Blaze Tuesday and the Case of the Knight Surgeon (Special Edition)

Chapter Ten

  We made it back to the office in record time. I had to admit that I felt a little guilty for not going directly to check out Doctor Jones' halfway houses, but Jackson agreed when I said that whatever was in this package I was supposed to deliver was probably what had got the doctor killed in the first place, so we had better check it out before we go kicking in doors and putting the screws on kids who are already messed up. Jackson was a bleeding heart underneath his suave, three-piece suit wearing, partially mechanical exterior.

  I paid Leroy well and had a quick chat about which frequency we would use on the radio to hire him as a gypsy driver for the time being. I wasn't rich enough to hire him permanently, but a little bit of off the grid cabbie work would mean some extra cash to line his pockets, and I'd have a trustworthy driver on call at all times. It was a win-win kinda set up for the both of us, and I'd rather pay Leroy to drive me than to take my chances with cabbies who were too scared to set foot in the rougher neighbourhoods I tended to frequent during investigations.

  Confident in my newly acquired driver's abilities to be discreet, I strutted back into the office. Things were finally starting to go relatively well in this investigation and I wasn't feeling so queasy about working for Wayside.

  Jackson was pouring himself a cup of coffee and Trixie was sitting behind her desk. I looked them both over critically.

  “Did I miss something?” I inquired.

  “Just me complimenting Jackson's taste in clothing,” Trixie replied with a smirk.

  “Oh, you mean how good his ass looks in those tailored pants he's wearing?” I quipped back.

  Jackson choked on his coffee .

  “Well, now that you mention it...” Trixie mused, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  I slid onto the edge of Trixie's desk, perching comfortably there, as was my custom when we weren't really working. “I'm surprised you haven't announced it out loud already,” I continued on as Jackson tried to regain his composure. “You two do spend enough time together.”

  “I'm more surprised that you didn't point it out until now,” Trixie shot back, evidently enjoying Jackson's discomfort. “I mean, really, you two are so intimately close in a fully platonic kind of way.”

  I barked a laugh. “Doll, if Jacks wasn't so entirely dizzy with you, I'd probably have asked him to dinner a long time ago.”

  “That's very reassuring,” Jackson muttered, shaking his head as he dabbed coffee from his chin. “Unfortunately, Blaze, you're nowhere near being close to my type.”

  “It's because I'm too butch, isn't it?” I asked.

  “It's because you're a pompous ass, mostly, but I suppose that you're far too manly for my delicate sensibilities,” Jackson agreed, earning a laugh from me and a look of almost-but-not-quite horror from Trixie.

  “Touché,” I concluded with a nod in Jackson's direction.

  “So did you guys find anything out?” Trixie asked suddenly, changing the subject and keeping us focused on the task at hand. Now I remembered why I kept her around.

  “Figured out that the murderer had been hiding on the roof the whole time and the cops didn't even notice him,” I said bitterly. “Stringer was just so convinced that I had done it he didn't even look for anything to prove otherwise.”

  “Why hasn't he been fired or dishonourably discharged or whatever it is that happens to rotten cops yet?” Trixie asked with a growl. “He's so useless and he makes your job twice as difficult as it ought to be!”

  Jackson gave me a look that was equal parts agreement and eagerness, which I could only assume translated into something like 'why can't we make this happen?'

  I simply shrugged in return. “He's not the only rotten apple in the bushel.”

  Trixie huffed an overly exaggerated, exasperated sigh and threw her hands up in defeat. “Just don't go gettin' yourselves killed.”

  “Why?” I teased gently, reaching over to pat Trixie's shoulder affectionately. “If anything happens to me and Jacks that results in our dying at the same time, you inherit the building and the firm.”

  “You shouldn't have told her that,” Jackson warned, with a grin. “She works for the two best detectives in New York, she's got all the means to kill us and get rid of our bodies at her disposal. We'd be dead and gone in minutes and she'd be on her way to the Bahamas by sundown.”

  Trixie gave me an overly innocent smile and I inched away from her slowly, sliding my butt across the desk until I was out of her reach and sitting rather uncomfortably on the corner. “I'll make sure she gets a good bonus at Christmas,” I assured Jackson. “You should take her out to dinner after this case is done,” I added solemnly, nodding my head to accentuate the point.

  “I wouldn't even worry about that,” Jackson replied, taking a sip of his coffee now that he'd finally regained his composure.

