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  “How could you be sure that parakeet would be chosen by your mark?” asked Shad.

  “The robbie was already sold to Annabelle Wallingford,” answered Lolita. “I did work release at Songbirds in Queen Street, Exeter. It’s a tech shop sells robbie birds and accessories. You know, it’s just up from Boston Tea Party, in next to the News?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know it. It’s owned by Frankie Statten, isn’t it?”

  “Mr. Statten’s the proprietor.”

  Shad glanced at me and I shrugged. “You were on work release?” I continued.

  “So?”

  “Doesn’t say a whole lot for the rehab program up there,” observed Shad. “The parakeet robbie gimmick, Lolita: What made you think of it?” he asked her.

  No answer for a while, then Rita said, “I suppose it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  The parrot looked up at me. “Well, Sherlock, I guess she’s got nothin’ to hide.”

  I sat down on a stool and looked again at Lolita’s file. The picture of Lolita Doll—taken when her nat was about thirty—although of typical constabulary quality, was not unpleasant. Her photo gave the impression of a lonely, frightened girl trying to look tough and into her third decade of refusing to stand up straight. Her most recent photo showed her sadder, grayer, and a bit more stooped. “Swap your body for the AI chip and imprinting, did you?” I asked, not much interested in the answer, knowing it was going to be a lie.

  Rita Hayworth glanced at the window, then looked away. She nodded. “Just another meat suit, wasn’t it. Didn’t like the way I looked anyway. With what I would’ve made off the Wallingford job—I could’ve become … I could’ve become … why, just anybody, couldn’t I.” Rita shrugged and looked down.

  “Who would you have liked to become, Lolita?” I asked her.

  “What’re you, copper? Bleedin’ Mother Mary?” The sneer Rita had on her face was not attractive at all and was quite contradicted by the tears welling in her CGI’s eyes.

  “Listen up, you sorry scrap of plastic and magnetic impulses,” snarled Shad into the workstation’s camera pickup, “You are talking to Detective Inspector Harrington Jaggers of Interpol’s Artificial Beings Crimes Division’s Devon Office, late of the London Metropolitan Police, the cop who’s put away enough blood-and-guts stone killers to fill the recruiting needs of every tattooed and drugged up prison gang in the United Kingdom, Wales, and the Maldives until the next millennium! So unless you want your highly illegal AI chip to accidentally find itself flushed down the Petting Place’s toilet, me girl, you’d best straighten up and answer up, ‘less you want to find yourself up that bleedin’ pile of sand and rock, haulin’ a rucksack full of ruddy flippin’ shot puts!”

  He had begun as Jack Webb in The D.I., but at the end had slipped rather badly into Harry Andrews in The Hill.

  “Steady there, Shad,” I transmitted.

  “Sorry,” he sent back.

  Rita was looking rather wide-eyed at the parrot. After a moment her gaze shifted to me. “Sorry, Inspector. Didn’t mean anything.”

  I cleared my throat. “Who would you have liked to become?” I asked her again.

  Rita was trying, struggling for words, her eyes welling with electronic tears. “I don’t know. I want to be…” She looked directly at me. “I want to be safe.” She nodded to herself. “I’ll tell you, inspector. Safe. Taken care of.” She glanced away for a moment, as though embarrassed. “Had that inside, kind of. You know?” She looked back at me. “Wasn’t happy, though. I do so want to be happy.”

  “What about love, Lolita?”

  “You having a laugh, guv?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t mix me up with the picture on the screen, Inspector. I’m near sixty. Love’s something you read about in the romance graphs. Money, now.” She smiled wickedly. “They tells me money can’t buy me love, but it do make the search a heap more comfortable.”

  “Spare us the brass, sister. What happened this time?” asked Shad.

