by Isaac Asimov
“Yes, well, you’re in imports and exports. Coincidence?”
“Not at all. I learned quite a bit about the industry working on certain cases. When I retired it was easy to slip right into it. Now leave. This interview is over.”
“That’s unfortunate. I felt certain we could help each other.”
“Why would you think that?”
“You said it yourself: I scared Brun. He came to you before anyone else. Why was that? Paternal advice?”
“As odd as it may seem, yes.”
Coren raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Really. Well, if that is indeed the case, then perhaps we should both be concerned about the same thing. If I compromised him and you have his interests at heart, then–”
“If this is unrelated to Rega Looms, what is it related to? What’s your concern in any of this?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t related to Looms, I said it wasn’t related to his company.”
“Ah. Campaign stuff? You’re private security, so part of your job is to clean up embarrassments. Let me guess–his daughter is in trouble.”
“Why would you guess that?”
Wenithal shrugged. “Rumors. I hear things still. Conversations with old friends. She runs baleys, does she?”
“Not anymore. She’s dead.”
Coren had not planned to tell anyone, but he wanted to see Wenithal’s reaction. He was not disappointed. Wenithal looked surprised and, for a moment, vulnerable. The bluster and firmness of the ex-cop vanished, replaced by an expression of informed terror. It metamorphosed slowly into a mask of sympathy and sadness.
“I’m... very sorry to hear that...” He turned away and muttered something more.
“What was that?”
“Hmm? Oh, nothing. I was just–my condolences to Mr. Looms. How–?”
“Running baleys.”
“I see... yes, I can see that you would be interested. I’m very sorry, Mr. Lanra.” He sat down. “I can’t help you. I wish I could, but I’m long out of it. All I could give you are rumors.”
“Rumors are often more reliable.”
“Pah! Police superstition. You hope rumors are more reliable because usually they’re all you get. When I was working I’d have taken a solid fact over rumor any day.” Wenithal looked up, the wall back in place. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a business to take care of. I’m not a policeman anymore. I did that for twenty-two years. No more. Go away.”
Coren wanted to return to his private office and begin reviewing Wenithal’s career. Instead, he took the tubeway west, to Delfi. From Wenithal’s place it was only forty-five kilometers to Looms’ hotel.
What is it about a Settler colony that would spook an ex-cop like that? His mention of Nova Levis had disturbed Wenithal. If he was part of a baley-running scheme, it might make sense. And if Nova Levis was the name that rattled him, then maybe he was the contact Nyom went through, in which case Coren would visit him again.
He dozed on the short ride, uneasily, the image of Nyom dangling broken-necked from the ceiling of that bin an unwelcome intrusion.
He tucked the earpiece of his portable comm in his left ear and keyed his office. The Desk answered.
“I want you to search police files for the case logs of Wenithal, Ree. Especially his last few cases and anything that might relate to baleys and baley running. Anything on Yuri Pocivil?” he asked sotto voce.
“Public records search positive result,” the Desk reported. “Pocivil, Yuri. Immigrant, work-pass issued six years ago. Originally from the Settler colony Cassus Thole. Resident of Petrabor District for the last four years. Employee of Improvo Shipping and Storage, Petrabor branch, last three years eight months. Current status, indefinite sickleave. Current location unknown.”
Sick leave. Dead more likely, Coren thought sourly. He said, “Is there an image attached?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Forward all this to Sipha Palen on Kopernik Station and continue search, locate. Any new messages?”
“New message from Myler Towne. Do you wish to hear it?”
“No. File.” He hesitated. Then: “Make an appointment for me to see my physician, earliest convenience. End link.” He plucked the earpiece out and tucked it back in the slot on the side of his comm.
Yuri Pocivil was a settler. Unusual for them to return to Earth. Unless he had been born on Cassus Thole and thought Earth had more to offer. It was easy to forget that the entire Settler program was less than two centuries old, with so many emigrants leaving Earth all the time.
