leather jacket was arguing again, the reflected sound from the shiny steel walls sharpening their voices.
Then a smell reached me—jasmine shampoo. I glanced up and saw the girl pushing her fingers through her hair. Somehow, the fragrance cut through the cigarette smoke clinging to their clothes, the alcohol on their breath; it carried her human scent to my nose—the smell of her skin, the natural oils on her fingers.
I shuddered again.
She pressed seven, glanced at me. “What floor?”
I stared at the controls. The array of buttons covered one through fifteen (without the thirteen), in three columns. I tried to imagine Morgan’s hand reaching out and pressing one of them, but my mind was in turmoil over the smell of jasmine.
The Bahamalama-Dingdong memory injection had finally let me down.
“Any particular floor?” she said slowly.
“Um, I uh . . . ” I managed, my voice dry. “Do you know Morgan?”
She froze, one finger still hovering near the buttons, and the rest of them fell into a sudden silence. They all stared at me.
The elevator meeped away a couple of floors.
“Morgan on the seventh floor?” she said.
“Yeah . . . I think so,” I answered. How many Morgans could there be in one building?
“Hey, isn’t that the—?” one of the boys asked, but the other three shushed him.
“She moved out last winter,” leather-jacket girl said, her voice controlled and flat.
“Oh, wow. It’s been a while, I guess.” I lit up a big fake smile. “You don’t know where she lives now, do you?”
She shook her head slowly. “Not a clue.”
The elevator slid open on the seventh floor. The doors stirred the air, and I caught something under the cigarettes and alcohol on their breath, an animal smell that cut through even the jasmine. For a moment, I smelled fear.
Morgan’s name had scared them.
The other four piled out efficiently, still in silence, but leather-jacket girl held her ground, one fingertip squashed white against the OPEN DOOR button. She was staring at me like I was someone she half recognized, thinking hard. Maybe she was trying to figure out why I set her prey hackles on fire.
I wanted to drop my eyes to the floor, sending a classic signal from Mammal Behavior 101: I don’t want to fight you . Humans can be touchy when they feel threatened by us, and I didn’t want her telling the doorman I had snuck in behind them.
But I held her gaze, my eyes captured.
“Guess I’ll just go, then.” I settled back against the elevator wall.
“Yeah, sure.” She took one step back out of the elevator, still staring.
The doors began to slide closed, but at the last second her hand shot through. There was a binging sound as her leather-clad forearm was squeezed; then the doors jumped back.
“Got a minute, dude?” she asked. “Maybe there’s something you can explain for me.”
Apartment 701 was full of déjà vu.
The long, narrow living room had a half kitchen at one end. At the other, glass doors looked out onto a tiny balcony, the river, and the ghostly lights of New Jersey. Two more doors led to a bathroom and a small bedroom.
A classic upscale Manhattan one-bedroom apartment, but the devil was in the details: the stainless steel fridge, sliding dimmers instead of regular light switches, fancy brass handles on the doors—everything was sending waves of recognition through me.
“Did she live here?” I asked.
“Morgan? Hell, no,” the girl said, slipping off her leather jacket and tossing it onto a chair. The other four kept their coats on, I noticed. Their expressions reminded me of people at a party right after the cops turn the lights on, their buzz thoroughly killed. “She lived down the hall.”
I nodded. All the apartments in the building must have looked pretty much the same. “So you know her?”
She shook her head.
“Lace moved in after,” one of the boys volunteered. The rest of them gave him a Shut up! look.
“After what?” I said.
She didn’t
Then a smell reached me—jasmine shampoo. I glanced up and saw the girl pushing her fingers through her hair. Somehow, the fragrance cut through the cigarette smoke clinging to their clothes, the alcohol on their breath; it carried her human scent to my nose—the smell of her skin, the natural oils on her fingers.
I shuddered again.
She pressed seven, glanced at me. “What floor?”
I stared at the controls. The array of buttons covered one through fifteen (without the thirteen), in three columns. I tried to imagine Morgan’s hand reaching out and pressing one of them, but my mind was in turmoil over the smell of jasmine.
The Bahamalama-Dingdong memory injection had finally let me down.
“Any particular floor?” she said slowly.
“Um, I uh . . . ” I managed, my voice dry. “Do you know Morgan?”
She froze, one finger still hovering near the buttons, and the rest of them fell into a sudden silence. They all stared at me.
The elevator meeped away a couple of floors.
“Morgan on the seventh floor?” she said.
“Yeah . . . I think so,” I answered. How many Morgans could there be in one building?
“Hey, isn’t that the—?” one of the boys asked, but the other three shushed him.
“She moved out last winter,” leather-jacket girl said, her voice controlled and flat.
“Oh, wow. It’s been a while, I guess.” I lit up a big fake smile. “You don’t know where she lives now, do you?”
She shook her head slowly. “Not a clue.”
The elevator slid open on the seventh floor. The doors stirred the air, and I caught something under the cigarettes and alcohol on their breath, an animal smell that cut through even the jasmine. For a moment, I smelled fear.
Morgan’s name had scared them.
The other four piled out efficiently, still in silence, but leather-jacket girl held her ground, one fingertip squashed white against the OPEN DOOR button. She was staring at me like I was someone she half recognized, thinking hard. Maybe she was trying to figure out why I set her prey hackles on fire.
I wanted to drop my eyes to the floor, sending a classic signal from Mammal Behavior 101: I don’t want to fight you . Humans can be touchy when they feel threatened by us, and I didn’t want her telling the doorman I had snuck in behind them.
But I held her gaze, my eyes captured.
“Guess I’ll just go, then.” I settled back against the elevator wall.
“Yeah, sure.” She took one step back out of the elevator, still staring.
The doors began to slide closed, but at the last second her hand shot through. There was a binging sound as her leather-clad forearm was squeezed; then the doors jumped back.
“Got a minute, dude?” she asked. “Maybe there’s something you can explain for me.”
Apartment 701 was full of déjà vu.
The long, narrow living room had a half kitchen at one end. At the other, glass doors looked out onto a tiny balcony, the river, and the ghostly lights of New Jersey. Two more doors led to a bathroom and a small bedroom.
A classic upscale Manhattan one-bedroom apartment, but the devil was in the details: the stainless steel fridge, sliding dimmers instead of regular light switches, fancy brass handles on the doors—everything was sending waves of recognition through me.
“Did she live here?” I asked.
“Morgan? Hell, no,” the girl said, slipping off her leather jacket and tossing it onto a chair. The other four kept their coats on, I noticed. Their expressions reminded me of people at a party right after the cops turn the lights on, their buzz thoroughly killed. “She lived down the hall.”
I nodded. All the apartments in the building must have looked pretty much the same. “So you know her?”
She shook her head.
“Lace moved in after,” one of the boys volunteered. The rest of them gave him a Shut up! look.
“After what?” I said.
She didn’t
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