  She glanced at the parrot and shrugged. “Me own fault. Flying around the place, scoping out the security systems, I ran flat into something. Never saw it. Jammed me up. Froze me solid. Everything but me eyes and ears. Butler found me next morning, put me on a shelf. Auntie shakes her head. Auntie’s brother, Barney Bananas, takes me up to his room and sticks me on top a nine year old slice o’ wedding cake he was saving for his future missus, which give me sticky feet and a good look at his telly. ‘Course he only played this one vid he liked, over and over and over, day in and bleedin’ night out for a year three months a week and four days until Barney Wallingford died right in the middle of Lawrence Harvey gettin’ kissed by his mum for the last time as it turned out. Then they packed up Barmey Barney’s belongings, including me, and stuck us all in the attic for another three years. The last I saw the light ‘til Maddie checked me out to bring me here.”

  “Is she lying?” I transmitted to Shad.

  “What was the name—” he began out loud.

  “The Manchurian Candidate,” she answered, “Frank Sinatra, Lawrence Harvey, Janet Leigh, Angela Lansbury—”

  “The dir—”

  “John Frankenheimer.”

  “Pro—”

  “George Axelrod and John Frankenheimer, Executive Producer Howard W. Koch.”

  “She may have seen it,” Shad reported back.

  “Don’t you want to know who did Janet Leigh’s hair styles?” Rita Hayworth asked the parrot. She pulled back the left corner of her mouth into a knowing smile. “Or do you already know?”

  The parrot looked up at me. “Only a fool bandies wits with an electron,” I offered.

  Shad looked back at the screen. “Who?” he asked.

  “I rest my case.”

  “Gene Shacove,” she answered.

  While Shad went on the net to check out her answer, he asked Lolita, “Why didn’t your partner come and get you out?”

  Rita arched her lovely brows. “Partners look out for each other. If I had a partner you think I would’ve gotten into such a fix?” She looked down. “Four years,” she said. “Four years.”

  “What did you do all that time to keep from going crazy?” asked Shad.

  Rita stared wide eyed at Shad. “Why, birdie, I passed the time by playing a little solitaire.”

  We both fell silent as Shad and I reflected upon the famous trigger-the-killer line from the original The Manchurian Candidate. He pointed his wing at the frame next to Rita. Janet Leigh’s hairstyles by Gene Shacove.

  Shad looked at Rita. “Ever see the remake to The Manchurian Candidate?”

  Rita nodded, smiling wickedly.

  “What’d you think?”

  “I’d rather go back and watch the original another fifty-five hundred times.” Her CGI looked at me. “What are you going to do with me, Inspector?”

  “To be perfectly honest, Lolita, I don’t know. Hence, I’m going to pass the buck. I have a friend in London and this parrot, Dr. Watson here, is going to send your engrams and particulars to my friend for a second opinion.” Shad looked at me all wide eyed and quizzical. “Dr. Bing Ehrenberg. You’ll find his address in my personal folder. Attach a copy of Lolita’s previous along with a brief description of the current situation, what she’s been through, and our assessment of her account, and send the lot to Dr. Ehrenberg. Include her complete prison record, as well.” I looked one last time at Rita. “While he’s doing that, I’ll see if I can repair old Ringo and get the bird singing again. Once I hear from the doctor, I’ll make my decision.” I put her on pause.

  Later, as Lolita’s engrams and history were bouncing off a satellite, I told Shad to destroy the AI chip once Ehrenberg confirmed receipt and installation. Then I turned my attention to Ringo. I brushed off the crumbly old icing from its toes, reattached the parakeet’s robotic computer, anchored the minicards, reattached the remainder of the connections, buttoned it up, and listened as the bird began singing the sweetest bird songs. I
held out a finger and with a flap of its wings it jumped up and perched there, shook the dust from its back and wings, the remaining bits of wedding cake from its toes, its happy song filling the air. Picking up the carrying case by the handle, I brought the patient back to our client. Maddie girl’s face blossomed into smiles. “Bloody Nora, Ringo’s as right as rain. I comes in here and says to meself this here Sherlock Holmes and his bleedin’ parrot’re a couple of barmpots, but who’s arse-up now? Eh? Ringo’s right as rain.”

  “Like sands through the hour glass,” began Shad, “so are the days of our lives—”

  “Shad,” I interrupted with a mix of menace and smile.