He wondered who owned Improvo Shipping and Storage...
Rega Looms’ entourage filled two floors of the Banil-Holbro, in the center of the theater district in Delfi. Coren stepped off the walkway directly onto the broad plaza fronting the polished false stone-and-gilt facade of the hotel.
Two of Coren’s people stood just inside talking to the bellcaptain. Their laughter seemed distant and muffled in the lobby.
Both of them straightened when they saw Coren.
“Boss,” Shola said. “Back from vacation?”
“No, don’t worry, I’m not back yet,” Coren said. “Where’s Rega?”
The other one–New man, Coren thought for a moment. What’s his name? Lukas–came up alongside him and they walked a few paces from the bellcaptain.
“Mr. Looms is in room four-ninety-one, sir.”
“Thanks, Lukas. Everything copacetic? Any problems?”
“Other than lack of sleep?” Lukas smiled wanly.
Coren laughed. “That’s what overtime pay was invented for,” he said and walked away, toward the elevators.
Two more of his people waited in the hallway outside room four-ninety-one. They greeted him with silent nods. Coren knocked on the door and entered.
Rega Looms sat on the edge of a chair, staring at a datum screen on the table between him and Lio Top, his campaign manager. A spread of fruit and vegetables covered a sideboard, next to a big samovar.
Lio looked up first. “Hi, Coren,” she said. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“My compulsiveness is bothering me,” he said, choosing a carrot from the tray. “Just wanted to see how things were going. Or not.”
Rega Looms continued to focus on the datum. “Hello, Coren. Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Coren wandered to the far end of the room and sat down in a too-soft armchair. He ate his carrot without really tasting it. Now that he was here, in Rega’s presence, he felt anxious.
“First thing in the morning,” he heard Looms say finally.
Lio stood. Rega Looms closed the datum and rubbed his eyes.
“Six, then?” Lio asked.
Looms nodded. “That will be fine. Thank you, Lio.”
She cast Coren a sympathetic look. “G’night, Coren.” Coren’s heartbeat kicked up a notch.
“Coren,” Rega said. “Come sit down here.”
Coren’s legs felt leaden, but he took the seat vacated by Lio and made himself look at Rega Looms.
Too much of Nyom there, he thought, wincing.
“My daughter, “Looms said.
Until this moment Coren had given no thought to what he intended to tell Rega. He justified–excused–this lapse by telling himself that he had yet to accept the facts. But that was facile, a diversion to keep himself from acknowledging the truth, that it hurt to say the words and it would hurt more to see his own reaction mirrored in Rega.
“She’s dead, Rega.”
Rega sat back as if slapped. He did not look at Coren, but stared at a point midway between them, eyes locked in place. He closed them slowly and his mouth opened wordlessly.
Coren’s ears began to hum in the silence.
“How?” Rega asked, a faint whisper.
“I don’t have all the details. She was running baleys and went with the last bunch. They all turned up dead on Kopernik Station.”
“You didn’t prevent her?”
“How was I supposed
to do that?”
Rega’s eyes snapped open and focused on Coren. “I pay you to know how to manage those details.”
“Dragging her out was my only option. Not feasible.”
Rega did not look away, but the rage drained slightly from his face. Finally, he nodded.
“Now what?” he asked.
“I need a few days to find out why and who. I can keep it out of the newsnets that long, but you better be prepared for it to hit. If I come up with answers, you could–” He stopped himself. He almost said, you could turn it to your advantage. It surprised him for a moment.
“That’s Lio’s job,” Rega said, following his thoughts. He closed his eyes again. “Both of them now,” he whispered. He sighed. “I have a campaign to win. Do what you have to do to find them. If it costs me the election, so be it.” His eyes glistened now. He stood. “Thank you for... for coming by, Coren. I know this wasn’t easy for you.”
“For either of us.”
“Do you have any ideas yet?”
