“Where is it?!”

MacDonald, red-faced and fuming, slammed his fists on Cutter’s desk. Papers jumped to attention.

Cutter didn’t miss a beat. “Mile marker six. But don’t tell anyone. It’s our little secret.”

“Stop playing dumb! I know you took it!”

“Who’s playing?”

“How much is he paying you?”

Cutter gestured at the office’s ramshackle decor. “Not enough. Obviously.”

“I’ve been following you—”

“Noticed.” Cutter mock-yawned, or maybe it was the real thing. With the storm cloud of boredom that followed MacDonald everywhere, it was hard to tell the difference. “Thought you’d have better things to do with your time. Guess not.”

“I saw you visit Von Medvey’s place. How much is he paying you?”

“Wait, you’re serious?

“Deadly.”

“Okay. Rewind.” Cutter slowly adjusted in his chair. He kept his movements tight, controlled, not allowing anything to betray his sudden interest. “What are we talking about?”

“I know you stole from the evidence locker.”

“That’s quite a serious allegation.” Cutter smirked. “I’m sure you have proof. Some evidence of this, right?”

“That’s not funny!” MacDonald jammed a finger in his face. “I told you this was going to catch up with you. You can’t go around using police evidence as your personal play-thing.”

If it had been anybody else other than MacDonald, Cutter might have considered coming clean. Might have even rubbed it in that he had taken the spark-discs from right under his nose. After all, no one was going to miss a couple spark-discs from a long dead cold case.

But MacDonald, and IA, were gunning for his career, looking for the slightest infraction to kick him to the curb. So Cutter did what he did best.

He played dumb.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t know what I’m talking about?!” MacDonald had entered his office three shades of red, but now, was sporting lobster. “It just so happens that you visit the Von Medvey’s hours before the Rejuvagina goes missing and you don’t know what I’m talking about? That’s one hell of a coincidence.”

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“Wait? What?”

Cutter sat forward in his chair, trying to keep his cool, trying not to tip his hand that MacDonald was more up-to-date than he was.

“The Rejuvagina is missing?”

A stampede of brand new questions bludgeoned his psyche. Who would want to recover that specific piece of tech?

Obviously, Valerie wanted it back.

One of the harsh realities of living in a world where your body parts could be collected and categorized as evidence and given back at the discretion of some authoritative congressional hearing was something belonging to a Margaret Atwood dystopia.

Good thing synths weren’t classified in the same category as humanity. Think of the red tape that would arise, hindering proper investigation from the moral implications alone.

Cutter had to side with MacDonald on this one. Once again, Christian was climbing the ranks of possible suspects. Seemed the most likely person, who also possessed the means and connections to make it happen.

Christian Von Medvey had dumped money on the department in pursuit of the investigation, an act that made very little sense to Cutter. But reframed as a bribe to release his wife’s parts—now that was making a lot more sense.

The cherry on top of the Tom Collins was that Christian would appear the loving husband, white knight in shining armor, doing what so few could by retrieving the most intimate of intimates for his beloved. As if he didn’t already benefit from reassembling a key missing component from his pricey sex-doll.

Perhaps that was why he couldn’t come to the door. He was too busy reuniting with her, so to speak.

“Oh, the irony.”

“Excuse me?” belted MacDonald.

“I’ll say this once and only once.” Cutter made solid eye contact with MacDonald. “I want to make sure my message gets through loud and clear. I did not take the Rejuvagina. Period. Your tirade is the first I’ve heard of it.”

MacDonald flinched as if he had been sucker-punched. His brows scrunched over beady eyes, two black dots peering out of his face. He fidgeted, mouth opening for a second, then closing. Somehow, he managed to narrow his eyes even more, until his gaze was laser focused. His whole body was turning red—from anger, or simply holding his breath, Cutter wasn’t sure. MacDonald raised a shaking hand and pointed at him.

“You won’t get away with this, Cutter.”

Cutter knew better. He knew he should bite his tongue. Say nothing. Speaking up would only confirm his guilt in MacDonald’s pepper black eyes. But he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t let it go.

Unlike myriad previous accusations of wrong-doing, this time he had done nothing wrong.

He could tolerate legit gripes with his lack of professionalism and general laissez-faire attitude. Could stand being scrutinized under a pointed finger. But for some reason, the thought of being accused of something he hadn’t done clawed at his better judgment and instincts for self-preservation.

“I’d love to see you prove it,” said Cutter.

“I plan to. There’s always a paper trail. The Von Medvey’s have means to make recovery worth your while.”

“This is too good. You think I buried this case? And that I’m so sloppy you can actually pin it on me? You should give up on IA and pursue standup. Seems that’s where your real talents are.”

“We’ve all seen how you’ve been handling the attack on Valerie Von Medvey,” said MacDonald. “Your track record with synths is a matter of public interest, not to mention a big part of why I am here. You could care less if this particular case gets solved or not.”

“Well, yeah. Because it’s not a murder case. She’s a synth—Christian Von Medley’s plaything. The best we can get this guy on is B&E and vandalism. That’s why I’ve been less than thrilled about this case. It’s one big waste of time.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient?”

“Convenient nothing. It’s the truth.”