  Since our credit numbers and equipment were out there somewhere awaiting delivery along with our puppies and kittens, we took Madeleine Wallingford’s address ostensibly for billing purposes and agreed to put an advert in the window for an outing to the medieval underground tunnels of Exeter being organized by the Lympstone Society and another for Maddie’s own group, the Order of St. Trinians, ta ta, Abyssinia, and all that twaddle. The door closed.

  Quoth the parrot, “Nevermore.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Jaggs, I think I see the purpose of this catch-and-release policy of yours. We’re trying to build up the criminal stock out there in the mainstream so that there will be criminals enough for all law enforcement officers everywhere to make a living. It’s part of the Blue Peace Environmental Movement, right?”

  “Although I truly admire the depth of your cynicism, Shad, certainly someone of your sensitivity and high intellect can appreciate that Lolita Doll has learned everything confinement at government expense can teach her.”

  “I heartily agree with your modest assessment of my mental prowess, Jaggs, but you must really be sticking something tender beneath a pinch bar if you have to resort to such blatant flattery. Who is this Dr. Ehrenberg, anyway?”

  “Chap in London. Therapist. Back when I was killed in Metro, he went a long way toward piecing me back together and into my first bio. If Bing says tossing what’s left of Lolita Doll before a magistrate is what’s best for her, then off she goes. If he says we do something else, then we’ll see. Meanwhile, give Superintendent Matheson a ring and see if anything is brewing.”

  He did and something was. While Shad and I had been in Lympstone disposing of Lolita and the kaput parakeet matter, ABCD units in Manchester and London, in conjunction with local police authorities, had successfully detained all the improper puppy imprinting principals as well as their primary patrons. The bogus bio barons had been bagged. While muttering, Shad flew to the shop’s garage and copied back into his Nigel Bruce, I bent to the task of repacking all those bloomin’ boxes of bird seed, tins of dog food, and little packets of catnip. Mama Bimbo’s Cat House was going out of business, mon.

  * * *

  As Shad drove us back to Exeter he said in his Watson voice, “Of course, Holmes, Frankie Statten was her partner.”

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t the fellow rescue her?”

  “Never let it be said that Frank Statten unnecessarily placed himself at risk for anything or anybody.”

  “Honor among thieves. Humph! Stranding her like that,” said Watson in disgust. “What do you suppose it was like, Holmes, after watching that vid a few thousand times with Barmy Barney then shut up in a little box in the dark for another three years? Nothing to move but your eyeballs? Nothing to think about but The Manchurian Candidate.” He shuddered convincingly. “Had to make two weeks of solitary confinement seem a mere stroll in the park.”

  “It must have been strikingly like an experience I had years ago in London shortly after I died, Watson.” I wondered slightly at my use of the “Watson” name. Came devilishly easy to the tongue for someone who swore the name would never pass his lips.

  “In a cast were you, Holmes?” asked Watson. “Held in stasis a long time, old trout? Medically induced coma?”

  “Not at all, old fellow. Valerie took me to see a showing of the Bette Davis-Lillian Gish classic, The Whales of August.” For once Shad didn’t immediately come back with the release date. He simply shuddered.

  “Dear me,” he said. “You gave me quite a start, Holmes. Had a shockingly similar experience with Nadine not long ago,” he said.

  “Really.”

  “I should say so. They had the bloody thing at the Exeter Picture House. Special treat. I’d never seen it before. The Whales of August. Ought to require theaters to post well-being warnings before showing the blithering health hazard.”

  “Were you convinced you were running a risk, doctor?”

  “Holmes, it was like watching quartz crystals grow in real time.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t find the action quite that compelling.”

  Nigel chuckled a Watson chuckle. “You know, Nadine quite likes that movie, Holmes. What do you make of that?”

  “Nadine’s a cat. The Whales of August does bear a striking similarity to watching a mouse hole for three hours. Val is rather fond of The Whales of August, too, you know.”

  “Really. Well, perhaps it is a feline thing.”

  I thought for a moment. “Not exactly. You see, Val wasn’t a cat when we saw it.”

  “But she became a cat, Holmes. Everything was there but the fur and whiskers, you see?”