“Possibilities. Do you want to know?”
“No. Not till you finish. Then I want to know everything.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Coren started for the door, Rega caught his arm.
“Everything, Coren.”
Rega let go and walked away, toward the bedroom. Coren waited till the door snicked shut before he left.
By the time Coren returned to his office, third shift was just ending. His stomach churned–the carrot had triggered his hunger–so he stopped by a small carry-out within walking distance of his building and bought a sandwich.
“Good morning,” the Desk greeted him. “Please verify identity.”
Coren sat down and went through the procedure, unwrapping his sandwich with his free hand.
“Welcome, Mr. Lanra. You have two messages. One from Myler Towne, one from Ambassador Burgess, Auroran Embassy.”
Coren stopped chewing. “Burgess? Time.”
“Six-ten.”
Half an hour ago.
Coren finished chewing and swallowed. “The one from Myler Towne–is it a repeat of the first message?”
“Yes, sir.”
“File it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No word from Jeta Fromm?”
“No, sir.”
“Anything further on Yuri Pocivil?”
“No, sir.”
“Ree Wenithal?”
“Yes, sir. Public records plus case logs, per parameters.”
“Good, good. New search. I want to know who owns Improvo Shipping and Storage, and which freighter and passenger lines it does business with.”
“Yes, sir.”
Coren stretched lazily until his shoulder twinged. “Did you make that physician’s appointment?”
“Yes, sir. Your physician has an opening six days from now, second shift.”
Good thing it’s not an emergency, Coren thought wryly. “Okay. What specifically do you have on Wenithal? Display.”
The screen rose from the desk and file headers scrolled down. Coren caught the words “Nova Levis” and said “Stop. Case file number 82-791-AKB. Review.”
“Infant abduction case involving several prominent families. Ree Wenithal primary investigator. Eighteen month investigation culminating in sixty-two percent recoveries and the closing of eight orphanages and four bioremedial research laboratories.”
“How does Nova Levis figure in?”
“R and D facility which came under investigation relative to Ree Wenithal’s investigation. Laboratory cleared of any charges.”
Cleared... but the name scared Wenithal just the same...
“Collate the particulars: names of families, the children involved, witness lists, and other sources.”
“Yes, sir. Do you wish to audit Ambassador Burgess’s message?”
“Not yet. Alert me two hours from now.”
“Yes, sir.”
He rubbed his face and eyes as if to massage away the fatigue.
He felt incompetent. Things had gotten away from him already. It had happened before, but he never got used to it. So much of police work relied on chance and luck–the rest was a question of tenacity. Coren had a good track record of wearing a case down until he solved it. But that took time, and right now he did not have that luxury. He needed to know now.
He had lost Jeta Fromm. That was his one chance of finding out about that strange robot quickly enough to find Nyom’s killers before the murders went public. The more time passed, the less likely he could wrap this up before the news broke.
Going to Brun Damik had been a gamble. Not a bad one, Coren thought, considering the rearrangement of shipping schedules out of his office for Petrabor. And Damik did know something. But instead of the answer that would have made Coren’s life easier, he led him to Ree Wenithal. In truth, despite the curious fact that Damik had called Wenithal first after Coren’s visit, Coren would have walked away from Wenithal as a useless lead.
Except for Wenithal’s reaction to the name Nova Levis. But now Coren knew that Nova Levis was the name of a research lab. How did that relate to the colony? And what did kidnapping have to do with it?
“Desk, display data package received from Sipha Palen.”
The screen came up. A menu scrolled across it. Coren read through the choices–autopsy, crime scene, material forensics–and touched the icon over crime scene.
The screen showed the cargo bin. Coren hesitated, then accessed the internal view.
Bodies stacked in couches crowding the walls...
He reached for the screen and accesssed the image of the dead Brethe dealer, then gazed at it thoughtfully. “Desk, I want a search for all manufacturers of prosthetic devices. Find a match for the hand pattern found on the woman’s shoulder, and the type of prosthetic capable of doing this kind of damage.”
