“I need you to be careful,” said Cutter.

The concrete streets neatly lined with palm trees were the least dangerous thing they had encountered over the course of the past couple days.

But this was Beverly Hills.

Looks and deception—or however that old chestnut went.

Celia stared at him. Her expression was one part bewilderment and two parts concern. “I am always careful.”

“Yeah. I mean, more so.”

Her lips formed a tight pout. “Was I not careful before?”

He caught wind of something new in her words. A couple months ago that statement would have been one hundred percent innocent. Pure. Untouched. But sprinkled in her cherry voice, hidden behind the childish lilt was the hint of sarcasm.

Was she mocking him?

She turned away, watching the blur of terracotta roofed mansions whip past outside the passenger window. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t see her thoughts through the back of her head.

“After your little tirade in Pinkerton’s lab, where did you go?”

“Tirade?” Her tone was indignant. He probably could have chosen a better word, but as far as he was concerned, it was the one that fit best.

“You weren’t in my office. Stetler didn’t see you either. What were you doing?”

“Why do you care?”

“I just want to know, is all. What were you doing?”

“Nothing.”

Every instinctual impulse wanted to continue prying. The more a suspect played hard to get the more Cutter needed to root out the truth. But Celia wasn’t a suspect.

It occurred to him, as never before, that maybe there were some costs not worth paying. Some darkened avenues not worth venturing down.

They passed a particularly gauche monument to opulence, complete with an improbable arrangement of foliage belonging to no specific climate—rather all of them at once.

Why pick when you’re rich, right?

The driveway was arranged in a horseshoe. Ringing the perimeter was a semicircle of cacti nestled in beds of marigolds. At the dead center, a maple tree sprung forth as the crowning centerpiece. He wanted to believe this particular assault on domestic modesty was an outlier. But it wasn’t. Not in Beverly Hills.

One after the other, experiments in architecture reaffirmed his suspicions that those living in Beverly Hills were certifiable card carrying members of the padded room country club.

“We don’t know who this guy is or what he wants,” said Cutter.

“He is Jared Harkin.” Celia nodded with certainty. “Vice President of Sanders and Ollander Robotics, LLC.”

Cutter gritted his teeth. He knew better than to lob such a literal statement to a synth. But with Celia, it was easy enough to forget.

And also, there was that tone again.

“We have his name,” said Cutter. “That’s it. We don’t know his intentions. Just be careful, okay? Can you promise me that?”

“We question people all the time. Why is this any different?”

“Because…”

Celia’s head rocked onto her shoulder. She waited for an answer that wasn’t going to come. So she asked the obvious. “Because why?”

Cutter felt his breath gather in his throat, building to a growl. He managed to choke it down along with his thoughts.

“We’re here.” He nodded toward the approaching break in the hedge row. Maybe she’d let it go. But from the look on her face, he knew it was unlikely.

Harkin’s not-so-humble abode was both progressively futuristic and putridly nostalgic. 1950’s futuristic optimism had been retrofitted with the harsh angular flourishes of modern technology. Oversized pipes like cruise-ship smokestacks jutted from the roof and occasionally snorted steam. The plastic sheen from the roof betrayed the presence of photovoltaic tile embedded in the salmon terracotta tiles. The rich being privy to such tech kinda perverted the whole notion of tech that allowed for living off the grid.

Situated between two privacy hedges and blocking the driveway, a twelve foot tall metal gate was bent into the shape of some fantastical monster that Cutter couldn’t identify. It was copper plated and had been left to the elements, painting it with a perfect swirl of jade patina.

The hedges rustled, followed by a faint hydraulic whine. A matte black rod extended toward the cruiser’s driver side window. On the end of the rod was a small box with a mesh-screen covering an intercom speaker.

Cutter rolled down the window.

From the box, a female voice so sultry that its soft caress stimulated arousal asked, “May I help you?”