  “Now that that's all settled,” I told my partners, expertly switching gears from joking around to business, “Trixie, Doll, I think you oughta take the rest of the afternoon off. Maybe go buy some shoes or get your hair done or something.”

  Trixie arched her eyebrow at me. “Sorry, what?”

  I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. “There's three grand in the safe from the Wayside delivery job that started this whole mess,” I explained. “It's your cut. Take it and go shopping this afternoon or something.”

  Trixie blinked at me. “Sorry, three grand?” she parroted.

  “Yeah,” I agreed with a nod. “I'm giving you a third of what Wayside paid me to make the original delivery yesterday. You want it or not?”

  Trixie nodded, stunned. I guess she didn't realize that I was going to be that generous with the money Wayside was throwing at us. A third was more than she usually got from cases, and three grand was more than any of us had ever made on a single case, let alone three grand all to ourselves.

  “Sorry, Doll,” I pressed on as Trixie moved to get up. “I need you to get outta here for the afternoon. Jackson and I have some serious work we need to do and I'd feel better knowing that you have an alibi and the chance to completely deny any knowledge of what we're doing here, just in case it ever comes up.”

  Trixie looked up at me, half crouched as she stopped in the middle of standing from her spot. “Do you think it might come to that?” she asked, worried.

  I shook my head and tried to be reassuring. “No. I'm pretty sure that it'll never come to that, but we're about to do something that breaks all sorts of moral codes and ethical ideals and probably breaks a few laws while we're at it.”

  Trixie nodded and finished standing up. This was old hat for her by now. Jackson and I committing felonies wasn't anything out of the ordinary when it came down to investigations. Jackson pulled the money from the safe while Trixie packed up her things. I sighed, feeling a little bit guilty for forcing Trixie out of the loop like this, but I didn't want to see her get hurt if I could avoid it. She'd put up with a lot of bullshit from me over the years, and she'd never let me down yet. Anything that I could do to keep her safe, I would.

  Trixie took the cash from Jackson and I bit back the snarky comment I wanted to make when she kissed his cheek and made him promise not to get arrested. Instead, I stood from my spot and followed Trixie to the door.

  “Thanks, boss,” Trixie said quietly as I walked her to the door.

  “Anytime, Doll,” I replied with a smile. I think I'd frightened her a little, giving away three grand and kicking her out for the day was not something that you'd ever hear tell of me doing for just anyone. “We'll be fine,” I promised. “I just don't want you to have to explain why we're doing what we're doing if we end up going to court, okay?”

  “Why are you going to court?” Trixie asked with a grin. “You didn't insult Stringer in public again, did you?”

  “Not yet,” I replied. “But I might have to publicly humiliate him in a little while. I'd rather you not be here when the angry mob shows up.”

  Trixie nodded. “I'll bring you back somethin' to eat, all right?” r />
  Bless her soul, she knew me far too well.

  “I'd take it as a kindness for sure,” I agreed.

  Trixie flashed me her pretty smile and waved as she sauntered down the street, purse swinging on her arm. I lingered by the door a moment longer, making sure she got a cab all right before I ducked back into my office and pulled the blinds.

  “Would you mind not blatantly checking out my girlfriend while she walks away?” Jackson asked me. “Or at least try to be a little more discreet about it?”

  I grinned roguishly at Jackson and shrugged, pulling off my jacket as I did. “What can I say?” I offered. “I hired her 'cause she's as smart as she is pretty and that blazer and pants combo accentuates all of her assets.”

  Jackson rolled his eyes and made a rude gesture in my general direction. I laughed and pulled the manila envelope from my jacket pocket, waving it at Jackson. “My office, or yours?”

  “More room for candles in your office,” Jackson replied drolly. “Plus you've still got that brandy, right?”

  I made a gun motion with my fingers and clicked my tongue in Jackson's direction, winking as I did. Our harmless flirting back and forth made the job easier to tolerate, and scared everyone else. As long as Jackson kept joking around with me, I had nothing to worry about. It was when he didn't automatically return my joking advances, or laugh outright, that I worried about him. “Aw hell yeah I do,” I assured him. “Bring me a cup of coffee, when you come would you?”

  “Can do,” Jackson replied with a nod.

  I grinned and made my way toward my office. I flipped on the lights and hung my duster back on its hook by the door. I set the manila envelope down on the desk and stared at it. I knew we were about to open it, but I still couldn't help but feel the pull of intrigue that you get when you're staring at a gift you're not allowed to open until an appointed time, like Christmas, and I was one very excited little boy.

