Made to Kill: A Novel (L.A. Trilogy)
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It was just another Tuesday morning when she walked into the office--young, as I suspected they all might be, another dark brunette with some assistance and enough eye black to match up to Cleopatra. And who am I? I'm Ray, the world's last robot, famed and feared in equal measure, which suits me just fine--after all, the last place you'd expect to find Hollywood's best hit man is in the plain light of day.
Raymond Electromatic is good at his job, as good as he ever was at being a true Private Investigator, the lone employee of the Electromatic Detective Agency--except for Ada, office gal and super-computer, the constant voice in Ray's inner ear. Ray might have taken up a new line of work, but money is money, after all, and he was programmed to make a profit. Besides, with his twenty-four-hour memory-tape limits, he sure can keep a secret.
When a familiar-looking woman arrives at the agency wanting to hire Ray to find a missing movie star, he's inclined to tell her to take a hike. But she had the cold hard cash, a demand for total anonymity, and tendency to vanish on her own.
Plunged into a glittering world of fame, fortune, and secrecy, Ray uncovers a sinister plot that goes much deeper than the silver screen--and this robot is at the wrong place, at the wrong time.
Made to Kill is the thrilling new speculative noir from novelist and comic writer Adam Christopher.
leaving a trail in the wet lawn. The front door was a big double event made of dark wood with metal bands across it like it had come from a castle. I decided to leave it unmolested and went for the obvious option. The garage. The third door was still up and beyond the door there would be an internal door leading into the mansion itself. The three-car garage was two-thirds full with a red Ferrari and a silver something that shared the same low angles of the Italian number and looked just as
Geiger counter the bottle was about as hot as a bunch of bananas, which is to say not very. What my Geiger was telling me, as I crouched by the cabinet, was that there was a monster under the bed. I scooped up all five bottles and spaced them out around the pockets of my jacket and trench coat. Maybe Ada would know what the pills were for and what the codes meant. Then I ducked down to look under the bed. As I put one hand on the mattress I discovered the circular bed was on a turntable that
heavily accented English. He smiled and his Hollywood teeth shone. The semicircle of A-listers parted straight down the middle. Through that middle came a trio made up of two men walking and a third in a wheelchair. The man doing the pushing was young and strong and his hair was short. Military short. He was not only wearing a black smock fastened high at the neck, but he had on the big protective glasses and the big protective gloves, too. The gloves went up nearly to his elbow. Artem
vise. Then I was pulled around with more than a little violence. Bobrov wasn’t the only one who had found a hidden strength. Rockwell stood before me, one of his clamp hands holding me tight. He pulled my wrist down and I had no choice but to go with it. Sure enough I was on my knees in two seconds flat. I looked up at his face. The bandages were unraveling and tangled around his metal frame legs. The glasses were still there. I had a feeling I didn’t want to see what the bandages hid. Then I
through the door as I stood and kept on drinking in the scene. I got the first word in this time. “Ada.” “Wow, Raymondo, what a view, baby!” I smiled on the inside. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you so enthusiastic.” “Hey,” she said, “I don’t get out much.” “You don’t get out ever. And you have no idea what I’m looking at.” “Can’t a gal use her imagination? I know your location and I know your elevation. The rest is easy, like that.” There was a sound like someone snapping their fingers