I’m in the bedroom of a dame named Alba Lopez when the call comes in. A stiff’s been found in Colombo Heights, another concrete anthill on the west side of the city of Lost Angles. It’s just after eleven o’clock at night, and I’ve spent the last half hour rummaging through Lopez’s drawers.
Lopez is 41, blonde, with a face like an unsolved Rubik’s Cube. An accountant at Tangerine Networks, she lives in a swanky apartment in Adam’s Terrace. We’re not going together. She isn’t even home, though that could change at any moment. I need to find what I came for, and fast.
Phil Noir’s the name, and I find things for a living. What I’m after right now is the sealed red envelope, inside Lopez’s safe. I don’t know what the envelope contains, and beyond being paid 850 credits to get it, I don’t much care.
Shockingly, the safe is locked. But searching Lopez’s bedside table turns up a slip of paper. It reads “Alba, remember your passcode this time!” followed by four beautiful numbers—7971.
I punch the code into the safe door’s keypad. The safe doesn’t like it. For an accountant, Lopez ain’t great with numbers. I try the far
