Learning Curves

Learning Curves

G. F. Kaye

* * * * *

This is a work of fiction. All detailed physical locations are fictional, as are the events described, and exist only in the mind of the author. Any resemblance of characters contained herein to any specific person, persons, or beings, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Learning Curves

Originally Copyrighted in 2003 by G. F. Kaye

Rewrite Copyright 2022 by G. F. Kaye

All Rights Reserved

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Also by G. F. Kaye @ Smashwords:

Stories of the Marlowe, Inc., Crew:

The T-bone Affair

Murder at Tiffany’s

Liberty Shrugged

Trajectory

Also:

Carats

Ikon

A Witch’s Tail

A Little Revolution

In The Cusp Series:

To Ride in Shadow

* * *

Prologue

My name is Marlowe.

Born Jerome Andrew.

Sergeant.

Detective squad.

Badge number 5187.

Retired.

Divorced.

The usual.

The only accomplishment worth anything in my life, in my opinion, is my daughter, Candace, who lives with my estranged wife, and whom I haven’t seen in several years. The only other real thing in my life was my job, and, after thirty years on the force, I still loved my job; I just couldn’t take the political BS that went with it anymore, and I was just enough of a known free thinker, maverick, or just plain pain-in-the-butt, depending on who you talked to, to not have to worry about ever making Lieutenant. So, here I was, retired, still young enough to enjoy it, and, as luck would have it, with nobody around to enjoy it with.

It was great!

Quiet.

Peaceful.

Nobody yelling at me where to go or what to do.

Nobody waking me up with phone calls in the middle of the night.

No suspects standing there with, Guilty! written all over their faces insisting they couldn’t possibly have done it, never mind the dozen witnesses.

No judges throwing cases out of court ‘cause one of the officers forgot to wash his hands after he pissed.

Just what every guy wants, right?

After a couple months I couldn’t stand it anymore. I even considered going back to work. It wasn’t that I needed the cash. I had my pension, and I’d made several sweet deals on property over the years, including the building I lived in and another warehouse across the street I’d slowly converted to offices and loft space over the years. That’s what saved me, as it turned out. One of the original offices had been leased to an old PI, Harry Bileski, that decided he’d had enough and moved to Arizona a while back. I’d finally gotten around to cleaning up the place and, taking a coffee break, sat back in that old leather chair, put my feet up on the desk, and it suddenly felt to me like I’d found myself a new home. I’d always loved my work, so what was an ex cop, especially with my last name, going to do at fifty-one? Ri-i-i-ight. You get the picture. So, all the corny jokes aside, I got my PI ticket and hung out a shingle. Of course, seeing the name in the yellow pages was enough to pique more than a little curiosity from some people - old mystery buffs, probably.

Gee, are you really? . . .

Hey! It didn’t hurt the bottom line.

As I was saying, I love the city. A lot of guys have told me that they couldn’t wait to get some cash together to get out, but that thought had simply never entered my mind. This is my city. I was born here. I grew up here. I’ve worked these streets all my life. The noise and bustle that a lot of people bitch about are the background music of my very existence. I belong here. So I hung my shingle and settled into my old routines, the only difference being I didn’t have some snot-nosed academy wonder-kid telling me how to do a job I seemed, after all, to have been born with a natural talent for. My first few clients were people coming around looking for old Harry, but, before too long, word got out on the street that old Sarge Marlowe had hung out a shingle, and since I’d always treated everybody fairly, citizens or perps alike, business picked up pretty well - enough so I needed an office manager to run the place while I spent my time where I was truly at my best - on the streets of the city that was my only home, that I loved almost like a woman. I was back on the streets and figured I’d finally found my true niche in life, and nothing was going to change it, or so I thought, anyway.

Well, as they say, a single meeting or occurrence can profoundly change your life. Mine was auburn haired, average height, with a decent figure, and, well, how do these things start? . . .

# # #

Chapter 1: Elise

It was one of those late spring days you didn’t know how to dress for. You’d be walking down a street and the sun was hot enough to begin to perk you like this morning’s coffee, but then you’d walk out from behind a building and the wind off the still cold Atlantic would hammer you like a mugger looking for body heat. It was Saturday, but I’d promised Patty I’d come in to straighten out the expense chits so he’d have some idea who to bill. Grinning to myself, I turned my back to the wind at the corner across from my office, while keeping one eye on the crosswalk signal. I didn’t have to worry about cash flow anymore. Patty did enough of that for three, maybe four people. As for today, much as I didn’t feel like doing paperwork on a weekend, without Patty hovering around, pointing out this or that that needed attending to, I should have been able to get things pretty much caught up in short order. Just as the light changed, however, glancing up at the gold letters on my office windows, I got one of those feelings; kind of a gut hunch or whatever you want to call it. You know. That tingle way down in your gut that tells you you’ve been screwed, somehow, even if you don’t know it yet. I don’t even know where it came from. I didn’t see anything amiss. I just knew, after thirty-some years on the street. In other words, I had a bad feeling all of a sudden.