  I flopped down into my chair and stared at the manila envelope, picking it up and turning it over in my hands. I ran my fingers along the edges, along the flat spaces, just making sure that there wasn't a letter bomb or something that would otherwise make me regret opening it. It felt like a stack of papers inside an envelope.

  I frowned to myself. That didn't seem right to me. How could a pile of papers be worth killing someone over? I sighed and tossed the envelope back on my desk. I missed the good old days of straightforward cop work. Although, if I was gonna be truthful about it, cop work wasn't always much more straightforward than what I was doing now, I had just had unlimited access to databases and a whole team of people to back my sorry ass up when things started to go sideways.

  Now, though, I had Jackson to back me up, and as far as I was concerned, he was worth an entire precinct. I smiled at the thought and I propped my feet up on my desk and leaned back in my chair. Trixie wasn't here to yell at me about it this time.

  I stared up at the ceiling, waiting for Jackson to bring me my coffee so we could start looking through whatever was inside the envelope. I was a little bit uneasy with the thought that there was something worth killing someone over inside my office. I was more unnerved by the fact that I had been the one hired to deliver the product. It didn't jive well with me. Ten grand was a hell of a lot of money to make a delivery. And another ten grand to investigate the death of the intended recipient of the delivery for me and for Jackson made the whole thing a lot more murky than a clean cut murder.

  Something else was going on, and I was determined to figure it out.

  “You look so very lost in thought,” Jackson announced as he arrived with a cup of coffee for me, and his notebook tucked under his arm. “Shall I call for a search party?”

  “Ha ha ha,” I grumbled sarcastically. I held my hands out to accept the coffee he'd brought me. I took a sip of the black caffeinated life-giving substance before swinging my feet off of my desk and sitting up properly. I set the coffee mug down on the desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. I pulled out a rocks glass and the bottle of brandy. I popped the cap and poured Jackson a good measure of the stuff before topping off my coffee with it.

  Jackson eyed me critically, obviously not appreciating the genius of mixing brandy with coffee. I shrugged and took an excited gulp of the stuff. The heat of the coffee mingled with the mild burn of the brandy and set my nerves on fire. I was ready to roll.

  “So how are we gonna do this?” I asked, regarding the contents of the envelope. “We weren't supposed to open it or else the contract was void.”

  Jackson frowned and sipped gingerly at his brandy. “I think that the untimely death of Doctor Jones voided the contract in the first place,” he said slowly. “This is part of our secondary investigation into the death of the good Doctor.”

  “Ooh, I like the way you worded that,” I commended, taking another sip of my liquored up coffee. “You should write it down, just in case Ratty comes back with that damned contract he made me sign in the first place.”

  “Funny how he didn't make us sign anything for the murder investigation,” Jackson pointed out, settling himself on the edge of my desk the way I usually sat. We didn't often work in my office. This was almost uncomfortable.

  “You wanna pull up a chair?” I asked, nodding towards the leather monstrosities I had pushed into the corner of my office for when I had private meetings with clients.

  Jackson wrinkled his nose but stood anyway. Holding his brandy in his left hand, he used his mechanical right one to effortlessly drag the heavy, high backed chair over to the edge of my desk. He flopped down into the chair and the springs groaned beneath the unexpected weight. I didn't have people in my office very often.

  “This is a surprisingly comfy chair,” Jackson told me, grinning as he shifted his weight and got more comfortable. “Why don't you ever entertain clients in here?”

  “I have trust and privacy issues,” I replied bluntly, sipping my coffee to hide my discomfort at the question. “Should we open this now?”

  “Probably a good idea,” Jackson agreed. “Before we drink too much to make sense of the contents anyway.”

  My lips curled up in a half-smirk. “Jackson, when did you become such a lush?”

  “About the time that I started working with you.”

  I nodded serenely. “Sounds about right.”

  Jackson snickered into his brandy. “All right, so let's get to work.”

  I handed the envelope over to Jackson. “Do the honours, my mechanically augmented friend.”

  Jackson set his glass down and took the envelope carefully. He looked it over, his glass and clockwork eye ticking in the deepening silence of anticipation that was building in the small room. He turned it over carefully, as though he was afraid that he might break it or that it might explode in his face.

  Sometimes, I had to wonder what sort of illegal upgrades he had done to that eye of his, and if he had some sort of cool superpowers because of them, like X-ray vision or telepathy or something. Then, of course, I take another drink and realize how completely insane I would sound if I ever admitted these things out loud.

