pair of tall, stainless steel, industrial-sized units, one a fridge and the other a freezer. Still no women in white, no ninja Secret Santas, no signs of any criminal activity.
Then she heard movement upstairs.
Heels thumped the floor hard and fast. They sped straight for the bar—straight for Mariko. She heard the door upstairs being knocked aside. Mariko dashed for the stockroom door, slipping behind it a fraction of a second before her intruder rushed into the room.
She jabbed him in the nape of the neck with the Pikachu and pulled the trigger.
“Fuck!” Han shouted. He jumped away from the contact studs like a bullet leaving a gun. At the same time, Mariko pulled the stun gun away. Han clutched his neck with one hand and brought his revolver around with the other.
“It’s me! It’s Mariko. Don’t shoot!”
He blinked hard and shot a double take in her direction. His face was as red as a beet. An involuntary convulsion careened through his body. He could hardly stand up straight, but at least he lowered the gun. “What the hell, Mariko?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Mariko managed that much without cracking up. Then she let out a guffaw. “You should see your face,” she said, laughing so hard it was tough to get the words out. “I wish we could have filmed that. Best YouTube video ever. I swear, everyone in the department—”
“Ha-ha,” Han said, not the least bit amused. “I come down here to save your life and this is the thanks I get?”
“What can I say? This cop thing is a dangerous profession.”
“Damn right it is.” He rubbed his neck and laughed. “You are such an asshole, you know that?”
Mariko almost forgot they were in enemy territory. “How did you know to look for me down here?”
“I heard a banging noise and I came in. I guess it was you kicking that door open. Anyway, I saw the light coming from downstairs behind the bar and I rushed to your aid. You know, like a superhero. And for that you tased me in the neck.”
“I am so sorry—”
“Don’t be. I’ll just go buy a stun gun and get you back.” He holstered his weapon and for the first time he looked around the storeroom. “What were you doing down here, anyway?”
“I was hoping to find where that ninja bitch’s secret door lets out. Hey, what are you doing?”
Han was reaching for the handle on the refrigerator door. “Looking for something to drink. A little orange juice really hits the spot after getting electrocuted, you know?”
“Han, you can’t.”
“We’re already guilty of breaking and entering; I don’t think they’re going to miss one little can of—”
At first it seemed like the door was a bit stubborn. Han tugged it a bit harder, and suddenly the whole refrigerator pulled away from the wall. It swung out as if one corner was connected by hinges to the wall—which, in fact, was precisely the case. The refrigerator doubled as another hidden door.
Han had the firearm, so he was the first one through. Mariko shadowed him, feeling useless with the Pikachu in her hand, but at least she could offer a second pair of eyes. As it happened, she was the first one to spot the light switch.
She flicked it and two long rows of fluorescent lights came to life. Below them stood at least a dozen desks, the pressboard kind with the thin faux-wood veneer. Each one was home to what looked like a little black octopus: a bundle of cables, zip-tied together and blossoming up through a plastic-rimmed cutout in the desktop. Power cords, Ethernet cables, USB something-or-others; Mariko wasn’t great with computers, but she knew enough to understand there used to be a hell of a lot of them in this room.
Many of the cables ran to a large, blocky, important-looking metal armature on the back wall. Not long ago, this must have stored a number of smaller but equally important-looking gadgets, probably with lots of fans and LED lights. These would have something to do with servers and cloud computing and other networky things that might as well have been magic spells for all Mariko understood about them. Not that it mattered. Someone had absconded with everything a police detective might have used to figure out who had been down here and what they’d been up to.
There were no office chairs. No carpeting. No fabric at all, actually, which was a shame, because DNA evidence was especially clingy to fabric. The