The Android Detective: Help Wanted

Vesper Lyra leaned her lanky frame into the door to push through the entrance lacking working electronics. A simple, painted sign in a boring and nondescript font announced that one would find a Clyde Sharpman, P.D. inside. Among the bright lights, vibrantly coloured signs, and announcements everywhere else on Wetwater Street, how she even noticed the place was a mystery. Not to mention the roughly cut-out cardboard sign in the unit’s dirty window advertising that the private detective, Clyde Sharpman, wanted help.

Even though she’d just stepped off the boat and Blacklight City’s docks were still within view, she didn’t see herself a fool. The validity of this employment opportunity was sketchy at best, and yet it intrigued her.

The unit’s front room acted as a small reception area. The left corner housed a small desk covered in loose paper and a Flurolamp with a cracked tube. Along the right wall, a blue-green loveseat with frayed edges and missing cushion buttons was the only other piece of furniture.

A narrow doorway near the desk appeared to lead into a lavatory. No daylight pierced through the grimy windows, leaving the only light source coming from the back room, its door ajar, where voices discussed a failed arrangement.

Vesper took careful steps towards the back, dropping her bag on the desk in the process. She leaned in close to listen.

“You know I’m good for it,” a synthetic voice said.

“You’ve never been good for nothing,” replied a gruff human voice.

“Come on, Joe, I’m just one good case away.”

“Ha! Sure you are.”

Vesper stepped to the desk and shuffled through the pile of papers. Bills, overdue notices, a Zander’s Pizza coupon, lost animal posters, and an envelope with an ink-written “To: Detective Sharpman” with a large request to “PLEASE READ”. Promising. Ripping the envelope, a single piece of paper fell out. It too was ink-written, and it read:

Dear Detective,

I fear for my safety, and no one is taking me seriously, not even the police. Your name has come up as someone who might help me. I can pay. I beg of you to vidphone me at 3491-355756-0. Thank you.

Ms. Trina Plamondon

This would do. Letter in hand, Vesper barged into the tiny back office.

“Hey boss,” she said as she exchanged glances with whom she could only suspect was the named detective of this little operation. She’d expected an android, but his expressive facial features caught her off guard. “Ms. Plamondon called again. She’d like to get the investigation started.”

“Ah, yes. Good old Mrs. Plankton,” said the android without skipping a beat.

“Ms. Plamondon,” Vesper corrected.

“Right, right.”

“Who are… what do you mean, call?” The human man looked up at her, waving and pointing his finger aimlessly. His voice matched his big and grumpy stature. “The vidphone’s been disconnected for weeks.”

“Call is used for personal visits as well, Joe,” Vesper said, putting a little bite into her tone. His startled grunt and reddening cheeks pleased her. The android smiled.

“I knew that,” Joe snapped back, then to the android he said, “You’ve got a week, Clyde. If we don’t get paid, I’ll take back the upgrade however I have to.” He pushed past Vesper and out of the office, opened the front door with a grunt, then disappeared into the morning crowd.

“That went well, I think,” Clyde proclaimed. He fumbled with the chair behind his large desk, gave up, walked to Vesper and studied her for a while. “You have really thick eyebrows.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “I like it.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.” His goofy, crooked smile had a human quality to it.

“I’m Vesper,” she said, offering her hand, which was accepted by the detective. “I’m here about the sign.”

“The sign?”

“The help-wanted sign.”

“Oh, that sign. That’s been there months. Forgot all about it.”

“Well, it looks like you could still use the help.”

“Hmmm.”

“Listen, Mr. Sharpman…”

“My friends call me Clyde.”

“Okay, Clyde. How about you let me help you get organised,” she said, nodding at the large desk drowning in clutter. “And in exchange, you let me sleep on the couch. You can pay me a commission on cases I get for you.”

His face scrunched. Could an android’s face do that? Vesper had so many questions. She pinched the bridge of her nose, doing her best to stay focused.

“What do you mean, sleep?”

“I don’t have anywhere to go. There’s a loveseat in the front room; it’s all I need.”

He looked her up and down. “You’re really tall, you know.”

“Yes, I know I’m tall, and the loveseat will do. Do we have a deal?”

He crossed his arms and said, “But can you make coffee?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just that a good secretary knows how to make coffee.”

Vesper leaned close and murmured, “Listen, Clyde, I don’t think we can afford coffee right now.” She held up the letter. “Maybe we should look into Ms. Plamondon’s request.”

“What?” He jumped from his desk and snatched the letter from her hands. “You mean that was real?”

