“Why? It’s Sherry!”
Sherry Lupe didn’t wear sunglasses and her eyes were the color of whiskey; she handled her cane like a ninja, and anyone who tried to fuck with her was in for an unpleasant day. Blinded at age ten, confident with or without the cane, a lawyer (per gossip from G.B., several defense attorneys were terrified of her) who did the BOS/LAX hop twice a week, long black hair, tip-tilted eyes, designer suit, killer heels, and if you didn’t know she was blind, you wouldn’t know.
Which reminded her. “I’m going out with this guy
(it’s official, then?)
who’s a bit of a klutz. Got any tips?”
“Yeah, tell him to break up with you. G.B., would you make yourself useful and have a screwdriver ready when I board?”
“I will, but only because it’s my job and I have to. It’s not because of anything you said.”
“Sure it isn’t.” Sherry saluted her with the cane in a motion that, ironically, could put someone’s eye out. “Always a pleasure, Captain.”
“I know that’s a cliché, but it is always a pleasure.” To G.B.: “So that’s exciting.”
“What are you even doing here? You told me you’re grounded.”
“I’m just deadheading. I wore my uniform to make a point.” Said point: This is me now, and yesterday, and tomorrow: Captain Capp. CAPTAIN Capp. Captain Fucking Capp.
“Captain Capp?”
“Agh!” Apparently, it was sneak-up-on-Ava day, because she’d had no idea Becka was there until she turned around. “Good morning! How’d it go with your brother at MAGE?”
For some reason, Becka chose that moment to look terrified. “Fine! It was fine! Everything is fine!”
Okaaaaay. “You seemed a bit weirded out. Like when you’re a kid and you see one of your teachers at the grocery store. It’s out of context, right?” Is that the problem? Or is it something else?
“I enjoyed seeing you!”
G.B. coughed. “Yeah, I don’t know what all this is, but I’m not standing around while the gate lice* gather. Plus, I gotta get going on Sherry’s screwdriver.”
“Sure. See you on b—annnnd he’s sprinting down the ramp.” She turned back to Becka, who had closed the distance and was now standing less than half a foot away. “You were say—uh, hello.”
“Hello. I’m sorry about the murder.” Becka was close enough for Ava to tell she’d had coffee and some kind of pastry for breakfast. She’d also gone from shouting to whispering, and Ava was having trouble keeping up with … well. All of it.
“What?”
“And your drug test.”
“Because…?”
She blinked. “Because you keep getting—I mean, it’s not you. But—it’s you. I mean, your thing. To be in the middle of all this bad shit.”
“My thing?” Bad shit?
“Well. Yes. I know you can’t help it, though,” Becka hurriedly assured her.
It’s not what you think. It CAN’T be what you think.
Well, I think there’s a possibility she might be having a ministroke …
“You’re standing really close for this conversation.”
“S-sorry.” Becka audibly gulped and stepped back three inches. “You—why were you there? At MAGE? You weren’t supposed to be there.”
“Where was I supposed to be?”
“Somewhere else.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“You don’t live in Boston.”
And you know this how, exactly? “That’s correct. I do not live in Boston. I was not at the MAGE conference in the capacity of a local checking out the visiting geniuses.”
“But you were there. Which makes sense! I’m here because of you!”
“You—okay.”
“But why? Why were you there?”
“Well, Becka, as a matter of fact—and you’re still standing really close for a conversation between colleagues who haven’t known each other long—I was in Boston at the request of a new friend who thinks Danielle Monahan’s killer might be targeting me.”
“Oh! Oh. But why would the killer even do that?”
“Excellent question, Becka. Anything else? Because you should have been on board twenty minutes ago.”
“On board what?”
“The plane, Becka. The Boeing 757 the airline puts into service as a gigantic flying Uber. C’mon.”
It’s probably not what I think. And even if it is, I can’t just bar her from the flight and tell HQ that they should take my word that she might be a killer, a vandal, or a killer-vandal, even though I’ve got nothing to base that on.
But there’s no question she’s behaving strangely. I haven’t known her long, it’s true, but—weird. That was the cold truth. Less cold, but still true: she was dying to call Tom and give him the latest on Becka Miller. Yay, an excuse! Not that she needed one. They agreed they’d see each other.
But she had Becka to thank for one thing: whether the scattered flight attendant had guilty knowledge or not, it meant she’d be seeing Tom sooner than she thought.
Thirty-Nine
“My favorite MAGE exhibits were the disaster-recovery drones and the empathetic AI, Uncle Tom.”
“Because?”
“It’s one thing to ask an Echo to order pizza, but one that can tell when you’re angry or sad and counsel you appropriately? I can’t think how Marcus got the algorithms right.” Hannah shrugged. “Well, he’s old. Prob’ly took years.”
“I believe Marcus just turned nineteen.”
“Which doesn’t disprove my last sentence.”
“No.” Tom smiled at her. “It does not.” They’d packed for the trip home; Tom was inspecting the room to make sure nothing would be left behind, and his niece was perched on the end of the bed, sneakered feet swinging as she chattered. Abe had wanted the indulgence of another trip through the decadent food courts of Faneuil Hall
(“Smoothies and raw oysters and éclairs and roast beef and spaghetti … c’mon, bud! I’ll bring ya back a doggy bag.”)
and would meet them at Logan.
“The empathetic robot was impressive,” he agreed. Laptop, check. Toiletries out of the bathroom, check. Tiny hotel conditioner that he did not need but that gave him a silly thrill to take, check. (Ditto the shower cap.)
“‘Impressive’ is Uncle Tom–ese for ‘this is a startling technological advance, which I can barely understand much less embrace,’” she teased.
“You are correct.” He thought about the AI in question. It had resembled a large plastic light bulb, and he could imagine it scooting around the house dispensing empathy, therapy, and the occasional monoamine oxidase inhibitor. Good morning, your serotonin levels are low and you are sad. Would you like an antidepressant or to discuss your childhood?
“He’ll be rich,” Hannah said with satisfaction. At his curious gaze—he hadn’t been aware Hannah cared about such things—she added, “Don’t worry, Uncle Tom. I’ll be rich, too, and I’ll take care of you and Grandpa the way you’re taking care of me now.”