A permission, Fay?"
The icon was already flashing on my desktop. I opened it and saw a pix of Rashmi in the
sleeveless taupe dress that she had died in. She had the blue ribbon in her hair. She was
smiling, as carefree as a kid on the last day of school. The last thing she was thinking
about was sucking on an inhaler filled with hydrogen cyanide. Holding her hand was
some brunette dressed in a mannish chalk-stripe suit and a matching pillbox hat with a
veil as fine as smoke. The couple preened under a garden arch that dripped with pink
roses. They faced right, in the direction of the hand of some third party standing just off
camera. It was an elegant hand, a hand that had never been in dishwater or changed a
diaper. There was a wide silver ring on the fourth finger, engraved with a pattern or
maybe some kind of fancy writing. I zoomed on the ring and briefly tormented pixels but
couldn't get the pattern resolved.
I looked up at the devil and then at George. "So?"
"This one notices especially the digimark," said George. "Date-stamped June 12, 2:52."
"You're saying it wa s taken yesterday afternoon?"
That didn't fit -- except that it did. I had Rashmi downtown shopping for shoes late
yesterday morning. At 11:46 she bought a $13 pair of this season's Donya Durands, now
missing. At 1:23 she charged 89 for a Waldorf salad and an iced tea at Maison Diana. She
checked into the Comfort Inn at 6:40. She didn't have a reservation, so maybe this was a

spur of the moment decision. The desk clerk remembered her as distraught. That was the
word she used. A precise word, although a bit highbrow for the Comfort Inn. Who buys
expensive shoes the day before she intends to kill herself? Somebody who is distraught. I
glanced again at my desktop. Distraught was precisely what Rashmi Jones was not in this
pix. Then I noticed the shoes: ice and taupe Donya Durands.
"Where did you get this?" I said to the devil.
It stared through me like I was a dirty window.
I tried the bot. I wouldn't say that I liked George exactly, but he'd always been straight
with me. "What's this about, George? Finding the tommy?"
"The tommy?"
"The woman holding Rashmi's hand."
"Seeren has made this one well aware of Kate Vermeil," said George. "Such Kate
Vermeil takes work at 44 East Washington Avenue and takes home at 465 12th Avenue,
Second Floor Left."
I liked that, I liked it a lot. Rashmi's mom had told me that her daughter had a Christer
friend called Kate, but I didn't even have a last name, much less an address. I turned to
the devil again. "You know this how?"
All that got me was another empty stare.
"Seeren," I said, pushing back out of my chair, "I'm afraid George has led you astray. I'm