  Jackson set the envelope down on my desk and nabbed the letter opener I kept in the tin cup with all my pens. He held the letter opener delicately in his mechanical fingers, almost like a surgeon preparing to perform an operation. Carefully, he slid the letter opener under the wax seal, managing to keep it intact.

  “You've totally done this before, haven't you?” I demanded.

  “Not with a wax seal,” Jackson admitted. “I didn't think anyone actually used wax seals anymore. This has to be just for show, right? I've gotten pretty good at lifting those sticker-like ones though,” he grinned sheepishly. “You learn a lot of interesting things when you're considering leaving the police force on bad terms.”

  “Lock picker extraordinaire, committer of mail fraud, computer hacking genius, sharpshooter with the glass eye and lady killer of the highest calibre. Is there anything you can't do?” I asked, sincerely impressed with my part
ner's skill set. I would be totally lost without him.

  “I can't get you to shut up for longer than two seconds,” Jackson told me, unwinding the little string on the envelope with a smug smirk playing against his lips.

  What an ass.

  “Would you really want me to?” I asked innocently.

  “Not really,” Jackson admitted in return, pulling the stack of papers out of the envelope. “It's when you're quiet that I know you're thinking, or plotting, and that is when I really need to worry about you.”

  He knew me far too well, and I loved him for it, even if he was an ass.

  I took one last gulp of my brandy infused coffee before setting it down, and I held my hand out to Jackson, silently demanding that he hand over the sheaf of papers.

  Jackson stared blankly at me. “At least let me read it before you start demanding things.”

  “No way, Jacks. This was my delivery, I get to read it first,” I whined, making an impatient grabbing motion with my outstretched hand.

  Unamused, Jackson handed the sheaf of papers over to me, leaning back and picking up his brandy glass. He glared at me over the rim of his drink, intentionally making his mechanical eye bulge just to creep me out as he sipped slowly at the amber alcohol in his glass.

  “Stop it,” I muttered, shifting in my seat and holding the papers up to block his scary robot eye from stealing my soul as he stared at me.

  I scanned the first few pages that I held warily. They seemed to be written in legalese, which of course, became an actual language in the early twenty-second century and was spoken mostly by lawmakers and lawyers in the special communities they'd set up. No, sorry, that was a joke. We didn't really ostracize the lawyers and lawmakers, although it had been pretty close to actually happening, and still came up on the evening news every couple of months, but that's a whole other story.

  I skimmed the contents of the first few pages as quickly as I could. I didn't understand half of it, or why it was so important. I could still feel Jackson's cold, calculating, metallic stare on me as I skimmed and after a moment of long, calculated silence, I gave up and handed the stack of paperwork over to him.

  “Thank you,” Jackson said amiably, setting his almost empty glass back on the desk before taking the paperwork from me. “You held out a lot longer than I was expecting you to.”

  “Your robot evil eye doesn't work on me anymore,” I lied, reaching for my coffee and taking a slow sip.

  “Sure it doesn't,” Jackson replied, flipping back to the first page of the legalese document. “You just have a mild panic attack every time because you like the spike in your heart rate?”

  “It keeps the adrenaline pumping on those long and boring days where nothing happens and I'm forced to remain awake and sober,” I agreed sarcastically. “Can you make heads or tails of what all that legal mumbo jumbo is about?”

  Jackson grinned and nodded. “Yeah, it's a non-disclosure agreement,” he explained. “And a contract that basically tells us that Doctor Jones was definitely about to start working for Wayside again.”

  “Really?” I asked, more excited than I had been when I was looking over the documents. I stopped myself from bouncing in my seat as a horrifying thought dawned on me. “You're not messing with me here, are you Jacks?”

  “No, this is serious,” Jackson reassured me, eyes still glued to the legalese document in his hand. “This is solid proof that Doctor Jones was in talks with taking on a new contract at Wayside.”

  “Working on what?” I pondered aloud. “I mean, from what we could tell he wasn't the kind of guy to just up and leave his pet project, was he?”

  Jackson flipped a few pages in response as I took a thoughtful sip of my cooling coffee. I was trying to put it all together in my own head. The doctor, who had left Wayside over ethical differences stemming from the brutality of clockwork implants, and the stubborn refusal of the bigwigs at the top of Wayside Firms to do anything to help the kids who'd gotten addicted to the surgeries, was suddenly willing to give Wayside another chance? Ratty hadn't mentioned anything about the Doctor's return when we were talking. You'd think that something that important would have been at the top of the list of things to mention when we were looking for motives and questioning Ratty. This also totally blew holes in my theory that Wayside had offed the good Doctor for selfish reasons. They wouldn't have one of their own employees whacked, not in this sort of scenario. He wouldn't have been any use to Wayside if he was dead.