Crossing the street, I walked around the building - down the front, down the alley to the cross alley, then up to the cross street and back to the corner again. Everything still looked okay, but the feeling didn’t go away. My gut was still singing a warning. If anything, the small hairs on the back of my neck had joined in the chorus. Reaching into my jacket, I loosened Hellion, my pet name for my old snub-nosed .38, in her holster. Letting myself in, quietly walking up the stairs, I punched the silent entry button on the control in my pocket and slipped into the outer office, stepping over the squeaky floorboards I’d left just inside the doorway on purpose when I’d fixed the place up. I drew Hellion - and a deep breath - and eased my office door open on soundless hinges. Frowning at a loose cap of auburn curls peeking over the back of my chair, I kept quiet while the chair turned slowly in my direction. She was kind of cute, and was just sitting at my desk staring out the windows. Looking around, still quiet as a mouse, if not quieter, I frowned in puzzlement. Except for a couple of grips by the wall that weren’t mine, I didn’t see where anything in the office had been screwed with. After a minute or so, I got the notion that she was just killing time, waiting for me to show. I’d spent a ton of money on my security system, though, and she wasn’t that cute! I didn’t see any weapons, so, taking a deep breath, I boomed out in my best parade ground voice, Who the hell are you and how the hell did you get in my goddamned office?

Jumping and squeaking, the girl spun in the chair. Widening her eyes at the sight of Hellion levelled at a spot somewhere between them, she quickly regrouped, settling right back in my chair like it was nobody’s business. For her girly good looks, she was one really cool customer. That feeling in my gut got a little sharper. Perhaps if you put the weapon away? she smiled.

Perhaps if you put the weapon away? I sing-songed more or less to myself. Bullshit, lady! Keep your hands where I can see them and answer me! Real quick-like!

We are not exactly getting off on the right foot, Mr. Marlowe. she declared testily.

Not exactly getting off on the right foot?! Right! She hands me this after breaking into my office? Like I give a shit! I snapped.

Mr. Marlowe! she harrumphed with pursed lips, like my old English teacher. Rolling my eyes, I placed them right back firmly on hers. She had pretty eyes, I noted. Mr. Marlowe, my ass. I walk in and just find you here? Who the hell are you?

She took a deep breath. Elise Montague, Detective/Sergeant Elise Montague.

I noticed then that she had the damnedest accent - sort of like the actors in those old movies on the BBC. Oh, really? I said, with some disbelief.

She reached. I do have identification, Mr. Marlowe, if you will allow me . . .

Get the hand away from the pocket, lady, I growled, none too pleasantly.

But . . . she began, hand frozen in mid-air.

I drew back the hammer.

Aye, sir! she finished quickly, placing her hands flat on my desk.

I leaned back against the doorframe and eyeballed her a moment. Now! How did you get in here?

That will be hard to explain without first showing you my ID, she simply declared. This was going to be like pulling teeth, I was beginning to suspect.

Look, girly, it ain’t going to be that easy anyway, I muttered. I’ve got a state of the art security system.

She snorted smugly. Which you disabled when you came in. It isn’t as if I simply flew in the window, is it?

Glancing at the second story windows - still latched, I might add - I frowned. She had me there. It was a feeling I was going to get used to, I’d find.

Shaking my head, keeping Hellion’s attention focused on her, I walked around my desk. Peeking, I reached into the inside breast pocket of the jacket she was wearing - the same place her hand had been reaching.

Good girl. She flinched, but didn’t move a muscle - except for her mouth. Mr. Marlowe! she harrumphed.

Shut up! I grumbled, If I was copping a feel, you’d know it.

Shakra’s teeth, but you’re a dinosaur. A living, breathing, sexist throwback to the Neanderthals! she growled through clenched teeth. Just like home!

Flattery won’t get you a damned thing, lady, I smiled. Turning what looked to be a plain leather ID case like most cops carry over a few times in my hand, I slowly backed around my desk before setting it down on the edge. I fished my reading glasses out of my coat pocket. Planting them more or less on my nose with my left hand, I picked the thing up again.

Ugh! she grunted.