“I think you should give that number a call.”

“Right, right.”

“Is there a public vidphone nearby?”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” He shoved the letter into his pant pocket, grabbed his long coat off the hook on the back of the office door and walked out of the room, stopped, spun around, brushed past Vesper, picked up his fedora off his desk, pressed the hat on his head, spun once more and walked to the front entrance. “I’ll be right back,” he said, yanking the door open without difficulty. And he was gone.

Vesper chuckled. Even though she was unsure what to make of this private detective, she liked him nonetheless. Looking at the mess of the reception area, she nodded aimlessly, allowing her grin to grow. What had she got herself into?

***

Ms. Plamondon lived in an apartment located a few blocks north of the office, roughly a twenty-minute walk, so they went on foot. Clyde agreed to let Vesper tag along, allowing her to discover a bit of the city.

Every corner they passed, she looked east, then west, and it was all the same; corridors of towering buildings, brightly lit with coloured lights and neon tubes surrounding signs telling everyone what they could find behind each door they hung over. The streets were packed with people of all shapes, sizes, colours, styles, and everything in between. Maybe she’d swap her flats for high heels if it meant she could add a little height to her six-foot-three silhouette without receiving sideways glances for it.

Blacklight City was known as the place people came for every reason imaginable, including, like Vesper, to lose themselves in its vast crowds.

Just before they arrived at 7302 Ashline Avenue, a young woman with neon pink hair and fluorescent green lips walked past them. Touching her own lips with the tips of her fingers, Vesper smiled at the thoughts of possibly one day trying out such a bold colour.

“Here we are,” Clyde exclaimed as they reached Ms. Plamondon’s residence. “Mrs. Plumington is on the Fifty-sixth floor.”

“Ms. Plamondon.”

“Right, right,” he replied, tapping the side of his head, causing his eye to twitch.

They entered a large lobby, and Vesper shivered as a small shot of excitement pinged in her chest. The interior of the old building lacked personality, and whoever cared for it forgot to, well, take care of it. Its cold beige walls were bare of any artwork, unless the cracks in the walls counted.

An old man with white hair and a large silver moustache sat behind the reception desk. Eyes closed. Sleeping. Behind him, large faded letters announced they’d entered the Golden Paradise Residence. Vesper had her doubts.

Clyde started towards the desk, but Vesper grabbed him by his right arm and nodded towards the left corner of the lobby and its two elevators. The left one had an out-of-order sign pinned to it.

“Let’s just go up,” she suggested. “Do you have her apartment number?”

He reached into his pocket and unfolded the letter, full of his scribbled notes. “Ah, yes! 5602,” he said, flashing the letter in her direction. Vesper chuckled to herself.

After a long and shaky ride up the double-sided elevator, which caused slight confusion, Vesper was glad for the offer of a hot cup of peppermint tea.

“Homemade tea,” Ms. Plamondon said, head held high, “straight from my little balcony garden”. An older woman with deep-set wrinkles and foggy grey eyes behind glasses far too large for her face, she retained a sweet beauty about her. Her steel-grey hair was tied in a tight bun, held together by a long knitting needle.

“Do tell us why we’re here, Mrs…” Clyde started, pausing and glancing towards his new assistant.

“Ms. Plamondon,” Vesper offered.

“Someone’s been breaking into my apartment,” she said, bringing the last cup of tea to the table, this one for herself. Her eyes shifted between her two guests, who remained silent, so she continued. “The police shrugged it off as me being forgetful, but I’m not. I have a memory implant; I’m as sharp as a tack. I used to be scared I’d lose the ability to think properly when I got older, so I went to my doctor and…”

Vesper placed a gentle hand on the older lady’s arm, interrupting her monologue. “Ms. Plamondon, can you tell us why you think someone is breaking in?”

“I remember where I put things,” she said, tapping her temple, “so I know when things are moved. Even my garden has been dug through.”

“So, someone is breaking in to move your things and do gardening?” Clyde asked, half-frowning and half… well, Vesper wasn’t quite sure what.

“Sounds crazy, but it’s what’s happening,” the old lady confirmed.

“So, the question is, why?” Clyde pondered. “You’re certain nothing’s missing? How long has this been going on? Who do you think…”

From under the table, Vesper kicked him lightly on the shin and frowned at him.

“Nothing’s missing, no.”

“When’s the last time you noticed something strange?”

“Today. When I came back from the store. About an hour before you showed up.”

