Read Timecaster for Free Online Page B

named Franklin Debont created UFSE. An acronym of Use the Fucking Search Engine, the uffsee search algorithm was intuitive and user-specific. In layman’s terms, it learned what the user was seeking, and pinpointed data to match individual search requests.
    No more wasted hours searching. WYSIWYW technology had made the overwhelming wealth of accumulated human knowledge as easy to navigate as a walk around the block.
    I hit the voice button on my touch screen and told uffsee, “Detailed biography of Zelda Peterson, thirteen twenty-two Wacker Drive, Chicago, Illinois.”
    Three-thousandths of a second later the screen filled with data.
    Or perhaps filled was too optimistic a word.
    It listed all the standard stats. Height, weight, age, eye color, chip number, previous addresses, and assorted public information like the charities she supported, moped license, estimated biofuel consumption, etcetera. No criminal record. And strangely, no mention of education or work history.
    “Peace officer eyes only,” I told my DT.
    That brought up the private info. No known associates. The excessive amount she paid in taxes, which was more than Vicki made in a year. Credit history. But it came up blank in regard to family, college, and previous employment. No mention of how she got so rich, or how she managed to avoid penalties for the contraband she made no effort to conceal. It also didn’t list her medical history, or the obvious reason she took Antiandrogen and Estrolux.
    The average ten-year-old kid had more information available about them than Aunt Zelda did. Which meant it was time to have another chat with Neil. I set the voice-stress analyzer on my DT to record a neutral baseline.
    “Oh, no.” Neil’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates when I walked up to him. “You’re going to kill me now.”
    “Soon, Neil. But first I have some questions. Your aunt Zelda was a billionaire. I’m assuming you knew that and just neglected to mention it.”
    “I . . . uh . . . didn’t know that.”
    My DT said it was the truth.
    “Did you know Aunt Zelda was once Uncle Zelda?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “She was TG, Neil. Transgender. She took hormones because she used to be a man. Did you know that?”
    “Uh . . . no.”
    I checked the touch screen. Truth.
    “You apparently weren’t very close. Did you know the intranet didn’t actually mention you as a next of kin?” I moved closer to him, making him cringe. “Are you really her nephew, Neil?”
    “Yes.”
    Inconclusive.
    “Say it. Say she was your aunt.”
    “She was my aunt.”
    Inconclusive.
    “Do you know how she got so rich?”
    “No.”
    Truth.
    “Do you know who murdered her?”
    “Yes.”
    Truth.
    “Who murdered her, Neil?”
    “You did.”
    Truth.
    Shit. Neil wasn’t helping the investigation much. I decided to take it in another, unprofessional direction.
    “Okay, Neil. One last question. Are you ready?”
    He gave me a small, frightened nod.
    “Do you love my wife, Neil?”
    Neil swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbling. “Uh . . . no.”
    Untruth.
    I made a fist, and he cowered away, covering his face. While hitting him would have felt pretty good, it wouldn’t have accomplished anything. Of course he loved Vicki. All men who met Vicki fell in love with her. Guys like Neil were the reason I drove a Corvette.
    Guys like Neil were also the reason my wife had a dozen more orgasms a week than I did.
    My shoulder muscles bunched and I threw the punch, feeling the solid connection when my fist hit its target.
    Neil screamed and scurried away. I stared at the hole I made in the plasterboard wall, and glanced at my knuckles, already beginning to swell.
    Nice one, Talon. Hitting walls was about as mature as jealousy. Pretty lame coming from a man who helped rid Chicago of crime.
    I glanced at the refrigerator. Apparently I hadn’t done a good enough job in the crime department.
    A feeling somewhere between panic and despair began to take root in my head. I seriously