I thought I was the Neanderthal, I snorted, grinning, positioning myself across from her, keeping an eye and my piece on her as I flipped the case open. There was a fancy shield with some sort of rearing critter superimposed over what closely resembled a Union Jack attached to one flap, and a picture ID in the other. Extracting the official looking card from the case, I read, Detective-Sergeant Elise Montague, and further, District of New Yorkshire, 42nd Division.

Looked up at her over the top of my glasses, I have never heard of the District of New Yorkshire, I declared, awaiting further explanation, but she simply lifted an eyebrow, tilting her head as if that should be obvious.

Shrugging, I looked back at the ID, continuing to read. H. M. I. C. New York, United Royal Commonwealth of North America.

I blinked, looked again, put the case and the card down on the desk, took off my glasses, and put them back in my pocket. Reaching behind, I grabbed another chair and sat, still on the other side of the desk. For a while I simply stared at her.

She was a nice looking broad. Five-four-ish, I figured. Average build. Nice shape, from what I could see. Dark auburn hair, big blue eyes, dressed in dark gray slacks, a dark green sweater, and black leather flight jacket. Idly scratching my head with my free hand, I glanced at the card before returned my gaze to an unflinching blue one. She had balls. I’ll give her that, I decided. Taking a deep breath, I began, after giving it considerable thought, It’s not April Fools Day, and I don’t know anybody with enough imagination to think of a gag like this anyway - or that’d possibly think it could work, all of which brings me back to my first question . . .

Look, Mr. Marlowe, she began earnestly.

No! I growled menacingly, waving Hellion in her general direction, "You look! If I don’t get real answers real soon, I’ll call a real precinct, get some real cops in here, and shake you down so hard you’ll have nightmares about it ‘til you get out of the slam several years hence. Am I making myself clear to you?"

In answer she pursed her lips, giving me a look like I was being some kind of recalcitrant little kid showing her a particularly noxious bug. She was real careful to keep her hands flat on the desk, though, I noticed.

See my ID card? she asked, like I was blind or stupid or something.

Taking a deep breath, I let it out noisily. Yeah! ID! Okay! I’m not blind. Chuckling at the situation, shaking my head, I frowned, suddenly, recalling something. If it wasn’t for her bypassing my damned security system!

Please press your finger on the funny colored dot in the lower corner, if you will, sir, she said quite earnestly, bringing my attention back, and I snorted again. She was actually pretty good, but this town was full of actors. So I was sir now, eh?

Then what, the good fairies come to take me away? I laughed, shaking my head. I think I’ll just call a few friends of mine now, I chuckled, reaching for the phone. "They’ll take you away, instead."

She began looking scared. Please, sir! It is very important you believe I am who I say! she said, now with a definite quaver to her voice. She persisted, I’ll give her that. Obviously didn’t know the joke was over.

Oh, all right. If you insist, just don’t fall apart on me, okay? I laughed, a little grimly, maybe, this time, as I picked up the card from atop the case and placed it flat on my desk. See? Big, bad Neanderthal pushee spottee, I grinned, pushing a finger firmly against the indicated place, which looked to be a seal like on greenbacks. Suddenly my laughter strangled in my throat. A tiny image of the gal in my chair stood on the spot, or, I should say, about a quarter inch above it. The image spoke. Good day sir or madam! I am Detective-Sergeant Elise Montague of the Special Operations Branch of New Scotland Yard, His Majesty’s Independent Colony of New Yorkshire. As all know, this identification card cannot be forged or altered in any way without destroying the card and sending a signal to New Scotland Yard that it has been tampered with. If this card has been given you by anyone other than myself, or if you have simply come across it, please take it to the nearest constable at once and tell him where and how you obtained it. Thank you.

The image smiled and winked out. I stared blankly at the spot in the air where it’d been. Uh-huh. Raising an eyebrow, I studied her again. Waving at the card, I’ve never heard of something like this, though I have heard of New Scotland Yard, I snorted. However, I might point out New York hasn’t been a crown colony for over two hundred years.

"That’s on this plane of existence," she said quietly, looking straight into my eyes.

I blinked again, looking around the room. No, I didn’t suddenly hear Twilight Zone music in the background. Turning back, locking my gaze with hers. What other is there? I asked, plainly disbelieving her statement.

The one I come from, she said calmly, The one where the North American Troubles were settled peacefully in negotiation, and the colonies are now sovereign members of the British Commonwealth.

That almost made me blink again, and I only allow people two. I closed my eyes a moment instead. Sovereign members?! Commonwealth? What?! Ah-hah! I said.

I had been studying her closely, all the time we’d been talking, and estimated she wasn’t here to cause any real trouble, at least, not anything I needed my piece for, and there was something I obviously had not had nearly enough of yet this morning. Stay put! I warned. We’re not done, yet!

