"ANDRE, WHAT IS IT? Why are you knocking?" A girl's head poked through the open door.
"Someone to see you."
"Someone to see me? Many people want to see me. It's your job to make sure they don't, is it not?" The girl ventured one bare leg out into the hall so that she could lean her head out to get a better look at the intruder. "Can you explain why you escorted this person, whoever he is, up to our apartment, instead of shooing him away as you are supposed to do? As you are paid, quite handsomely, to do?"
"He's says he's a cop."
"Oh." She realized then that she had not bothered to secure her robe, which had fallen away from her breasts. Breasts possibly still hidden behind the door. She reached back to find a belt which did not seem to be there, then shrugged and stepped out into the hall, letting the robe fall open. "What makes you think he's a cop? He's not dressed like a cop."
"He's a detective. Or something."
"Looks more like a something." The intruder was dressed for the weather in shorts and a tee shirt, water shoes. Not skinny, not fat, well muscled limbs, heavy tan, not a trace of hair on his head or body. He looked like he was headed for the beach or on his way back from it. "What makes you think he's a cop?"
"He showed me ID."
"Really." She glared at the two of them. Typical males.
The intruder produced a phone from his shorts. It was displaying one of those annoying QR codes. "Scan this please, Beatrice."
She scowled at the American pronunciation of the name. "Please, if you must call me that, it is Be-ah-TREE-chee. But I would prefer Melanie, if you please, mister," she frowned, squinting at the screen. "Warren. Nestor. Age fifty-seven?" He certainly was not in his twenties, but there was nothing that betrayed that much age. "The Investigative Directorate?" She was frowning at a screen with that name emblazoned on the pale blue UN logo. "I have never heard of this organization."
"Of course not."
"I don't believe you're really a cop."
"I can have a SWAT team and a search warrant here in five minutes."
"You're bluffing." She took a defiant pose, arms akimbo, knees bent slightly for combat, her robe slipping away further to either side. She had practiced that pose in front of a mirror, in front of a camera, shoulders raised so her ample breasts stood out, her shaved groin thrust out enough to give more than a hint of the fissure in her flesh. Her mistress pose, waiting for someone to kneel before her to pay devotion. But the intruder seemed unaffected by her beauty.
"Am I?" He stepped closer to her, too close, and she had a moment of panic that he has going to try to caress her, But instead, he was reaching out a hand to retrieve his phone.
"Don't fucking touch me! Andre, where the fuck are you!" She realized her guard had retreated to one of the chairs in the mini lounge at the end of the hall. He had his phone out. Recording them? No, he was deeply engrossed, watching something.
"Sorry." The intruder backed off to a safer distance. "Could I have my phone back, please?"
"Of course." She found the belt after all, and pulled the robe together. She reached out a hand to return the phone, and wound up shaking his.
"Nice to meet you, mister..." She paused. She had misplaced his name already.
"Warren," he prompted.
"Warren. Actually, not so nice. So, you are some sort of policeman?"
"An investigator."
"A
private
investigator?"
"Not exactly private."
"You are part of the United Nations?"
"We are affiliated with the UN."
"Like an NGO?"
"Something like that."
"So just what does this mysterious directorate do? And why have you shown up at my doorstep? And?" She paused, putting her hands on her hips again, raising herself up on tiptoe so that they were almost eye to eye. "Just what would your so-called search warrant entail?"
"Oh." He gave a shrug. "Everyone has vulnerabilities. No one stays exactly within the boundaries of the law. In your case, for example, your age when you began to upload the videos, to do the webcam shows. Or how much money you have received in tips on the webcam shows, or from the sales of your videos, compared to how much you have declared to pay taxes on."
"Everyone fudges those things. These petty little things have brought you here to annoy us? To attempt to intimidate us?" She was putting on a brave show, but her limbs were quivering. She was desperately trying not to leave a little puddle under her on the polished terrazzo floor.
"Not at all. You merely were asking what would happen if you choose to call my bluff. For example," he paused to tap his phone, "according to you official age Melanie is practically a MILF by now. Something that is causing you some concern. Yet Bea-
tri
-ce," he gave it the Italian pronunciation this time, "is still a teenager, though only by a few months."
She was squirming now, her bladder about to burst, her bowels threatening to betray her.
"Perhaps we would be more comfortable if we went inside?" he offered, seeing her discomfort.
"My friends are... busy."
"Oh. I picked a time when you did not have a show scheduled."
"What?" She gave him a savage smile. "You imagine that we only fuck for the shows?"
He frowned, tapped at his phone for a few seconds. "There's a private recording you are doing for some sheikh. He wants things a little more messy."
That was enough to make her blush, then flush with outrage, then dash into the apartment without a word of explanation.
When she returned, she had pulled on a little sundress to replace the robe.. "How the fuck do you know these things? Is this what your wonderful investigations are composed of? Prying into people's personal business? Their
private
business?"
"In a way. We gather data from many sources. Anything that is sent over the internet. Anything that is stored in the cloud. Sometimes, things that are on phones, on servers, on computers that connect to the internet."
"Everyone connects to the internet."
"Exactly so."
"For what purpose? Blackmail?"
"Blackmail? What need would we have for blackmail? Money is nothing but an illusion, a dance of electrons for the amusement of the banking system. A dance which we can alter as we wish. To a certain extent."
"For what purpose then?"
"You have watched those real crime shows, one where an investigator unravels an ancient wrong doing, records a confession, and then turns everything over the authorities? What if that could be done in real time? As the crime was happening, or even about to happen? We have artificial intelligence bots perusing all that data. Searching for patterns. Searching for clues. Or should I say, the bots have