“Oh?” Clyde straightened in the chair. “Can you show me… uh, us,” he looked at Vesper and winked, “what you noticed.”

“Of course,” Ms. Plamondon said, jumping off her chair and heading towards the back of the apartment. Clyde followed, while Vesper took a quick sip of her tea before joining them. The mint tickled her nose.

“What are we looking at?” Clyde questioned Ms. Plamondon, who pointed to a long, narrow hall table.

“See the drawer? It’s not closed all the way. It sticks sometimes. And the flower vase isn’t centred. I didn’t fix anything because I knew you were coming.”

“Interesting.”

Clyde wasn’t taking any notes, so Vesper dug into her bag and brought out her outdated TurboNote and stylus to jot down a few things.

“It’s never a lot,” she continued, “just one thing here or there, but I’m starting to worry for my safety. And the city police were no help. They checked the security camera and said no one else but me is seen coming into my apartment, so they think I’m just an old woman with memory loss.”

“I see,” Clyde murmured while rubbing his chin.

“Should we question her neighbours?” Vesper suggested.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” the detective agreed.

The first door they knocked on was apartment 5604, which belonged to a curvy, middle-aged woman named Olivia Marsh. Her long, straight black hair hung loose around her shoulders, while her dark makeup highlighted her eyes and lips. Even when Clyde attempted to question her, Olivia remained fixed on Vesper.

“Have you noticed anyone on this floor who doesn’t belong?”

“My, you’re a tall one, aren’t you?” She said, ignoring the question.

“I am, yes,” Vesper tapped her TurboNote on and pushed forward. “So, anybody suspicious walking these halls?”

“Not that I noticed, my dear,” she answered, her crooked smile making Vesper lower her eyes once more. “Old lady Plam is sweet, but a bit strange, if you know what I mean.”

“Miss Marsh,” Clyde pressed on, “is that mint I smell?”

“What?” Olivia’s seductive smile vanished, replaced by pursed lips. Her attention had fully switched to Clyde.

A hint of Ms. Plamondon’s tea remained on Vesper’s tongue, but she couldn’t smell any mint.

“Are you in the process of washing peppermint leaves?” Clyde continued his questioning.

“I, uh, I was prepping tea when you knocked, yes.”

“Interesting.”

“You know. Now that I think about it,” Olivia said, snapping her fingers a couple of times. “I remember Mr. Trelving roaming the halls recently. He’s the building’s handyman, and he’s been on the 56th a bit lately; maybe he knows something. His apartment is 3403.”

Vesper entered the information in her TurboNote.

“Hmmm.” Clyde’s eye made a small whirr as its pupil grew and shrank in quick succession.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m expecting a call.” Olivia stepped back into her apartment and closed the door, followed by the beep of the lock engaging.

“How did you know she was washing mint?” Vesper asked.

Clyde touched his nose. “Upgrade.”

A ding from the end of the hall interrupted them, leaving Vesper’s follow-up sitting at the tip of her tongue. The right elevator doors slid open, and the man guilty of napping at his post in the lobby stepped out. He headed towards 5601, the door facing Ms. Plamondon’s apartment.

With the help of a push from Vesper, Clyde approached the man, catching him before he’d entered his residence. Ms. Plamondon had mentioned that her friends, the Primrose couple, lived across the hall. Vesper wondered if her new boss remembered.

“Excuse me, sir,” Clyde said, apparently the name forgotten, “A bit of your time? We’re investigating disturbances in the building.”

Mr. Primrose scoffed. “Is Trina at it again? Her memory implant is on the fritz, I tell you.”

Vesper and Clyde exchanged questioning looks.

“Trina?”

Vesper elbowed Clyde, “Ms. Plamondon.”

“Right, right. So, I take it you know Ms., huh…”

“Plamondon,” Vesper chimed in, shaking her head.

“Of course, we’re great friends,” Mr. Primrose answered. From behind the silver-moustached man, a heavy-set woman in a powder-blue nightgown appeared.

“What’s all this?” she asked, her voice deeper than a tenor. Mrs. Primrose, Vesper assumed.

“We’re here to investigate…”

“It’s Trina,” Mr. Primrose rudely interrupted Clyde. “Getting the police to chase ghosts wasn’t enough; now she has these fine folks involved.”

“Calm down, Harold,” Mrs. Primrose said. “She’s still having a hard time since the death of Armand.”

“Armand?” Vesper and Clyde asked in chorus.

“Her husband,” the Primroses chorused in response.

“But she goes by Ms.” Vesper thought out loud.