“Yes, sir.”
“End,” he said. The screen went blank. “I’ll go over it later.”
“Yes, sir.”
He scooped up his sandwich and went into his private space. He was tired and hungry and the painblock had worn off sometime in the last hour. It would do no good to rush into anything as unexpected as this.
The images of Nyom still covered the table. He gathered them up and placed them back in the carton. He sat down then, and finished eating.
Eight
HE WOKE UP with a stiff neck on top of the bruises. He swallowed another painblock and went to his desk.
“Good morning, sir,” the Desk said. “Analysis and collation on the provided data completed. Do you wish a summary?”
“In a moment. I need coffee right now.” He switched his samovar on. The machine hummed gently to life. Dark, steaming liquid filled a cup below the spigot. Coren breathed in the steam. “Any more messages?”
“None. Do you wish to review those in the queue?”
“Play Ambassador Burgess’s.”
Coren heard the flatscreen scroll up from the desktop, but he stood by the samovar, eyes closed, sipping his coffee.
“Mr. Lanra, I would like to apologize for any abruptness I may have exhibited with you yesterday. It has come to my attention that our interests may intersect. I would appreciate another opportunity to talk about it. I’ll be in my office the rest of the day.”
Coren opened his eyes. “Hm. I wonder what I disturbed. Connect to Ambassador Burgess.”
“Yes, sir.”
A few seconds later a crisp male voice said, “Ambassador Burgess’s office, how may I help you?”
Coren went to the desk. On the flatscreen he saw the face of Burgess’s aide, Hofton. “Coren Lanra. I’m returning the Ambassador’s call.”
“Of course. Wait one moment while I put you through.”
The screen went pale gray, then Ariel Burgess appeared. Her eyes looked slightly puffy; perhaps she had gotten as little sleep as he.
“Ambassador Burgess.”
“Mr. Lanra, thank you for returning my call so promptly.”
&nbs
p; “I admit I’m puzzled at this turnaround.”
“No more than I am. Perhaps between the two of us we can make sense of some of it. Would you care to meet with us again?”
“When?”
“As soon as convenient for you.”
“Right now, frankly, nothing is convenient. How about–” he glanced at the time chop “–ten. That’ll give me a chance to clean up a little.”
“That would be excellent. Here?”
“Certainly. I know the way.”
She almost smiled at that. “Till then, Mr. Lanra.”
The screen blanked.
“Desk, give me a summary of the analysis on the data I gave you.”
“Specify order.”
“Um...” He rubbed his eyes, remembering. “Update on Yuri Pocivil?”
“No further progress.”
“Improvo Shipping.”
“Improvo Shipping and Storage is a subsidiary owned outright by the Hunter Group. It has been in operation for thirty-eight years with ninety-two facilities within Sol System and fifty-one facilities located on various Settler worlds. The Hunter Group itself is an offworld company, headquarters on Cassus Thole.”
“Really. How many employees within this system?”
“Six hundred seventy-two thousand.”
“How many of those are immigrant?”
“Two thousand seven hundred.”
“How many of those are natives of Cassus Thole?”
“Eleven hundred twenty-two.”
“Uh-huh. Interesting. No list of board members?”
“No such list available at this time.”
“Continue search, see if you can find one. Also, I want a list of all Hunter Group holdings. Next, the data from Wenithal’s case file.”
“The last case he worked on was a major kidnapping ring. It developed from an investigation into a single instance which led him to uncover a global operation with offworld connections. Infants were being sold through various vendors–primarily orphanages and child hospice centers–to offworld buyers.”
Coren’s interest spiked. “Go on. That sounds familiar. What’s in the case file?”
“The record obtained from the public police database contains categorized tables, names cross-referenced in hierarchical tabulations according to assigned probabilities.”