Yes, sir! she replied tersely with a single sharp nod.

Shaking my head and putting Hellion back in my shoulder holster, I got up and went around the end of the desk to my supply closet. Opening the right hand door, I proceeded to load my coffee maker with grounds. Patty, as one of his regular duties, had filled the water tank the night before, so when the basket was in place, I flipped the switch and waited as the water did its job and began to make what I sorely needed some of at this point. I shook my head again, considering, then pinched the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger, wondering just what the hell was going on. One thing I did know, it was way, way too early in the day for this! While coffee brewed, I watched the girl’s reflection in the small shaving mirror hanging on the back of the supply closet for signs of trouble.

Good girl. She just sat quietly and waited. Uh-huh. Frowning when a stray thought struck me, Nah! I snorted aloud, my eyes snapping up when she turned at the sudden comment to look at me. Coffee? I asked, not turning, convinced by now she wasn’t here to do anything violent at least.

Her reflection nodded vigorously. Yes. Please, sir. I would very much enjoy a cup.

Yup! She sure sounded like a Brit. That was for sure.

How do you take it? I essayed a grin.

However I’m given it, she grinned back.

I chuckled wryly, pouring two cups of the hot brew. Whatever else she was, she was a cop, all right, or knew a lot of them. Replacing the pot, picking up the cups, walking over, I handed her one. Now we talk, but we need to get a couple things straight. She stayed quiet, looking up at me expectantly, and I continued. First off, young lady, you belong on the other side of my desk.

Yes, sir! she chirped, jumping up and moving, at which I rolled my eyes, adding, Second, don’t call me ‘sir’. I’ve never been an officer. Don’t know if I’d ever want to be one.

Yes - uh - she began, sitting in the chair I’d recently vacated.

Mr. Marlowe. Jerry. Sarge. I don’t answer to ‘Hey you!’ or ‘Uh!’ I grinned.

Yes, Mr. Marlowe, she replied earnestly.

I sighed. Better make it Jerry. With all the things I’ve been called in my time, Mr. Marlowe sounds funny.

Her curls bouncing, she nodded enthusiastically. Yes, Jerry.

I took my seat and leaned back. Okay. Let’s try a different tack. Why are you here?

She frowned in thought before answering, Well, it’s kind of difficult to explain.

Looking pointedly at the ID still sitting on my desk, leaning across, I poked the spot. After observing the little woman do her thing again, I leaned back, looked at her over my coffee and grinned, maybe a little grimly, as she swallowed quickly. Suddenly it seems I’ve got all day, Detective/Sergeant, I declared with what I hoped was a friendlier expression.

She grinned, a ton of tension disappearing from her shoulders. It may take that long, Mr. - uh -Jerry, and please call me Elise?

Elise. Pretty name for a pretty girl, I observed. Nodding, I sat back, waiting for her to begin.

* * *

Much later, after an explanation full of escaped psychotic criminals, alchemy, trans-dimensional rifts, and, of all things, magic? I leaned forward, shaking my aching head against my hands in wonder. You’re either the damnedest mental case I’ve ever met, I quickly held up a hand when she started to speak, or everything you’re telling me is completely on the level. Picking up her ID, examining both sides carefully, I put it on the desk in front of me and pressed the spot again. Staring at the miniature woman going through her little speech before looking up into the full size version of those pretty blue eyes, I went on, This little item, however, doesn’t look like it came from anywhere on this planet, not that I know of. I may be retired, but I have enough friends on this and other forces, some of which operate in some pretty esoteric areas, that I can pretty much keep up with new technology and other stuff that comes along. Fishing out my glasses, I picked up the card and flipped it over. I’d noticed that the other side had something printed on it, and it turned out to be something similar to the Miranda statement on my old card. My eyebrows went up as I read it, though.

Close, but no cigar. This version was not written by some bleeding heart liberal hopped up on criminal’s rights, that was for sure. I read aloud, You have been placed under arrest by the Royal Constabulary. You may elect to remain silent. If you choose not to remain silent, every thing you say will be taken down and furnished in evidence against you. You will be searched for contraband. Anything of questionable nature, or anything to which you cannot demonstrate ownership, will be held in evidence against you. You will be given an opportunity to contact a solicitor prior to interrogation. As you have been duly apprehended in the actual commission of a crime, or are suspect in the commission of a crime, it is strongly suggested that you do so.

I peered over the card. Nothing about furnishing a ‘solicitor’ if you can’t afford one? I grinned.

