Cutter pounded on the door.

“Open up. We need to talk.”

In the long silence, he turned to Celia. She clutched that damned stuffed bear to her side. How long had she been carrying that thing around?

The plush toy had several new features Cutter hadn’t noticed before. Singed fur and a missing eye, as well as synthetic cotton poking out of every rip and tear in its seams.

Cutter thumped on the door again.

Louder this time.

“Von Medvey, open up! I know you’re in there!”

At least that’s what the officers tasked with guarding his door told him. Both the mister and missus were inside, and they were not taking visitors. Earlier in the day, the Von Medveys had politely informed the officers that they were not expecting guests, and in a not-so-subtle passive aggressive manner hinted that the officers should take a hike.

While the officers had no compunction to adhere to the billionaire’s request, when Cutter asked for a few minutes alone time with the Von Medveys, they obliged. One of the officers mentioned something about wanting to check out a coffee joint around the corner. Something about a moca latte.

Cutter raised his hand to knock for a third time, but stopped short. Instead, he paused, listening for sounds on the other side of the door.

There was only silence.

Nothing different from prior attempts.

Call it intuition, but he sensed the presence of someone on the other side of the door.

He waited patiently. His eyes drifted down to Celia. She intently watched his every move in the silence, eyes flitting back and forth, from him to the door and back again. The look on her face said it all—the desire to question him, to ask why he froze, hand hovering in mid-air, lingering inches off the door.

He raised his hand to his mouth and extended his pointer finger to his lip—the universal sign for shush. Or in Cutter speak, Shut the hell up.

After a moment, a shadow eclipsed the light emanating from beneath the door.

Was it Christian?

Or Valerie?

He had a variety of strategies for getting people to open up and speak with him even when they didn’t want to. However, those strategies hinged on knowing who he was talking to. What they wanted. How to provoke them. How to push their buttons. The strategies that would work against Christian would not work against Valerie. And vice versa.

In this case, Cutter figured ambiguity was his best friend.

“We need to talk.”

The shadow lingered. After a moment, there was a subtle shift of weight. A barely audible noise that Cutter felt more than heard—a hand gently placed against the wooden surface of the door. Whoever was on the other side, they were gazing at him through the peephole.

Cutter read into the hesitation. There was a desire to remain unseen and unheard, but the compulsion was not strong enough to completely drown out curiosity.

He took a shot in the dark.

“I know you’re there. I understand why you’re gunshy to speak with anyone. Given the multiple attacks, I get it. We’ve discovered a lead. Something that will help us track down who did this to you.”

It wasn’t exactly true. He had questions that demanded answers. No real leads.

“She’s not taking visitors, Detective.” Christian’s voice came through the door.

Shit.

Cutter awkwardly changed gears. “Sounds awfully suspicious if you ask me.”

“No one is asking you, Detective. Haven’t you done enough?”

“Did you hear about the firebombing at S&O?”

“You think that has something to do with the maniac who has been targeting my Valerie?”

My Valerie. Still referring to her as his possession. A chill ran up his spine. Slimeball.

“She is an S&O model,” said Cutter.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“We can discuss it, inside, if you’d like.”

“No. I don’t think so, Detective.”

“Not inviting me inside? Nothing suspicious about that.”

“Shouldn’t you be hunting down criminals, instead of harassing their victims?”

“Why did you hire protestors to boycott S&O?”

There was a slight pause. With the door between them, the silence felt like an eternity.

“Hire?” said Von Medvey. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

“We met a lovely individual by the name of Sheldon Kraul. He was a little, shall we say, too thrilled that S&O’s lobby went up in flames.”

“Sheldon was responsible for the bombing?”

“So you do know him.”

Von Medvey let the silence hang.

“Let’s talk about this inside,” said Cutter. “I doubt you want your neighbors to hear all the juicy gossipy details.”

“If you don’t have a warrant, I’m afraid the answer is still a resounding ‘no,’ Detective.”

“I don’t need a warrant if there’s suspicion that a crime is being committed.”

Cutter enjoyed these indirect non-committals. An ambiguous turn of phrase. The insinuation was there. But he hadn’t explicitly stated his suspicions, nor his possession, or lack thereof, a warrant.

But Von Medvey wasn’t taking the bait.

“Since when is exercising your rights a suspicious activity, Detective?”

“Funny. You and Sheldon have a lot in common.”

“I would not call that funny. In fact, I would consider that normal. I generally donate to charities that have some similar or vested interest aligned with my own. I donate to his charity. I donate to many charities. If you might recollect, I donate to the LAPD, as well.”

“And I appreciate it. As does my yacht. My house in the hills. My Rolex. My—sorry, I’m running out shmancy-pants rich guy stuff. It’s such unfamiliar territory for me. Oh, a private jet. All those luxuries your donations pay for.

“Oh wait. No. Your cash isn’t paying for any of that stuff. You know what the funds go towards? Those funds go to a rusting central database thirty years out of date. They help the precinct function. To do its job. You know, to protect and serve. To help track down criminals and stop crime. The funds allow the precinct to do what it was designed to do.

“Isn’t it strange how giving money to an organization helps that organization achieve its goals? Almost exactly like giving money to a bunch of equal-rights-for-synths nutjobs and the resultant bombing of the headquarters of those they vehemently disagree with.”

“I am asking you on the level, Detective, is Sheldon responsible for the attack?”