“Always has,” Mrs. Primrose said. “She’s an odd one. We love her just the same.”

“And you don’t think the break-ins are real?” Clyde asked.

“No!” Mr. Primrose exclaimed. “It’s her memory chip, I tell you. Mine gave out a couple of years ago; a terrible thing. Plus, the police found nothing.”

“Even Dale came to check things over,” Mrs. Primrose added.

“Would that be the handyman?” Clyde asked.

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Interesting.”

Clyde thanked the Primroses, and with Vesper in tow, they moved on to the 34th floor to see if Dale Trelving was available for a chat. He was.

“Why, yes, I’ve been to the 56th, why’d you ask?” asked the ageing man who would be seen as skinny were it not for his potbelly stretching his otherwise loose-fitting shirt.

“Apartment 56…”

“04.”

“Of Ms. Pen…”

“Ms. Plamondon.”

“Has been broken into recently.”

“Ah. I doubt it,” Dale said, scratching the side of his stubbled face. “I’ve gone up a bunch. Check her lock, you know? It’s only been opened with a key card. No signs of hacking, you see.”

“Hmmm,” Clyde’s gaze moved to the floor, then he palmed the side of his head before returning his attention to their suspect.

“Being the maintenance man,” Vesper interjected, “would you have a master key?”

Dale’s head reeled back. “Why? You accusing me of…”

“No, no,” Clyde held up his hands. “These are questions we must ask.”

“Okay. Well, yes, I do,” he answered as he picked at his thumbnail. “I only used ‘em to test the lock, you see.” His eyes shifting between the two of them, “and Trina was there!”

Clyde removed his hat and slapped the old fedora against his leg, then settled it back on his head.

After a quick scroll through her TurboNote, Vesper asked, “Would you have access to the security recordings?”

“Exactly what I was going to ask for,” Clyde added.

Dale sighed heavily. “Yes. I can give you access to the footage, like I did with the police.”

***

With a heavy thud, Clyde dropped an old Vidcaster on his desk, causing dust to plume out. So its plug could reach the outlet, he repositioned the desk, then turned on the machine. Vesper handed him the Diskreel Dale gave them, and it was slid into the slot.

Clyde’s fingers blurred over the five-by-five keypad, entering commands Vesper could hardly follow.

“That should do it,” he said, then pressed the play button.

“I’m lost,” Vesper exclaimed. She’d not seen many Vidcasters before, as they weren’t common where she was from.

“It’s the best way to review this kind of footage,” Clyde explained, eyes remaining on the small screen. “It skips through when nothing’s going on, but stops when it detects movement.”

They watched the short hallway with four apartment doors, observing people come and go. For apartment 5602, Olivia Marsh went to the door twice. Once to exchange something with Ms. Plamondon. The second time she knocked, waited for a minute, then returned to her apartment when no one answered. Dale Trelving showed up once to check out the lock, and as he had stated, Ms. Plamondon was present.

After thirty minutes, Vester’s eyes were dry and her belly was getting audibly angry. She stretched, patted Clyde on the shoulder, and walked into the front room to the reception desk.

Zander’s Pizza. Two-for-one deal if you bought at least two slices. Flipping the coupon around, there was no fine print. Vesper shrugged and returned to the back office and leaned on the door frame.

“I’m getting pizza,” she said, waving the coupon. “Want anything?”

“No, thanks.”

Zander’s was on Tidebreaker Avenue, the cross street north of the office, so she left without asking for directions. As suspected, the restaurant—if one could call it that—was easy to find. With her long fingers wrapped around the door handle, she read the sign advising to “Please use other door” with an arrow pointing left.

So, she entered as directed and bought two slices for the price of one, glad the coupon was authentic. The credit count glowing through her wrist was getting critically low. Head down, staring at the bright and pathetic 12CC, she grabbed the wrong handle once more. Inside the door also had a “Please use other door” sign posted. Vesper’s head tilted and her eyes narrowed, focused on the arrow; this one pointing to the right.

With her wide strides, Vesper hurried back to the office while burning the roof of her mouth as she bit eagerly into her pizza. Curses aside, the hot food reaching her belly was instantly gratifying.

She burst through the front door, tossed her second slice onto the reception desk, and rushed to the back office. Carefully avoiding the Vidcaster’s cord, she positioned herself behind Clyde.

“How recent is the footage?” she asked. “Does it include today?”

“It does.”

“Good, forward to when we were talking to Miss Marsh. Yeah, right there, stop!” Vesper pointed at the screen, her body buzzing with excitement. “Look, right there!”

