over. Amy smiles when she sees the cake. "Think I need cheering up?"
"Not at all. Just thought you might like some cake." I grin, and Amy grins back.
Never underestimate the power of cake.
Amy takes a drink of her coffee, absent-mindedly tapping her fingers on the table.
"I thought he'd listen to us at least," she says.
"I know. But --"
"You're going to say that you can see it from his point of view, and you're going to say that he's got a point," she says.
"Well..."
Amy is swirling the wooden stirrer around her coffee cup.
"We can't just give up, Matt."
"I know," I say.
I watch her stirring her coffee and realise that she's been biting her nails. She keeps stirring, staring out of the window at the street.
Sometimes Amy's like a radio signal. One minute you're receiving her loud and clear, the next minute you've got nothing but static.
As Amy studies the passing cars and passers-by, I study her. As ever she's wearing her off-duty uniform of black top, black skirt, black tights, black army boots, but close-up a few things aren't right. Her nail polish is chipped, her eyeliner smudged, and from this distance I can see dark circles under her eyes that aren't anything to do with make-up. She looks exhausted, and all I want to do right now is give her a hug.
I don't, of course. I wait for her to come back to Earth. Eventually, she does.
"Okay," Amy says. "It's safe to say Burke isn't going to do anything, and if he won't help us then we've no chance of the police helping us. So we're on our own. But there's still stuff we can do."
"We've still got the bug coming," I tell her.
"Any sign of it?"
"Site said this week. If it doesn't turn up by tomorrow I'll chase it."
"Okay. So we've got that, and we know that someone called Sansom is involved, somehow."
"Dave was looking into that," I say.
"Anything?"
"I don't think so. He'd have said."
"Maybe he's looking in the wrong place," Amy says. "I'll see if I can think of other ways to track him down. Oh, and Matt?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks for the cake." Amy grins and devours it in a single bite.
I wave goodbye and wait until Amy's out of sight before trudging up the stairs to my apartment. I open the door and find a "sorry, you were out" card on the door mat. I grab it, turn around and walk to the sorting office. After the usual rigmarole -- pressing the buzzer and waiting while the staff play cards, smash frogs with hammers, summon minor demons from the outer circle of Hell or whatever it is they do when you're waiting; showing my ID and then waiting another eternity for a bored clerk to locate the package and slam it down on the counter with enough force to turn a house brick into confetti -- I'm walking home with a box under my arm. Assuming it hasn't been destroyed by the sorting office staff, we have our bug.
Back in my apartment I open the box. Miraculously the contents seem to have survived. I skim the instructions, but they might as well be in Greek for all the sense they make to me. Not to worry. Dave will suss it out.
"Want to know how it works?" Dave asks.
"Not really."
"I'm going to tell you anyway."
"Do you have to?"
The bug is in two parts, one big and one small. This much I understand. Dave waves the smaller of the two at me. "This is the actual bug," he says. "It's voice activated, so it'll only broadcast when there's something happening."
He puts it down and grabs the larger part. "This is the receiver," he says. "It picks up the broadcast from the mic and records it. But the really cool thing is that it connects to the net. As long as it's near a wireless network, you can access it from anywhere that you can get online. So we'll hook it up to the casino network."
"Doesn't that have security stuff on it? Passwords, stuff like that?"
"No, not the internal network -- that's like Fort Knox. I mean the public one, the one that the guests get to use."
"Doesn't that have passwords too?"
"It does. If only we knew someone who worked in security."
"I
"Not at all. Just thought you might like some cake." I grin, and Amy grins back.
Never underestimate the power of cake.
Amy takes a drink of her coffee, absent-mindedly tapping her fingers on the table.
"I thought he'd listen to us at least," she says.
"I know. But --"
"You're going to say that you can see it from his point of view, and you're going to say that he's got a point," she says.
"Well..."
Amy is swirling the wooden stirrer around her coffee cup.
"We can't just give up, Matt."
"I know," I say.
I watch her stirring her coffee and realise that she's been biting her nails. She keeps stirring, staring out of the window at the street.
Sometimes Amy's like a radio signal. One minute you're receiving her loud and clear, the next minute you've got nothing but static.
As Amy studies the passing cars and passers-by, I study her. As ever she's wearing her off-duty uniform of black top, black skirt, black tights, black army boots, but close-up a few things aren't right. Her nail polish is chipped, her eyeliner smudged, and from this distance I can see dark circles under her eyes that aren't anything to do with make-up. She looks exhausted, and all I want to do right now is give her a hug.
I don't, of course. I wait for her to come back to Earth. Eventually, she does.
"Okay," Amy says. "It's safe to say Burke isn't going to do anything, and if he won't help us then we've no chance of the police helping us. So we're on our own. But there's still stuff we can do."
"We've still got the bug coming," I tell her.
"Any sign of it?"
"Site said this week. If it doesn't turn up by tomorrow I'll chase it."
"Okay. So we've got that, and we know that someone called Sansom is involved, somehow."
"Dave was looking into that," I say.
"Anything?"
"I don't think so. He'd have said."
"Maybe he's looking in the wrong place," Amy says. "I'll see if I can think of other ways to track him down. Oh, and Matt?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks for the cake." Amy grins and devours it in a single bite.
I wave goodbye and wait until Amy's out of sight before trudging up the stairs to my apartment. I open the door and find a "sorry, you were out" card on the door mat. I grab it, turn around and walk to the sorting office. After the usual rigmarole -- pressing the buzzer and waiting while the staff play cards, smash frogs with hammers, summon minor demons from the outer circle of Hell or whatever it is they do when you're waiting; showing my ID and then waiting another eternity for a bored clerk to locate the package and slam it down on the counter with enough force to turn a house brick into confetti -- I'm walking home with a box under my arm. Assuming it hasn't been destroyed by the sorting office staff, we have our bug.
Back in my apartment I open the box. Miraculously the contents seem to have survived. I skim the instructions, but they might as well be in Greek for all the sense they make to me. Not to worry. Dave will suss it out.
"Want to know how it works?" Dave asks.
"Not really."
"I'm going to tell you anyway."
"Do you have to?"
The bug is in two parts, one big and one small. This much I understand. Dave waves the smaller of the two at me. "This is the actual bug," he says. "It's voice activated, so it'll only broadcast when there's something happening."
He puts it down and grabs the larger part. "This is the receiver," he says. "It picks up the broadcast from the mic and records it. But the really cool thing is that it connects to the net. As long as it's near a wireless network, you can access it from anywhere that you can get online. So we'll hook it up to the casino network."
"Doesn't that have security stuff on it? Passwords, stuff like that?"
"No, not the internal network -- that's like Fort Knox. I mean the public one, the one that the guests get to use."
"Doesn't that have passwords too?"
"It does. If only we knew someone who worked in security."
"I
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