Identity Theft by Robert J. Sawyer Page A

me with pleading eyes. “You have to help me get him back. You just have to!”
    I looked down at my coffee mug; steam was rising from it. “Have you tried the police?”
    Cassandra made a sound that I guessed was supposed to be a snort: it had the right roughness, but was dry as Martian sand. “Yes. They— oh, I hate to speak ill of anyone, Mr. Lomax! Believe me, it’s not my way, but — well, there’s no ducking it, is there? They were useless. Just totally useless.”
    I nodded slightly; it’s a story I heard often enough — I owed most of what little livelihood I had to the local cops’ incompetence and indifference. “Who did you speak to?”
    “A— a detective, I guess he was; he didn’t wear a uniform. I’ve forgotten his name.”
    “What did he look like?”
    “Red hair, and—”
    “That’s Mac,” I said. She looked puzzled, so I said his full name. “Dougal McCrae.”
    “McCrae, yes,” said Cassandra. She shuddered a bit, and she must have noticed my surprised reaction to that. “Sorry,” she said. “I just didn’t like the way he looked at me.”
    I resisted running my eyes over her body just then; I’d already done so, and I could remember what I’d seen. I guess her original figure hadn’t been like this one; if it had, she’d certainly be used to admiring looks from men by now.
    “I’ll have a word with McCrae,” I said. “See what’s already been done. Then I’ll pick up where the cops left off.”
    “Would you?” Her green eyes seemed to dance. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Lomax! You’re a good man — I can tell!”
    I shrugged a little. “I can show you two ex-wives and a half-dozen bankers who’d disagree.”
    “Oh, no,” she said. “Don’t say things like that! You are a good man, I’m sure of it. Believe me, I have a sense about these things. You’re a good man, and I know you won’t let me down.”
    Naive woman; she’d probably thought the same thing about her husband — until he’d run off. “Now, what can you tell me about your husband? Joshua, is it?”
    “Yes, that’s right. His full name is Joshua Connor Wilkins — and it’s Joshua, never just Josh, thank you very much.” I nodded. Guys who were anal about being called by their full first names never bought a round, in my experience. Maybe it was a good thing that this clown was gone.
    “Yes,” I said. “Go on.” I didn’t have to take notes, of course. My office computer was recording everything, and would extract whatever was useful into a summary file for me.
    Cassandra ran her synthetic lower lip back and forth beneath her artificial upper teeth, thinking for a moment. Then: “Well, he was born in Calgary, Alberta, and he’s thirty-eight years old. He moved to Mars seven mears ago.” Mears were Mars-years; about double the length of those on Earth.
    “Do you have a picture?”
    “I can access one,” she said. She pointed at my desk terminal. “May I?”
    I nodded, and Cassandra reached over to grab the keyboard. In doing so, she managed to knock over my coffee mug, spilling hot joe all over her dainty hand. She let out a small yelp of pain. I got up, grabbed a towel, and began wiping up the mess. “I’m surprised that hurt,” I said. “I mean, I do like my coffee hot, but…”
    “Transfers feel pain, Mr. Lomax,” she said, “for the same reason that biologicals do. When you’re flesh-and-blood, you need a signaling system to warn you when your parts are being damaged; same is true for those of us who have transferred. Admittedly, artificial bodies are much more durable, of course.”
    “Ah,” I said.
    “Sorry,” she replied. “I’ve explained this so many times now — you know, at work. Anyway, please forgive me about your desk.”
    I made a dismissive gesture. “Thank God for the paperless office, eh? Don’t worry about it.” I gestured at the keyboard; fortunately, none of the coffee had gone down between the keys. “You were going to show me a