There's radio chatter echoing off the oily brick storefronts on Newstrom, flashing reds and blues parked outside my shop. Today is not going to end well. Frank paces the sidewalk out front, looking homicidal. A white box cab is loading two stretchers into the back, and four flat feet are taking notes like stenographers.

Frank's gaze comes up sharply as I heave into sight. His pacing turns into a beeline march right for me. He jerks a plastic baggie out of his pocket, waves it in my face. Looks like a small hot water bottle, or Whoopee cushion. I wait poker faced for something sensible to happen.

"You better have a good story, or we're going downtown!"

"I haven't been around today—business." I nod at the stretchers. "What's all this about? Who are those guys?"

A little redness drains from Frank's face. "Got a call from your office phone, an assault. I checked the tape—I know it wasn't you that placed the call. The voice print was artificial. Like a high-end answering machine. You don't have something like that, do you Wander? Hell, of course you don't. You don't even have an alarm on your door, or keep your office lit at night. Who or what was in your office today? I know the entry wasn't forced this time, so don't even bother. Fess up."

Doors slam on the ambulance, and it peels off. Watching it gives me a few seconds.

"I had an Independent AI watch the office for me while I took a client interview. Just a package pick-up. Something sent to the wrong address. Wait," I hold off Franks interjection, " it was a hand-delivered package, no receipt. Some guy was going to come around today and get it...didn't leave a name. The AI owed me one. I shrugged. Didn't expect trouble."

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

A quick look shows the windows to my shop are still in one piece, so it can't be all that bad. "What happened here?"

"That's what I want to know. Got a name and number for your buddy?"

"Sure, Frank, sure."

The detective jerks a pen out of his pocket and makes me write the contact information down, then waves the flat feet forward, and cuffs me.

"Sorry, Wander. Going to have to take you in custody until we can get a hold of this..Micain character, and get his story. Get in the cab, pal."

It's four hours later. The cell door clangs open, and Frank is on hand to lead me out.

"Cripes Frank, you could have filled me in before dumping me in holding--cold as a meat locker in there. You get a hold of M.I.C.I.A.N ?"

"Yeah. His story and yours, about the same. Sorry, but had to be conscientious about this. Said the two goons tried to rough him up for the package. You're lucky he's an A.I. He had a video record of the event. Otherwise, you'd both be in here until the hospital let us get their stories. I did mention a gun was drawn and fired, right? You could have been in here a week."

"You want to give it to me in a nutshell?"

"No. But being that it's you, I'll give you what you'd find out anyway. The two goons were dockside mob. Gambling arm-breakers. We know 'em. Got their errands confused, tried to muscle your AI, who was fitted up in a fancy industrial loader Waldo. The A.I made hamburger out of 'em, and called it in. Nasty sense of humor on that one. Got pics of 'em laid out on the floor, one with a hand jammed down his pants, a toy handcuff on his wrist. The other one with a burnt hand, laying on a whoopee cushion. Bagged him with a modified joy buzzer, he says. You better have some nice relations with Semperton down at the docks, or you're going to get more visitors. Next time it might be you in the hospital—I can only hope."

I'm seething by the time we hoof it out of the cell block to the front desk. Frank signs for my release, and I catch sight of Mic.