“Being a clone.” It sounded patronizing at first, but there was nothing to suggest that it was anything but a simple statement of fact. He handed her the business card she’d left on the counter. “Keep this. Mr. Gaddis wants you to know his offer stands. Call him when you’re ready.”
“Tell him not to hold his breath,” Con said and started for the door. She turned back when Peter called her name. He had his wallet in his hand and held out several crisp bills.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“Let’s just say I am a fan of tough-guy acts.”
“Thanks,” she said warily but took the money anyway.
“But acting tough only gets you so far. I hope there’s something behind it.”
“I can hold my own.”
He smiled at her and nodded appreciatively. “Be careful out there.”
CHAPTER NINE
It had been years since the neighborhood had been Chinatown in anything but name, but the green-and-red Friendship Archway with its seven golden pagodas still greeted Con when she emerged from the Metro. She wound her way through the throng of office workers on their lunch hour, half of whom were engrossed in their LFDs and relied on digital curb warnings to know when to stop at intersections. The trains had been delayed, so she was already running late, but she stopped at a drugstore before she walked down to meet Detective Clarke. She needed a hairbrush and makeup.
Given her meager bankroll, it might have seemed the last thing she should be spending money on, but she’d gotten a good look at herself in the mirror back at the diner. She had questions that only Darius Clarke could answer and couldn’t afford to show up looking like . . . well, she hated to use the word, but like a clone. Maybe he was an asshole to everyone, but something in his tone had sounded personal. Cloning was illegal in Virginia, and clones who strayed across state lines had less than no legal standing. If he was anti-clone, he’d be under no obligation to help her. To have a chance, she needed to sell him on the idea that she was a human being despite what Virginia law might claim. The less she looked like a sentient children’s toy, the better.
Locking herself in a coffee shop bathroom, she stripped to her underwear and washed in the sink with paper towels and hand soap. The perfume samples she’d scavenged from the drugstore helped mask the smell of the dumpster a little, but only a little. When Awaken the Ghosts had been on the road, Con had grown accustomed to guerilla personal hygiene. Stephie called it a French bath. Tragically, the three boys in the band hadn’t shown much interest in soap. Con remembered the awful way Tommy would smell after a few days cooped up in the van. It had driven her crazy at the time, but now with the benefit of distance, she almost felt nostalgic for the toxic cloud that trailed after the band’s keyboardist.
Her hair didn’t go nearly as well. The back of her head had fused into clumps in the Palingenesis womb, and she couldn’t even get the hairbrush through it. She should have bought a pair of scissors instead. Scratch that, she’d need a machete to make any meaningful progress. Last came makeup, which, again, was a struggle for her hands as she applied foundation and eye shadow to mask the weird perfection of her newborn skin. Muscle memory seemed to be taking the longest to relearn. When she stepped back to assess her progress, she knew her dream of a movie makeover wasn’t in the cards. Not totally tragic looked to be the best she could do. She hoped it would be enough.
She was nearly an hour late to meet the detective from Virginia. The inside of the restaurant was all dark wood and gloomy lighting that made it feel like instant midnight. The lunch rush was in full swing. Every stool at the bar was taken, as were most of the tables, mostly parties of three or four, but several men ate alone. Con realized she didn’t know Darius Clarke from Adam. Everyone looked like a cop to her. Probably were, too, since the restaurant was only a few blocks from the courts and MPD headquarters. Either that or the cheap-suit convention was in town.
Toward the back, a Black man in a blue suit waved her over.
“Darius Clarke?” she asked, sliding into the booth across from him.
He nodded, not pausing from his lunch to offer her a hand to shake. “Trouble finding the place?” he asked, mouth full.
“Sorry. Trains were delayed.”
“DC,” he said with the enthusiasm of a man who’d found an undiagnosed growth on his back.
Up close, she realized he was younger than his voice. No more than thirty. Some people just got a head start on being old bastards, and Darius Clarke seemed ready to be fitted for a rocking chair, a porch, and a view he didn’t much care for. His short, meticulously groomed beard drew to a sharp point, and black glasses framed sharp, incisive eyes. It lent him a stern professorial aspect. A harsh grader who took pride in never giving an A.