  The papers we had recovered from my botched delivery hadn't turned up anything but a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo, a non-disclosure agreement and solid proof that the Doctor had been willing to give Wayside a second chance. And someone had been angry enough, or threatened enough, by Doctor Jones' renewed involvement with Wayside to have him killed.

  The fact that he had no defensive wounds was weighing heavily on my mind as I thought it all through. I don't care how much of a pacifist you are, or how seriously you take your Hippocratic oath; when someone is threatening to kill you, you fight back. That was the biggest red flag waving in front of me. What could possibly cause a man to simply sit down and let himself be killed in his own home? I sure wouldn't just sit there and take it, especially if someone had their hands wrapped around my neck. Part machine or not, I don't react passively when someone is trying to break my neck.

  The longer I had to sit alone with my thoughts in the heavy, permeating silence of my office, the less I liked the scenario we had found ourselves in. The queasy feeling of working for Wayside when something big was happening was starting to settle back into the pit of my stomach. I realized that I hadn't eaten yet today when the burning nausea started to settle in, making my choice of black coffee spiked with brandy a glaringly bad choice.

  “Jackpot,” Jackson breathed, interrupting my thoughts.

  I blinked rapidly, pulling myself back into reality. “Jackpot what?” I slurred, not altogether back from the thought-vacation I'd been on.

  “This isn't all just legal documents,” Jackson explained.

  “Did you at least figure out what the legal part of it was?” I asked. “I assume there was more than the non-disclosure agreement and his contract?”

  “Oh yes,” Jackson agreed, eagerly. “There was a lot more than just those.”

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the edge of my desk. “Are you going to share with the rest of us poor laymen?”

  Jackson grinned and started spreading out papers across my desk. I tilted my head, looking at each page critically. There was a bunch of legalese on most of the pages, but that didn't really interest me in the way that it probably should have. What did catch my eye, however, was the scrawling blueprints that had been printed onto the papers between the legal documents.

  “These are new designs for more streamlined clockwork implants,” Jackson explained, obviously catching my confused look as I tried to piece together exactly what I was looking at.

  “New designs?” I repeated weakly, running a hand through my hair in exhaustion. “Like, upgrades?”

  “No,” Jackson corrected. “Like brand new designs. New technology.”

  I started in my seat and looked over at Jackson. New technology? That was big deal.

  “How do you know it's new?” I asked, waving my hand over the papers. “They all look like scribbles and fancy incoherent words to me.”

  Jackson grinned, he was excited about what was on the papers spread out across my desk. I didn't blame him. New technology was a big deal. Especially if it meant advancements in the clockwork implant fields. There hadn't been much progress there in a few years, and we were well overdue for something interesting.

  “These are blueprints,” Jackson told me, pointing out a couple of the scribbled anatomy pictures. “New hands, new legs, new arms,” he pointed to each one in turn as he explained. “They're cleaner, more efficient designs. They're supposedly just as strong but take up less material to make.”

  “So they learned a new way to forge
steel?” I asked bitterly. “That seems like something out of Atlas Shrugged and definitely not something worth killing over.”

  Jackson gave me a weird look. “Did you actually read Atlas Shrugged?”

  “So what if I did?” I asked, more defensively than anything else. I waved my hand, dismissing the conversation. “No big deal. So, what's so great about these new implants?”

  Jackson gave me one last questioning look but pressed on at my request. He'd caught my attention, he knew he had to keep it before I went off on one of my, to quote him, “insane” theories again.

  “According to these documents, they've been tested in the factories or whatever you wanna call the facilities where they create and test them, and they hold up better than the current designs on the market,” Jackson explained hurriedly, doing his best to keep it less technical than what it actually was so that I didn't feel like he was talking over my head. “They last longer, don't succumb as easily to wear and tear, and are generally stronger in every way than what we have currently available.”

  “Okay?” I asked with a shrug. “So why were they trying to hire Doctor Jones back?”

  “That's the interesting part,” Jackson said hurriedly, flipping to another page from the stack and laying it out on the table. “According to this, they wanted to hire Doctor Jones on as lead surgeon and consultant for the project.”

  My eyebrows furrowed as I frowned. “Why would they want to hire him back for that? I mean surely they had hundreds of other surgeons at their disposal. What made Doctor Jones so special?”