She looked puzzled, so I took out my wallet, fished out my old, plastic laminated Miranda card, handed it over, and waited while she read it - one eyebrow going up as she did. This is ridiculous, she exclaimed after a moment. Anyone committing a crime disavows their rights. The state also does not feel it is a responsible handling of the taxpayer’s money to spend it defending known felons. If someone chooses to commit a crime, they must consider beforehand that their defense, when apprehended, is entirely at their own expense.

I noticed that she did not say if. I wondered, idly, if it was a reflection on the competence of her constabulary, or herself. I was beginning to suspect, from her cool demeanor, it might be both. I chuckled, We have a saying. ‘Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.’ It looks like you’ve made it part and parcel of your justice system.

She grinned, ‘Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.’ I like that. Settling back into her chair, Yes it is part of our system. It’s totally the responsibility of the prospective criminal to have considered the consequences of their crime before they act, she declared.

What a novel idea - making people responsible for their own actions! I grinned. I like your system! Here we go out and arrest people, and judges let them go because of technicalities.

Even if they are indeed guilty and it can be proven? she said incredulously.

No matter how much evidence, or how many witnesses, I grumbled. It’s one of the reasons I gave up! I had, in fact, gotten tired of the unending futility of trying to fight my own legal system besides the criminal element.

Where I come from, if someone is caught red-handed, if there are three or more witnesses to the crime whose stories can be verified, the prison sentence is automatic. The courts are not encumbered with cut and dried cases, she shrugged. It does seem to work.

There’s another novel idea, I chuckled, A court system that isn’t backed up for months or even years.

She shrugged again, As I said, it does seem to work. Most crime is minimal.

I nodded, thinking what kind of reception her system would get here from the bleeding hearts - not to mention the attorneys - most of which seemed to be one and the same, and grinned. Okay! I said, leaning back in my chair. Now, tell me again, who is this Modorin character, and why are you so hot on his tail?

Hot on his tail? she repeated, confused.

Anxious to apprehend him, I clarified with a chuckle.

Modorin, she began after a brief look of confusion, followed by curt nod, "is an industrial spy. While that is a crime in itself, it isn’t primarily why we want him. He has become the man who knows where the bodies are buried, so to speak. Whether he knows it or not, he has managed to steal access codes to a sophisticated computer system that includes, among other things, the complete and actual financial accounting of one of the major organized crime syndicates in my world. At this point, we don’t think the syndicate in question knows he has done this. What they do know is that Modorin and his cohorts have broken into a top secret research facility that is a sometime front for the syndicate. When discovered by security, he tried to use a translocator to escape. As near as we can surmise, he was standing beside some quite exotic equipment. Instead of translocating to another location in our plane, interference from that equipment caused his unit to create a dimensional rift into this one. Thus, he came here, instead. We have means of tracing a translocation if we arrive at the scene shortly after it has been accomplished, but in this case our equipment gave us readings we simply couldn’t understand. After taking a look at the surveillance tapes, we nabbed them, took them to one of our lab facilities to have a better look, and found he had indeed translocated. The question was, to where? The translocators need a - a homing beacon, if you will, to function properly. You first broadcast a signal that turns on your beacon, then transport yourself to the beacon’s location. Most translocators automatically turn off the beacon after serving their function. We found out where his cohorts had gone very quickly because his beacon had turned on, but because he had actually gone elsewhere, it had never been turned off by his arrival. We traced the signal and picked up the others - who were looking very confused because their leader had never arrived, and since he was carrying the balance of their equipment needed to effect their disappearance from the scene, after a fashion, there they still were. It took our scientific investigators a moment, but we figured out the trans-dimensional rift idea. We also figured out what caused the accidental opening of it. Fortunately, and thankfully, the syndicate does not have this knowledge and I hope they never get it, she waved out the window meaningfully, for both our world’s sakes."

I took a deep breath. You mean he opened a time-space rift to our world by accident?

Yes. Fascinating, isn’t it? she smiled, getting up to get more coffee.

I rolled my eyes. Yeah. Fascinating. Just what this city needs. Criminals from another world, as if we didn’t have enough of our own! Another thought occurred to me as I stared into space. I thought you didn’t have much crime on your world? I frowned.

Not individuals, per se, came the reply. The syndicates, however, are a different story. The constabulary is most effective. The syndicates have learned to be also.

I shook my head slowly as she refilled our cups, considering the implications of a truly organized and efficient syndicate. We were starting to see that here. Not pleasant. Also, not my problem at the moment. My problem was currently refilling my coffee cup. She was a trans-dimensional traveler, right out of a science fiction movie - if that was indeed what she was, and was telling me the absolute truth.

So, again, how did you get here? I asked while reconsidering the implications.

