Free Power by Robert J. Crane

and sausage, chewing and moving his head in rhythm.
    “J.J.,” I said, making my way over to the pizzas. I hovered over the Hawaiian one, and the fragrant scent of pineapple caught me like a fishhook. I grabbed a plate. “What’s the word?” I asked him, more conversationally than anything.
    “FBI raided the Century safe houses across the country a few minutes ago,” he said, and I nearly dropped my plate.
    “What. The. Hell?” I asked, correcting only a second before my piece of pizza went sliding to the floor. “Who authorized that?”
    “Li, maybe?” He gave me a shrug of the shoulders. “I don’t really know. I just know they did it, and they’re finished now.”
    I stared at his unconcerned features as he took another nibble of his pizza. “I assume, based on your demeanor, the raids did not culminate in the mass deaths of all the FBI agents.”
    “Yeah, they’re fine,” J.J. said, struggling to cram half the piece in his mouth. I resisted slapping him so hard it would all fly out so he could get me a clear answer—but only barely. “Nobody was home at any of them. Looked like they’d been abandoned.” Flecks of chewed cheese the size of pencil erasers flew out of his mouth as he spoke. “Score one for the good guys, huh?”
    “Not really,” I said. “Now they’ve gone underground.” I put aside my annoyance with J.J. and chewed my own piece of pizza. A thought occurred to me and I spoke, managing to keep the food in my mouth from spraying out as I did so. “Did Weissman charter that plane or did Century own it?”
    “Uhrm …” J.J. said, and he looked like he’d been caught by surprise. “I don’t know. NTSB is investigating the crash, local police are on the hangar.”
    “I know what caused the plane to crash,” I said.
    “Might not want to tell the NTSB that,” he said with a shrug. “Not sure how well they’ll take it when you give working for a government agency that doesn’t exist as an explanation for why you dropped it in the swamps outside the third most populous city in the state.”
    I frowned at him. “Confession may be good for the soul, but time in jail does nothing for my complexion.” I waved one of my pale hands in front of my face. “I was just thinking that if we could trace the origin of the plane, either by following the money if it’s a rental or by following its trail if it’s owned by Century—”
    “Yes!” His eyes lit up, and he got it. Finally. “Yes, I can do that. I’ll just—” He made as if he was going to move, then hesitated when he remembered the pizza plate in his hands and took a staggering step, tried to keep from falling as he regained his balance. Then he stared at the plate like his mind had skipped a beat trying to figure out what to do with it while his body rushed to follow his new train of thought. “Uhm …” He looked up at me as if he were seeking my permission for something.
    “Eat while you work,” I said, dismissing him with a wave of my hand. “Get me some answers, will you?” I watched him scramble around the wall of the cube and remembered a question I’d wanted to ask him, but a little too late.
    I wanted to know what the local PD had done with my mother’s body.
    But I supposed that could wait.
    I scooped up a few more pieces of pizza and headed for my office, taking care to open the door with my wrist instead of rubbing greasy fingers all over it. I stopped in the door and stared at the bonsai still sitting in the middle of my desk, at that unopened envelope waiting in front of it. I cringed, knowing I’d have to read it sooner or later.
    I’d have preferred later, but that wasn’t the mature response. I set the pizza plate on the desk and circled around to find my chair. I sat down and reached for the envelope, my fingers staining the pure white paper yellow with grease. I slid a finger along the seal and found it already ripped open. Someone had read it and replaced it, apparently. Someone who was