  “He had a vested interest in these implants,” Jackson replied confidently, nodding to himself. “He wanted to see the kids in the Kitchen taken care of. These new implants are supposedly lighter and less dangerous to install.”

  “Less pain and recovery time!” I added, finally feeling the same excitement as Jackson was.

  “Exactly,” Jackson confirmed with a nod. “And if these new implants become properly and widely available, then there's a better chance that the Gearheads would start upgrading, there would be less pain, less recovery time and an easier installation would mean that there would be less risks involved in the procedures themselves. There would be less complications, and less kids addicted to painkillers and needing help.”

  “But,” I suggested, “easier installations would mean that the new implants would become more widespread. Wouldn't that jack up the price?”

  Jackson shrugged. “I don't know enough about the Gearhead culture to be able to tell you,” he admitted. “I don't know what the illegal surgeons charge for an install. But the parts themselves seem like they would cost less.”

  “That seems like a bad move for Wayside, though,” I mused. “Lower costs, lower price points...”

  “Not necessarily,” Jackson interrupted me, before I could get any farther along with my thoughts. “If Wayside has new and improved implants, that cost less, have less complications and an easier installation process, this will open up a whole new market of people who want or need implants but are afraid of the procedure. Plus,” he continued, getting more excited as he pieced his thoughts together, “these are proprietary. These are prototypes and new ideas. I'd be willing to wager dollars to doughnuts that Five Points doesn't have anything close to this advanced in their repertoire.”

  I let that thought sink in for a long moment, looking over all of the blueprints that made no sense to me, trying to put together what this actually meant for our case, and the implications of what we had gotten ourselves involved in.

  “So, if these got out on the market while Five Points was still busy playing in the sandbox, there would be a whole new wave of people lining up to get implants, and Five Points would, essentially, be left in the dust?” I asked.

  “It could have potentially spelled the end of Five Points Engineering altogether,” Jackson confirmed.

  I frowned, resting my chin in my hand as I let this all sink in for a minute.

  “You're telling me that our Good Samaritan, Doctor Jones, was willing to turn back around and go back to working for Wayside?” I asked, confused by the thought process. “Even after he had that whole falling out with them over their practices? After his own public outcry about how brutal these implant procedures are? He's going to turn around and forsake his new practice? He was just ready to abandon those kids, his life's work, for what? Glory? A big ass pay cheque?”

  Jackson frowned to himself and shuffled through the remaining papers in his hands. It didn't make sense. From what we had gleaned from Doctor Jones' reputation, he wasn't the kind of guy to run into the arms of big business just for the sake of money. We sat in quiet contemplation for a long moment, the only sounds in the room were the papers shuffling as Jackson looked for a reason to explain the Doctor's willingness to abandon his life's work, and our breathing. We were both lost in thought again, each of us wrapped up in the what-ifs of this case.

  Jackson was on his feet before he said anything and I was pulled back out of my reverie when the chair scraped across the floor.

  “Holy shit,” Jackson breathed. “I found it.”

  “Well?” I asked impatiently. “You have to share this one with me, Jacks!”

  Jackson nodded. “They were making him an offer that he couldn't refuse.”

  I gave Jackson the most impatient look that I could muster. “Despite what I might tell you on a regular basis, Jackson, I'm not actually psychic. You're gonna have to spill the beans on this one for me.”

  Jackson shook his head in disbelief. “They were offering to upgrade all the implants for Doctor Jones' patients.”

  I shrugged. “That isn't a big deal, really. It would have been good marketing, and you know, free test subjects before they made it available to the public. No one would have cared if a bunch of street kids from the Kitchen had their implants go septic or if they died on the table. It would have been swept under the rug.”

  “No, Blaze, listen,” Jackson pressed. “They weren't offering to test on Doctor Jones' patients. They were offering to give them all free upgrades and any medical treatment that the kids needed, also for free, when the implant upgrades were perfected.”

  “No way,” I breathed in disbelief.

  “Yes way,” Jackson rebutted. “It's all here in the contracts and legalese. Wayside was offering to upgrade Doctor Jones' medical facilities in the Kitchen so that he had all the newest technology for when the new implants were ready to roll out. And the development team was going to be headed up by the late Doctor Jones himself.”

  I nodded, getting to my feet as well. “Well then,” I announced. “I think we ought to go pay Doctor Jones' partners in the Kitchen a little visit and find out who knows what.”