Well, we told some friends of ours about the equipment, that we wanted it for further study, and they nabbed it under the pretext of possibly dangerous and unregistered - read illegal - alchemic equipment under the public safety regulations. They turned it over to us. We used it, and the surveillance tapes, to duplicate the ‘accident’, she stated matter-of-factly.

And here you are, I finished.

And here I am, she smiled, replacing the coffee pot and returning to her seat.

I grinned, repeating, Here you are! Just like that! From another planet! Like it happens every day! Suddenly I couldn’t help laughing.

What, may I ask, is so incredibly humorous? she inquired archly.

Think about what you’ve just told me, I said, and think about the fact that I actually believe you. I’m either on drugs or this is really happening. Either way, I’ve got to be nuts! I roared ‘til my sides hurt. After considering for a moment, she joined me in my merriment with a clear, full-bodied laugh of her own.

I do believe I see what you mean, she giggled as she wound down, I just imagined going in to my Leftenant, out of the clear blue, with my own story. He probably wouldn’t believe it either, and he was there!

We both laughed some more. I think I like this girl.

# # #

Chapter 2: On Second Thought

Christ, what a pain in the ass. I agreed to help Ms. Montague catch her creep. I did not agree to listen to her running commentary on everything that she thinks is wrong with my world, plane or whatever.

I offered to buy breakfast, and we went down the street to one of my favorite breakfast-only dives. As we ate, she ran down what it was she hoped to accomplish, then we went back to my office for a serious planning session. As soon as I agreed to help, she began laying down conditions and procedures for the pursuit and apprehension of this Modorin character, like I’d never traced and bagged a perp in my life. In the eyes of Madame Constable - well, thirty years on the force and she treats me like a rookie with coordination problems. Every time I disagree with her I’m a closed-minded twit that refuses to accept her better judgement because she’s a woman. Turns out her plane is a bit farther behind ours in the matter of equality of the sexes and she’s constantly had to demonstrate her competence by making the male detectives look like assholes. Must be the British influence. Righto, old chap!

Anyway, I got as many details as I could about her guy and the location where he came through, and began to piece together a few more things from her conversation. Seems that I ended up with this bundle of joy in my office because they figured out this particular building exists in both planes. They sent someone through who scouted out the area, grabbed a phone book and several city maps. After matching up streets and buildings that existed in both places, they’d gone about looking for someone who wouldn’t put her in a looney bin on sight. It seemed I had been carefully selected as the person most likely to believe her story and give her a hand. Maybe some of the young pups around the precinct had been right. Maybe I was a little weak-minded. If you could actually make it to this world, what do you need me for? I asked, finally.

We thought it’d be safer,’ she replied, nodding, to operate on this plane working with a native; someone who knew the ins and outs of this society as well as the lay of the land, so to speak."

I frowned into my ever-present coffee cup. Why’d you pick me, or is it simply a case of wrong place - worse time.

She puzzled over the expression for a bit before replying. "Actually, we didn’t just pick you. We investigated several people. The old boys in my network figured you’d be most likely to be hooked into the old boy’s network here, so, once again, here I am," she grinned after she got it.

I shrugged. Made sense so far, but still, sending a young, pretty girl, even though she seemed a field proven constable, into another dimension - if I read this right - just didn’t add up. Why did they send you in particular, I asked, genuinely curious.

In answer, she made a show of studying the floor a moment. Uh-oh, I thought, my eyes narrowing. Well, she mumbled, There were, ah, issues, I volunteered, and, since they don’t particularly like me, they agreed.

Oh, wonderful! I muttered, folding my arms and leaning back, studying her now like a bug in my coffee. Just goddamned wonderful. Swell! I get the pick of the litter! I groused with a sigh.

She took immediate offense, of course. "Mr. Marlowe, I am a good detective! she protested loudly. A very good detective! They simply object to a woman holding the job! Honest!"

In other words, they’d sent her here to get her out of their hair. I wondered if she was actually like some of the rare women that’d appeared on my own force a lot of years ago. They were so bound and determined that they were going to show everybody, well, just show everybody, that they were usually a big pain in the ass. Of course, things were different now; unfortunately, in some places, not much. From what I was hearing, however, her bosses were just slightly more than happy to get rid of her. Again, swell! I shook my head at my good fortune as we headed back to my office. Oh, well, I thought to myself, shrugging. I would grant that she might just be a good detective, at this point. I had always been willing to give the new guy - or girl - the benefit of the doubt, why stop now. So we wait and watch and see. It’s what being a detective is all about anyway, right? It shouldn’t be boring, anyway, I figured as I went into what I loosely referred to as my ‘library’ for a good state map.

