Story.Short, page 8, Lee Skidmore's SciFi Site copyright 1996: Story.Short, page 8

"Now, all I have to do is figure out who wanted Du Quesne dead. And, me out of the picture," he sighed, "all at the same time."

Johnny caressed the blob to coax up the files on his investigation into Terence Du Quesne: socialite, benefactor of charities, politician, extortionist, Hex dealer, murderer. Du Quesne's criminal acts were all by proxy. Until this morning he had proven to be untouchable. If it hadn't been for the fact that he was being hunted for it, Du Quesne's death would have been an acceptable end to his investigation.

He read through the file once, twice, then started again. Frustrated, he clicked off the display. Johnny had the bad feeling it wouldn't matter how many times he read the file, it would come out the same. His coworkers would catch up with him long before he could get to half of the bad guys named in the file that could have wanted them both out of the action. Anyway, leaning on these people--no matter how controlled they had been by Du Quesne--certainly wasn't healthy for a police detective on the run from his own people. He needed the right answers, now. He needed someone who knew Du Quesne better than anyone else. Johnny wasn't at all sure that she would know, but she was all he had at the moment. He also figured, that unless they thought he was also sleeping with Laurie Du Quesne, his coworkers wouldn't be gunning for him at Du Quesne's summer place.

Johnny picked up the blob, reactivated the display, then paid the luncheonet as he walked out fast. Wouldn't be long before the copnet found his breakfast bill.

After being trapped on what had seemed to be an endless elevator ride, Johnny finally arrived at the skyscraper's second sub basement. He activated the palm comp's holo to shine its cop icon at the attendant, then in one fluid motion he hopped over the entry turnstile that led to the safety of the subway maze.

The subway car shuffled gently back and forth on the heavily used, uneven, wavy, tracks of the station's approach, causing its passenger's heads to sway with the motion. The high-pitched squeal of its steel wheels against the cold iron rails peeled a layer of enamel from Johnny's teeth. The subway stop at Jamaica station was as far as a token or cop's honor would take him. He would have to take a train or a car to get