  “Perhaps. Yes, I’ll grant you that, Watson. Well done.” I glanced over at Shad and he was doing a very good self-satisfied Watson chuckle having gotten-one-up on Sherlock Holmes. Detective Superintendent Matheson’s face came into my thoughts for some reason. “Two things before we get back to division, old fellow.”

  “What’s that, Holmes?”

  “One, when we get in the building, you must stop calling me Holmes. Two, I see that deerstalker cap you have in your pocket.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t want to see it on my hat rack.”

  “What? Wha—What makes you think I wasn’t going to wear it myself, Ho—Jaggs?” he asked, feigning injured innocence.

  There was only one phrase that seemed to fit. “Elementary, my dear Shad. Elementary.”

  * * *

  Time passed as it has a wont to do, and Bing Ehrenberg eventually rang me to say that he believed the best thing for Lolita Doll was to get her out of a computer and into a human bio, into some therapy, and into some vocational rehabilitation. I discussed the matter for all of eleven seconds with a county crown prosecutor’s assistant who had less than no interest in the case, and the fellow proceeded to discharge it, including the eleven months she had remaining on her previous sentence. Lolita had done four years in solitary for attempted burglary and was now free. I suppose Justice does have to lift that hanky once in awhile and have herself a peek.

  Shad and I, on the other hand, went out on a deranged squirrel call in front of Debenhams and there witnessed a three vehicle pile-up as two ground electrics slammed into a lorry, whose driver stopped in the middle of his lane of traffic because he was stunned at seeing the real Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Chief Constable Raymond Crowe, who had yet to be found out for crimes of his own, buzzed D. Supt. Matheson about getting Shad back into his feathers. At the very least, Matheson was to keep us off the streets. The squirrel withdrew the complaint against Debenhams, but insisted upon autographs from Shad and myself. He returned our early efforts pointedly remarking that no one had ever heard of Harrington Jaggers and Guy Shad. After we sent the furry fellow off with the Holmes and Watson inscriptions upon which he insisted, Watson looked at me and said, “Why are you looking so glum? So it wasn’t for your own name. Cheer up. It was your first autograph request.”

  “That is true.”

  “Consider my plight, Holmes. As the Aflak duck I was asked for countless autographs but couldn’t sign them. Now I can sign them but they don’t want my name.”

  “Well, cheer up, Watson,” I said. “At least the squirrel didn’t demand you quack out ‘aflak’ and fall off a cliff. Every cloud has a silver lining.�
�

  “You ever try flying through a cloud that had a silver lining?”

  * * *

  Early one sunny afternoon, a call came into ABCD from Powderham Castle, the home of the Earl of Devon. The castle was located almost directly across the River Exe from Lympstone, between the Village of Powderham and the larger village of Kenton. The call had been placed by the head of security at the castle, a former assistant chief constable of the West Midlands Constabulary named Ian Collier whom I had known many years ago from a case I had worked when I had been with Metro. A quite capable fellow, Collier. I had lost touch with him by the unfortunate expedient of getting killed. I fully expected him to be chief constable by now. Silly me. Instead he was Mr. Collier and running a private security force at a castle that doubled as a mini theme park and convention center with all kinds of events from nature walks and children’s theater to weddings and rock concerts. Collier had called me directly.

  Earlier in the day a large wedding had been held at Powderham in the castle’s ornate music room. The reception luncheon, curiously enough, was held in the selfsame music room, while the music, with its concomitant dancing was taking place in the castle’s huge dining room. Conversing, apologizing, promising, drinking, changing, pilfering jewelry, and recovering from various excesses were spread among the other rooms that had been made available to the wedding party.

  The father of the groom, a Mr. Edsel Meyer, first reported one of the guests missing her jewelry, a rather expensive triple strand of matched natural pearls. Later, other guests reported missing jewelry until even the bride, the former June Grimpion and grandniece of Lord Devon, reported missing an emerald-cut diamond bracelet. The total promised to be a respectable haul. Ian Collier stated quite bluntly that he wanted that which could be done in an unofficial capacity to be carried out in exactly that manner.

  When I reported to the superintendent, Matheson, who was a John Dillinger look-alike bio, wondered why Collier had called Artificial Beings Crimes.