Shouldn’t be boring! Jeez, did that turn out to be an understatement! We spent a good part of what was left of the morning looking at maps and figuring exactly where the creep could’ve showed up. Turns out a research facility located in the middle of a sizable town on her plane is out in the boonies on this one - not the facility, the location. Since I didn’t have a detailed map of said location, we wouldn’t know until we got there if a matching facility even existed on this plane. For all we knew, he could have simply dropped into the middle of a field. Right! So! Let us proceed! she chirped, cheerfully, ready and raring to go. Ah, ain’t youth grand, but it was time to pull the reigns in. It wasn’t like she was the first rookie I’d taken under my wing.

I chuckled, We are not proceeding until we get my car out of the garage on Monday.

Pardon me? she stammered in confusion.

I raised an eyebrow. My car? You know. Automobile? Self propelled carriage?

This was greeted by more confusion - added to by mine, at that point.

What about a train? she frowned.

I sighed, You can’t just take a train to some place out in the boonies.

She looked incredulous. Why not? You do have trains, don’t you?

Not many, at least not out of town. Yes, but they don’t go where we need to go.

Interesting. On my plane the trains go everywhere, she considered, or is it that most places were simply built where the trains go? Interesting thing to consider, what?

I groaned at her idea of a philosophical exercise while she wandered over and looked out my office window at the traffic on the streets.

You have taxicabs, she offered at last.

Oh, god, yes, we had cabs! Yes, but that would cost a fortune.

She put her hands on her hips and frowned, We are going by private automobile.

Ah, progress at last! Yes, by car, I nodded.

Fascinating. People on my plane - well - well-to-do people, anyway, own private automobiles, but anytime we need to go any great distance, it is preferable to let someone who is paid to do so do the work of driving, leaving the traveler relaxed and able to do business when he - or she, she said with a pointed look, arrives.

It made sense. Actually, much of what she said made sense. She just didn’t have a clue, is all. How about the constables? I shrugged.

We have fleet vehicles, of course, she replied in a matter of fact tone. If I need one I get it from Mechanical Services, but, for the most part, I operate within the city and don’t need one. I take public transportation, which is all free, of course, or a taxi. Since everyone in my city uses cabs they aren’t all that expensive, because they are usually filled as soon as they are emptied. Or I flag down a motor patrol and simply have them take me where I need to go if it’s imperative that I waste no time.

Well, private automobiles are the transportation of choice here if you need to go any great distance, except in certain directions where the trains do go, I said.

Fascinating! she replied.

Isn’t it though?

It’s also such a waste! she grimaced.

Excuse me?

A train can carry so many people. It’s not only a more comfortable, genteel way to travel, but incredibly more efficient! she pointed out.

There are certain groups that will agree with you wholeheartedly. The trick here is to get the people who want the trains to go everywhere to want to cough up the taxes to pay for it all, I grinned.

But they end up paying even more than they would for a good public transportation system to operate the cars! It doesn’t make sense! The costs involved in keeping a private automobile are horrendously excessive. The vehicle itself, plus fuel, upkeep, and the liability insurances take up a great deal of one’s earnings, she exclaimed, shaking her auburn curls in amazement that anyone would actually do such a thing, but she was certainly right, especially in the city, and she hadn’t even mentioned parking!

I shook my head, grinning. That’s the simple truth, and they do take a lot of somebody’s income. Trouble is, if you don’t live right in the city, you need the things just to get the necessities of life when the nearest grocery store is five miles away, I said.

Who would want to live five miles from the nearest market or provisions store? she asked quite innocently.

I just looked at her for a long moment. At the end of it, I think I was finally beginning to understand how truly different our worlds were. It’s all very silly, she continued, and there it began. She’d ask me about something as we worked. I’d answer, and I’d get a speech about how silly it all was. After a while it got tiresome. After a greater while she started to piss me off. I realize this world isn’t perfect. It isn’t even anywhere close, but I didn’t think it was all that freakin’ bad. To listen to her, however, we practically lived in the stone ages. For instance, as we sat in a deli later on eating lunch, a patrol was rousting a couple hookers down the street. When I explained to her what was happening, she exploded.

Absolutely ridiculous! A woman’s body is hers to do with as she pleases, and if she chooses to sell her - uh - services, as long as she remains certified by the Ministry of Health, why shouldn’t she be able to. She isn’t harming anyone, and is providing a valuable social service. We’ve found that, in our world, the societies that practice sexual repression have a greater number of violent sex crimes, which is something that occurs so rarely in New Yorkshire or the other Commonwealth states that we don’t even consider it a problem.

