Cutter punched something hard with his face. It took him a minute, but the rotting stench of decay shook loose remnants of memory. In front of him was his old friend—black and chalky, with occasional sprinkles of glass—asphalt.

He went to push himself up, but another something thumped him in the back of the head and he kissed pavement again. Sandpapered with tarmac, the bridge of his nose blossomed with blood.

His head throbbed with pain. Gritting his teeth, he rolled onto his side. Right on top of a blunt object that stuck him in the back.

With a startled yelp, he rolled off of it.

As the pain dwindled to dull reminder, he reached for the object, and felt the familiar grip. He sighed, and groggily slid it into his weather worn leather jacket and holstered the ZeroTwelve.

Without a shred of grace, he propped himself up against a dumpster.

A wrapper covered in a substance he had no interest of knowing was plastered to his cheek. He peeled it off, stuck it to the side of the dumpster, and wiped his hand against the asphalt.

Hugo towered over him, his gorilla goon hovering inches behind.

“Don’t let me catch you ‘round my shop again,” said Hugo. “Next time, I won’t play so nice.”

Cutter mustered what little strength he could and waved, almost a salute. “Always a pleasure, Hugo.”

His pintsized partner, oblivious to the kind of damage Hugo could (and liked to) inflict, waited patiently next to the big man. Instead of running, she held her hand out to him.

“It was very nice meeting you.”

Hugo stared.

Celia stood on her tippy toes, wavering, and thrust her hand as high as she could, a move that seemed to indicate she thought he couldn’t see it. Even dazed out of his gourd, Cutter knew he saw it. Of course, he saw it.

Hugo tilted his head to the left and peered down at the tiny automaton. After a beat, he rocked it back to the right. “You’re too much, chica. Ya know that?”

“Too much what?”

“Jes too much.” He took her hand, engulfing it in his calloused mitt and gently shook. “Like the man here says, a pleasure. But don’t take this the wrong way—scram.”

The chop shop’s steel door slammed shut with a resounding thud.

Cutter staggered to his feet and dusted the dirt off his knees. “Well, that went well.”

“I’d say.”

It was only the second time Cutter had heard that voice, but he already had opinions about it.

“Interesting running into you here.” At the end of the alley, MacDonald leaned against a brick wall. He held a Steno notepad in his left hand, patiently thumping it with the ballpoint pen in his right. A few feet away, RX-S7 stood motionless.

“Likewise,” said Cutter. “Why do I get the feeling you aren’t here by accident? You and the Professor out on a date?”

“Professor?” MacDonald looked at RX-S7’s cardigan. “That’s funny. They’re going to love you in Folsom. I guess you two weren’t formally introduced. Scott, Detective Jack Cutter. Jack, Scott.”

“Not sure I care. Wait, no. I am certain I don’t care.”

“That’s not surprising.” MacDonald shadowed Cutter, exiting the alley crevice, and surfacing onto the city sidewalk. “You mind if I ask what you’re doing outside a chop shop well renowned for its illegal modifications?”

“My job.”

“What a co-inky-dink.” MacDonald put his hand flat on his chest, as if he were a coy Victorian damsel. “That’s exactly why I’m here. Well, we. Us.” He indicated toward the RX-S7. “That’s why we’re here.”

The cruiser was parked half a block away. Cutter cursed himself for not double parking at the end of the alley and blocking traffic. He had been afraid of unwanted attention, but now that didn’t seem to matter.

MacDonald shot a look at Celia. “I see you’re making good use of her.”

“I am.”

“He is!” Celia beamed. She grabbed Cutter’s hand and skipped along with his stride to keep pace.

“Oh, I can see that.”

Cutter abruptly stopped and MacDonald careened into his backside.

“Is there something I can help you with? Or are you just trying to get on my good side?”

“Now that you mention it, I was thinking of asking if you could help make my investigation easier. But you’ve already accomplished that. So, no. I think I got it. But thanks just the same for offering.”

Cutter clenched his fists. “Is this going to become a thing?”

“You tell me. I am only here because IA thinks it has already become"—MacDonald made air-quotes—"a thing. So, is it?”

“Either you’re hauling me in now, or you’re not. But I have a job to do. If you don’t mind, get the fuck out of my face.”

Cutter brushed past MacDonald, making solid contact with his shoulder. The small man staggered backwards, before righting himself.

Inside his cruiser, Cutter punched the steering wheel. After a few horn-blaring blows, he gripped it by the sides, ten and two, and violently shook it.

The entire cruiser rocked with the motion.

“I fucking hate that guy.”

Celia hopped into the passenger seat. Her voice was bright and filled with glee. “I fucking hate him too!”

The strain of MacDonald’s presence was weighing on him. He didn’t like being followed. Worse, he couldn’t tolerate his own department’s distrust. The higher ups, whoever they might be, judged him for doing his job in the manner that netted results. You’d think a decade’s worth of service would have bought some leeway, but you’d be mistaken.

But that all slipped away, even the pain of being thrown face first into garbage disappeared when he saw the smile on Celia’s face.

“How do you do that?” asked Cutter.

“Do what?”

He shook his head and returned his eyes to the road. Under his breath, he said, “Never mind.”

The radio crackled. Static blared for a few seconds, before the dispatcher belted out his name.

Cutter picked up the receiver and keyed the comm. “Cutter here. I hope it’s something cushy. Don’t think I could handle anything else. The pavement just kicked my ass.”

A sharp snort stifled laughter, followed by a flinty voice. “How’s a babysitting gig sound? Valerie Von Medvey was released from custody. Parks wants you to accompany her tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? What’s tomorrow?”

“You know that morning show? The one with the cheery name so sappy that for whatever reason I can’t remember. Good Morning Something-Or

Other.”

“Not really.”

“Gloria Garner is going to interview her tomorrow.”

“You gotta be kidding me.” Cutter cupped his forehead in his palm. “Fucking reporters. If Valerie was human, we’d still be waiting on an autopsy report.”

“Vultures, right? But if it’s not Gloria Garner someone else will scoop her up.”

“Yeah, how often do they get to interview a murder victim?”