Cutter rolled his eyes. This type of instantaneous biological provocation betrayed the true character behind the voice.

Tech.

Not humanity.

“We’re here to see Jared Harkin.”

“May I ask who is inquiring?”

“Detective Jack Cutter. LAPD.” He fished his badge from his pocket and flipped it open. A green laser-show scanned the badge, his face, the car, presumably everything it could—not exactly legal, but he wasn’t of mind to do anything about it. The paperwork alone would be a nightmare.

“We have a couple questions for Harkin.”

“Identity confirmed. Thank you, Detective Cutter.” The box played a progressive jazz tune of beeps and offbeat processor clicks. “I am sorry. Mr. Harkin is not taking visitors at the moment. Have a good day, Detective.”

The metal rod retracted into the hedge.

“Hey!” Cutter honked the horn. The metal rod paused, and then once again extended toward the driver’s side window.

“May I help you?”

“It wasn’t a request. Get Harkin on the horn. None of this pre-recorded bullshit either. We’re here to talk to the man.”

The intercom rattled with a grinding noise that Cutter couldn’t help but interpret as indignation. After a moment, the volume squelched. “I will inquire with Mr. Harkin, directly. Please wait.”

“Thanks,” said Cutter, not really meaning it.

The onboard dash display said seven minutes had passed by the time the box responded, but Cutter didn’t believe it was anything short of an hour and a half.

“Mr. Harkin has indicated that he does not wish to be disturbed.” Without so much as a goodbye, the box began retracting.

Cutter grabbed it and jabbed the mic with his pointer finger. The move tended to work on junkie mods and soused civvies. From the device’s whine as he pulled it into the car, apparently it worked on snooty tech as well.

“Look, I’m not arguing with you. We aren’t leaving until we talk to Jared Harkin.”

“I am sorry Detective Cutter, but I am unable to assist you any further. Please leave or I will be forced to—”

The intercom cut out and the sultry voice was immediately replaced by a lilting surfer’s drawl.

“Hey! Hey, yeah, wait. Sorry ‘bout that. Cutter, right? I, uh—hang on a sec. Damn tech, am I right? I just, this switch, gotta turn it off—”

Cutter shot a look at Celia. Her eyes were wide, her shoulders were raised, and she shook her head almost imperceptibly. Delicately, he raised the intercom to his ear, keeping a slight distance from it, as if it might bite him if he got too close. Semi-incoherent mutterings were accompanied by various rustling noises. “Uh, hello?”

“Yeah. You still there? I think—yeah. There. That should do it. Cutter, right? Detective Cutter? The officer with the itty bitty girl-bot as a partner? That Detective Cutter?”

Cutter hesitated before responding. The directness was off-putting. “Uh, the one and only, I guess. And this is?”

“It’s me. Well, obviously it’s me. You can’t see that. Jared. Jared Harkin. You said you’re here to see me, right?”

Before Cutter could respond, the metal gate groaned under its weight and the embedded jade monster began to swing wide.

Jared Harkin was not what Cutter had been expecting from an S&O board member. He greeted them at the door in a black T-shirt with some independent band, or gaming logo scrawled across the front (it was so hard to tell the difference these days). The pockets of his khaki cargo shorts bulged. Cutter hoped they were filled with modern gadgetry and tech trinkets, as opposed to something that might inflict harm or pain, not that he could do much in either case. Harkin’s toes hung over the edge of the oldest pair of Birkenstocks he had ever seen. He looked more prepared to catch some waves than negotiate billion dollar deals for the biggest multinational corporation on the planet.

Harkin’s blonde hair was spiked with frosted tips, a common SoCal look, and his wardrobe may have been slacker chic, but the hairstyle said, ‘I try extremely hard to maintain this pseudo-disheveled look.’

With a grand sweeping gesture, Harkin stepped back from the towering oak door and invited them inside. “Come on in. Mi casa es su casa.”

“Sure buddy. Whatever you say.”