I stared down at the tablet in my hand, wondering if this new case qualified as a gross misuse of island resources. It wasn’t the soft, tropical rain pattering against my cruiser that made me shake my head — it was the call I’d just received. A door left ajar… again.
I bit down on the end of my cigar, letting the faint tobacco taste settle on my synthetic taste buds, blending with the cold coffee simulation I could sense and analyze but never truly experience. I stepped out of the cruiser, popping an umbrella against the drizzle, and walked up to Aretha Chaplin’s two-bedroom apartment on Claremont and Livery.
She opened the door—and had legs that went on for miles. Even if I’m not wired for it, I can still appreciate the aesthetics of a distressed organic who believed her apartment was under siege by forces unknown. A jarred door, she said. Mysteriously left open, time after time.
“Good evening, Ms. Chaplin,” I greeted, tipping my hat out of habit.
“You said your door was found ajar again?”
Her nod was quick, eyes darting to me, then the hallway, like she expected a ghost or a hijacker to jump out at any moment.
“Yes. It’s the third time this week,” she said, voice trembling. “Please… do something.”
I glanced at the door’s lock, wishing I could upload sarcasm the way I upload data. But a job’s a job, and this is my job.
“Let’s have a look, then,” I replied.
"Howdy Kay!" I heard a voice from behind me and I already knew who it was. Timothy Johnson. Son of Gerald Johnson, lead artificial scientist in the Islands AI facility.
"Hey Timmy, what brings you around?", I asked already knowing the answer.
"TAI said I could tag along on this one for my Civics assignment".
Somehow I suspect TAI is dumping these ‘social’ cases on me because the organics find my hard-boiled detective shtick ‘quaint.’ TAI—short for ‘Top Artificial Intelligence’ (yes, it’s a nickname for a nickname)—seems to think my old-time noir vibe is perfect for dealing with people. If you ask me, it’s just lazy branding.
"Okay kid, come with me, Ms. Chaplin here is having a problem with her door. First we will do a routine check of the apartment for intruders, stay here until I tell ya to come in, got it?" Timmy simply nods his head while typing on his tablet. "Mam, may I search your apartment for intruders? As a reminder this entire conversation is being recorded" I said in a monotone. "Yes of course detective" she said as she sashayed her hips to the side to give me entry. Again, being appreciative of beauty is part of my core programming, even if I don't have the equipment to go further, it's nice to look, and look Timmy was. Smart kid.
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"I'll be right back Timmy, don't slip in your drool ok?" I said as I walked into the apartment and came back out in a minute. During that time a full scan showed nothing a miss, although her groceries were lagging and cleanliness of her bathroom could use some help. It's always the knockouts that need the help it seems.
I paused inside the doorway, glancing at Timmy and our red-clad hostess. The island disdains the concept of pleasure bots, but I can't help but think this encounter could end differently otherwise. I saw a movie like that once. I was about to tell her to get some rest—she was basically imagining things—when something furry pressed up against my leg. A soft purr followed.
I looked down to find her cat, obviously named Mr. Mittens, rubbing against me. Looking up again, I noticed Timmy fiddling with the inside of the door panel, probably distracting himself from the lady in red.
“What’ve you got there, kid?” I asked, unable to see past that unruly mop of hair.
“A… looks like a magnetic interlocker for the lock. Ms. Chaplin, do you have a cat door system here?” Timmy asked.
“Yes, Mittens enjoys coming and going,” she replied.
Timmy smiled wide. “Oh! That’s probably it. The cat let himself out, and the door didn’t fully engage, leaving it ajar. Broken lock, ma’am. Kay,” he said, turning to me with the biggest grin I’d ever seen him wear, “check the abode recordings to confirm, right?”
“Thanks, boy wonder. I was just about to ask,” I said, only half-joking. “Ma’am, do you give this unit—ID DetectionUnitK192—permission to review your private abode recordings from this morning until you returned?”
“Oh, um, they’re private, right? Only you see it?” she asked, shooting a glance at Timmy.
“Yes, ma’am, only I’ll see them. Timmy, nor anyone else, will not.”
She blushed faintly. “Well… okay, then.”
I raised an eyebrow and ran the tape in my head. The cause of her distress? She’s a nudist at home. Great. Damn neutered android reflexes—if I could only... I should really be enjoying this more than I am. Oh well.
There in the corner, I see the cat exit the door using the automated pressure plate. The door closes fully at first, but an instant later, he squeezes back i leaving it slightly ajar.
The kid was right—the pussy is the cause of why the lady is uncomfortable. I chuckle to myself at how bad that quip is. Fortunately, it’s an internal monologue for a reason, right?