“What’s your relationship with Mr. Kraul?”

“Talking in circles now, aren’t we, Detective?”

“Do you make it a habit of being on a first name basis with all the recipients of your overwhelming generosity?”

“As a manner of general principle, yes. I do. Like your police chief, William Henry Parks.”

Henry?

Cutter bit his tongue. He wasn’t even aware that Parks had a middle name. Not that he had the desire or impulse to find out.

“Are all the charitable organizations you’re involved with responsible for acts of terrorism?”

“Like I said, I contribute to the LAPD as well, so you tell me.”

Cutter felt his brows raise. His demeanor shifted, and he nodded at the repartee. He had walked face first into that one.

Von Medvey cleared his throat. “I take it, Sheldon is responsible for the attack. I think I shall be withdrawing any future donations to his cause. If that is all—”

“If his vision is aligned with yours, why would you do that? Why would you withdraw? He’s the head of the organization pushing for synthetic rights. That seems in line with your beliefs. Kinda odd that you pull your support when I come snooping around.”

“I am sure you can see why my wife and I would be drawn to such a cause. But if you are insinuating that we had something to do with the attack on S&O, your skills as a detective are making me reconsider some of my other donations, as well.”

“Not exactly devoid of conflicts of interest, are you? Your wife is getting a congressional bill named after her. That’s a hell of a legacy you two are crafting.”

There was an extended pause. “We’re not exactly ecstatic about that.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re all gung-ho about equal rights for synths, but when it comes to naming the bill after your wife, you’re not ecstatic about it? I find that hard to believe.”

“Valerie already has her own legacy. There’s no escaping that. She is already thrust into the limelight. She has quite a bit of notoriety, historic or otherwise. None of which she is interested in.”

“She isn’t? Or you aren’t?”

“She isn’t,” repeated Christian. His voice was calm, peppered with cold authority. “She is not a fan of the public eye. However,” he said, his voice taking on a cocksure grandiose tone, “if it were up to me, I’d revel in the exposure. But that is me, Detective. I like seeing my name plastered all over the face of humanity, a great big immodest middle finger to the Almighty. But our stance on the naming of the bill is not up to me. This is her decision. A decision, I understand and fully support. Now if you don’t mind, Detective, you’ve proven quite the nuisance.”

“You’re not the first to make note of that.”

“I’m sure I won’t be the last. Good day, Detective.”

“One last thing.”

No answer came from behind the door. No acknowledgement of the request. But there was also an absence of footsteps retreating.

“You still there?” asked Cutter.

“Go on.”

“There any chance I get to talk to her? Hear this directly from Valerie?”

“Not a chance in Hell, Detective. You have done plenty.”

“Yeah. Like I said. Nothing suspicious.”

“Call it what you like. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for Valerie. To protect her. To make sure she is safe. Something you seem unable to grasp. Judging from your character and general displeasing demeanor, there isn’t anyone in your life you care about outside of yourself. That’s too bad. Maybe one day you will understand the act of doing something outside of yourself, not because it makes sense, but because it is right.”

“I just find it hard to believe you have no connection with those attacking your wife and Sanders & Ollander.”

“Are you done, Detective?”

“Yup. Nothing here is suspicious at all.”

“Good day, Detective.”

Cutter and Celia made their way down the corridor toward the elevator. He pressed the button, waiting for the inevitable ding, but there was a nagging voice in his head he couldn’t escape. Each step forward splintered into more questions.

What the hell was Christian hiding?

He was being coy about something. But what, Cutter couldn’t put his finger on. Why couldn’t Valerie come to the door? What was there to protect her from that meant he couldn’t speak with her?

Was she even there?

Had Christian put her into hiding?

Something in the back of his mind wondered if Christian had done something more sinister to Valerie. It wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary for a playboy to terrorize his expensive plaything sexbot for his own jollies.

Things kept coming up Christian.

It was hard to ignore.

Christian had been absent during the attack on his wife at KCAL 9. Turned out, he was a large contributor to the organization staging a protest outside of Sanders & Ollander the day it just so happened to receive an impromptu renovation of its lobby via flame.

But there was a link he was missing between the two attacks. Though the targets had a passing similarity, the modus operandi between them was wildly different.

And now Christian wouldn’t even let him speak to Valerie.

Nothing was sitting right with him.

“I don’t get it,” said Cutter.

Normally Celia loved fleshing out the details of a case, and would respond immediately. She would make curious inquiries, trying to pry into his thoughts and processes, trying to piece together the puzzle for herself. But her reaction time was slower than normal.

Cutter watched her register his statement. Watched her come to the conclusion that she might want to participate in the conversation, taking place as if in slow motion.

“What is not to get?” asked Celia.

“It feels like there’s something here. Something going on. But nothing is adding up.”

Celia nodded. Her gaze fell into a thousand yard stare, looking through Cutter as if he were not there.

“What’s gotten into you?” asked Cutter.

She was acting stranger than normal. Not strange in a synthetic way. Synthetics had a manner that Cutter found outright predictable. A methodology that could be at times awkward and inhuman, based on processes he could understand, anticipate, and curtail. Celia, on the other hand, possessed her own unique brand of quirks that he found utterly impossible to predict.

Celia cowered. In her hand, dangling at her side was the charred plush toy. She held it up to him. “You made me promise to return Teddy, but I do not want to.”

“Shit. The bear.”