Well, there was another big difference in our worlds. In mine, a couple of the scariest words an officer can hear over the radio are, Domestic disturbance. Then there were the usual assaults, muggings, and rapes that took place right on the streets, often in broad daylight! Rather than a rarity, violent crimes seemed to be the rule. Turning, she frowned at me after trying to shake those pretty curls of hers loose from her head again. Where do such ridiculous notions come from?

Well, I considered, I suppose a lot of it is good old-fashioned Christian ethic.

She looked puzzled at that. I tilted my head to the side, curiously. Our worlds couldn’t be that different, could they? Christian? she repeated, the puzzled look continuing.

I stared at her for a long moment. I guess they could at that. I had the feeling a lot of evangelistic types on this world wouldn’t like her next answer. Believers in Jesus Christ? I offered by way of question and explanation.

She shrugged, shaking her head. I was right! Not at all! Interesting! "What do you believe in, as far as gods or deity or higher powers or such?" I asked, wondering, if not that, what did they do on Sunday mornings; not that I did much anymore. Any faith I might have had had taken a severe pummeling over the years.

She took a deep breath. We believe primarily in ourselves, and that we are part of a greater whole, which we consider to be the mother of all. As far as ethics, if you do something that offends a fellow being, then it is accepted that whatever it is, is also offensive to that greater whole, so an ethical and moral person simply doesn’t do anything to another that he or she wouldn’t like visited on his- or herself.

I looked over at her, considering what she’d said; how it all fit together. It did, too. You don’t, I began, have a real lot of crime on your world, do you?

Oh, yes, we have crime, but most of it is the sort of thing involving either a true madman or someone seeking personal profit by nefarious means at the expense of others, like Ivan Sergei’ch Modorin stealing industrial secrets, for instance, she declared.

I see, I nodded. It was beginning to seem to me that they took a great deal more of a pragmatic view of things where she came from, which wasn’t all bad, I suppose. Getting a strange look on her face as she considered, wiping her hands on her napkin, she pinned me down with her stare.

From what you’ve told me, Mr. Marlowe, you have created a great many of your own criminals from ordinary citizens with laws that should never have been instituted. She had me there. I couldn’t disagree with that. I waited, nodding as she considered. Shrugging, finally. I need to learn more about your world. she said at last.

That I could do something about! No problem, Elise. Come with me, I said, rising.

I left her at the library while I went around and took care of a few loose ends. Picking her up later, I took her to my apartment building - ‘my’ meaning in this case, I actually did own the building besides live there myself. Going to my place first, I got a key, then took her up a flight to an efficiency I currently had vacant. I haven’t advertised it for rent, yet, so it’s yours as long as you need it, I said, opening the door and handing her the key. She thanked me profusely, saying she’d wondered what she’d do about rooms for the duration. After showing her around, we went back down to my place, where I began throwing together some supper as she watched. You do your own cooking? she asked after a bit.

And my own cleaning and laundry, I chuckled a reply.

In my world, a single man of means would have a housekeeper, she said in her matter-of-fact tone, probably meaning nothing by it, but, after several other things she’d said during the day, my reaction was simply, Here we go again!

If I’d wanted a woman underfoot I’d have remarried, I snapped with more than a little annoyance, turning to glare at her a little belligerently, perhaps. At that, she looked up from where she was studying the table utensils, with the damnedest expression of concern on her face. Now what?

You were married? she asked, concern apparent in her voice.

Yes, I stated flatly, with no further comment.

Oh, she looked at me sympathetically, How long has it been?

Huh? How long has what been?

Well, since - you know - her passing.

I looked at her strangely. Again, now what? She passed out of my life and to the West Coast about nine years ago, taking my daughter and a great many of my current assets, I replied slowly, or, at least the ones she wanted. Apparently she didn’t want to be bothered with my ‘rundown old rattraps’, I snorted, waving my hands around the apartment.

She looked at me strangely for a moment. Finally, in sudden understanding, as if a light had dawned. Oh! You mean you are divorced!

Yeah. Divorced. What did you think I meant? I frowned.

She looked around the room a little uncomfortably. I frowned again, not knowing what had set her off this time. What was so strange about divorce? Well, I thought, she began, then shook her head, Never mind. I didn’t mean to intrude. Suffice to say divorce is another thing that isn’t very common on my world.

Oh? I wondered aloud, turning to continue my cooking.

She shrugged as she explained, "Most men where I live don’t marry until they have established themselves with a home and financial security, and it’s the law in New Yorkshire that you may only take from a marriage what you brought into it. Since the man held most of the physical assets, the woman would