The screen held the moment following Olivia Marsh closing her door and Harold Primrose exiting the elevator. Clyde’s blank look told Vesper, well, nothing.

“I’m sorry, I don’t get it.”

“He’s exiting from the right elevator.”

“Of course. The left was out-of-order. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, and that’s the point. When we exited through the back of the elevator, the perception switched. He’s using the one that’s out of order.”

“You’re right! But what does that prove?”

“Rewind to a few hours before we got there, then move forward. But not too fast.”

Clyde punched a couple of commands into the keypad. “Hmmm, that doesn’t seem right, does it?”

The recording showed Ms. Plamondon leaving her apartment and returning, but it felt too fast. She would have gone no further than the street corner before doubling back. Something was indeed odd.

“Timestamps,” Vesper noted. A fuzzy time and date displayed in the screen’s corner; easy to miss. Running through Ms. Plamondon’s absence, the time jumped, losing almost an hour’s worth of footage.

***

Back in apartment 5602 of the Golden Paradise Residence, Mr. and Mrs. Primrose sat on the couch, which tilted towards the missus, while Ms. Plamondon fidgeted on the love seat. The private detective, Clyde Sharpman, paced the living room with his left hand behind his back and his right stroking the brim of his hat. For her part, Vesper leaned against the wall, stylus and TurboNote at the ready.

“There’s one thing we’re unsure of,” Clyde began, “and that’s whether missus is involved in this.”

“What’s going on?” Mrs. Primrose asked, her face gaining colour. “What are you accusing us of?”

“We know that your husband is the one who’s been breaking into Ms. Plum… Trina’s apartment.” Clyde put a hand out, stopping Mr. Primrose from standing. The white-haired man settled back into his seat. “These break-ins happened when Trina’s out running errands. Turns out that you,” he pointed at Mr. Primrose, “happen to be working the lobby desk on those days.”

“That’s absurd,” Mrs. Primrose exclaimed, but her husband stared at his feet.

“No, it’s not,” Ms. Plamondon piped in. “They asked me, and thinking back, that’s exactly what it was.”

Clyde continued, “So here’s the trick: when he’s working, he places an out-of-order sign on the elevator and disables it. So, when Trina leaves her apartment, he has a ride ready. Before he goes up, he turns off the security recording, leaving no trace of being here. And of course, he has access to master keys for ease of entry.”

Vesper grinned at Clyde’s smug look, well, smug for an android. Mrs. Primrose stood and towered over her sheepish husband.

“Is what he’s saying true?” Her ears were as red as the neon sign for Zander’s Pizza.

“I, uh…” Mr. Primrose looked away from his wife.

“Don’t you lie to me, Harold.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Look at me.” Hands on her hips, Mrs. Primrose waited until her husband sheepishly turned to face her. “Are you responsible for this?”

“Yes,” he murmured.

“Why?”

“Armand and I,” he put his hands to his face and whimpered. “We bought an expensive box of cigars a while back, and we used to sneak out once every couple of months to enjoy one. He told me where he stashed them when I visited him at the hospital, but my memory chip doesn’t work so well, and I can’t remember where he said he put them.”

“You’re smoking behind my back?” Mrs. Primrose yelled out.

“It’s okay, Sheila,” Ms. Plamondon laid a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I’d like to have Armand back, even if he was smoking cigars. And Harold, I did find the cigar box, but I, uh, threw them out.”

The old man cried as his wife cackled.

***

No charges were pressed, and Clyde Sharpman had solved a case. A paying one at that. As Vesper organised the reception desk, pausing to look at a flyer announcing a sale on colourful lipstick, Joe’s voice echoed from the back office, which was filled with blue smoke. The gruff man sounded surprised that he received payment for whatever upgrade Clyde owed him for. Once Joe left, after a struggle with the front door, Clyde joined Vesper in the reception room, an expensive cigar dangling from his mouth and wearing a large smile.

“Here,” he said, handing over a transfer tab.

Vesper accepted it, flipped her right palm up and touched the small metal plate to her wrist. The 12CC slowly glowed brightly, then the number started rolling up until it stopped at 137CC. She bit her lips as a weight she didn’t know she held in her shoulders subsided.

“I…”

“You did good today, kid.” Clyde was beaming with pride. Well, yeah, that looked like pride. Vesper smiled.

“Thank you.” She rose from the chair and bent slightly to give Clyde a hug, who accepted it.

“There’s a little left over. Do you think we should buy coffee?”