Oracle

Detective Jack Bryson wiped the unholy mixture from his grizzled face. He should have washed out the last of the gin. Or the whiskey. Hell, he should have rinsed the damn thing out when he finished that fifth of vodka. Didn't matter. It all worked the same. Booze was hard to find in his neck of the woods, anyway. He'd take what he could get.

Waste not, want not. Evidence locker wouldn't miss it. Not as much as the Fifth Street Stingers would.

Bryson tossed the flask into his glove compartment and fished out a vial of eyedrops and travel sized mouthwash from his coat pocket. He took a swig of the mouthwash and swished it in his mouth as he leaned back and held each eye open for the stinging drops. This was his least favorite part of getting ready for work. The detective pushed open the door of the county-issued 2029 Camry and spat wintergreen onto the cracked sidewalk. He stepped out of the car, brushed off his trench coat and walked up the stairs to the crime scene.

Jack was stopped in his tracks by a fresh-faced police officer. The officer slid into Bryson's path and spoke in a booming voice. "Sorry sir, this is a crime scene. I'm gonna need to see some identification."

"Identification? Alright then, young blood. Scan me. Since you're so eager."

The young man held up a small device. A bright blue light shone across the detective's face.

The bass in the officer's voice lightened. "Detective Bryson. Sorry. Didn't recognize you." The young officer looked down at the flat screen of the handheld device. "Hey, you're an ENTJ? So am I! Oh, nice. My dad's a Capricorn, just like you." The officer leaned in, inches from Bryson's unshaven face. "And don't worry sir. I won't tell anyone about your intox levels."

"What's your name, son?"

"Disher, sir."

"Well, Disher. Why don't we meet up for dinner? Bring your dad. Maybe we can all talk about my hernia. Or the fact that I haven't been able to get it up in three years. Your old man know anything about all that? Sure you saw it all right there on your Scryer."

Disher grimaced, gave a nod of quiet acknowledgement and stepped aside to let the detective through the doorway of the luxury apartment building. Upon entry, Bryson was greeted by a shapely frame and a painfully familiar set of perfectly waxed legs that met the ground with a pair of block heel pumps.

"Angie. What a pleasure."

"Jack. Wish I could say the same." Her coy smirk fell into a slight frown. "You look like hell."

"That mean you think I'm hot?" Bryson said, offering up his best attempt at a seductive smile.

Angie rolled her eyes and lowered her voice. "I'm saying it's 10:30 in the morning and if you're not careful, you'll get suspended again. Or worse. Keep your hands out of the cookie jar, yeah? Teager's been looking the other way for a while. He won't take pity on you much longer." She nudged her head toward a cracked door on the left side of the hallway. "Body's in here."

Detective Bryson followed Angie's clacking steps through the door of Apartment 26. The two stepped through an entryway into minimalist, stark white apartment. Slumped in a cream colored armchair was the body of a slender, unimpressive man with a receding hairline and pale, icy skin.

"The deceased is Charles Carden, aged thirty-seven. Works in a cubicle down at SocraTech. Virgo. ISTJ. No signs of forced entry. "

"Cubicle worker? At Socra? You sure this wasn't a suicide? I heard Socratino runs his people pretty hard. Even the janitors have an engineering degree."

"Blood scans came back completely clear. No markings on the body whatsoever. He's got no records. No health issues. Cause of death is unclear."

Detective Bryson lifted his gaze from the corpse to take a look around the apartment. "Pretty nice place for a cubicle rat. Even at a place like SocraTech. What's his income?"

Angie pulled a small device-the same as Disher's- from the pocket of her blazer.

"Pocket Scry says...about $30,000 a year. Roughly $2500 a month." Her brow furrowed as she examined the apartment with perspective renewed. "Place like this has to cost twice that. No reports of side work, but the records say he's been here three years."

"You check the mounted Scryers in the hallway?"

"First thing we did. Nothing."

"Nothing? Last night was the anniversary of the Bergen Protests. Even the Stingers go out to celebrate. Whole building full of buzzkills?"

"Jack. There's another reason I've called you."

"Let me guess. Your lingering desire for an old flame has become too much to bear and you hunger for his midnight embrace?"

"Jesus, Jack. Can you be serious for a moment?"

"Who said I was kidding?"

Angie lips pursed and her nostrils flared in unison. "Jack. This is the fourth body we've found like this. This month. No discernable cause of death. No evidence. No witnesses. All worked for tech companies, and apparently, all were living well outside their recorded means. Any Scryers nearby were either damaged or their histories were clean at the time of death. Teager called me this morning. I told him you were the best fit for the case. Took some convincing, but he obliged."

Jack's face tensed. "The press know about this yet?"

"No. We are trying very hard to keep this quiet."

Jack looked around the apartment for a second time. He left Angie's side and walked slowly through the spacious flat. He walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinets. Disappointed, he turned his attention to the fridge and swung open the magnetic door.

Angie poked her head around the doorway to the kitchen. "What do you hope to find in there?"

"Breakfast." His response was met with a haughty sigh. Jack closed the fridge, irritated by Carden's poor taste in groceries. As Bryson turned to leave the kitchen, a flash of blue caught his eye. A single sticky note, haphazardly stuck to the wall called out for the detective's attention. Hastily scrawled on the turquoise paper were the words:

ORACLE

2:30

JAMES + 6TH

"Hey, Ang. You know anything about this?" Angie's eyes scanned over the sticky note and she pulled out her Scryer once more.

"No. Nothing like this at the other victims' apartments...James and 6th. That's in the heart of the North End. About two blocks from Tech Row. Scryer says it's a café."

"You been by Charles' cubicle yet?"

"That was the next stop. You think someone at SocraTech knows something?"

"I'm more interested in who's gonna pretend not to know something. Let's stop by the café first."

"Got a hunch?"

"No. I'm hungry."