Top level was glass-walled all the way around, selective polarization for the glass. On the balcony, could see inside, more than ten meters away, glass looked greenish silver. Decor was also neo-Anne, with matched couches, end and side tables, armchairs, upholstered cherry side chairs. The whole interior space was unwalled—except for the central lift. Just a mid-chest-high wall around the access ramp. Could sense the safety field around that I inner wall, though.
The upper four levels all had balconies.
One thing I noticed. There was no rez equipment. I kept looking. Neither Kugeler nor Iveson said anything.
Finally, looked at the daughter. "Did your parents have any rez equipment?"
She frowned. "Dad used to, in the listening room on the third level.”
We went back to the comfortable room on the third level. As I'd noted the first time through, only old-style straight sound projection. Beautiful and expensive—precise—but not rez. That bothered me. Iveson looked at me. "There used to be…”
"When was the last time you know it was here?"
"A year ago, when they had a party for Marcya. I've been here dozens of times since then, but I never really looked. It's not…” She paused. "Is that important?"
"Not directly.” Like everything else. "We can go back down.” Nodded at Kugeler. We walked down the ramp. I thought. The other thing was that it would have been easier for McCall to have jumped off the side of the inner ramp. Still almost a six-story fall onto hard stone. Except no recsat would have picked it up inside the tower.
The techs were waiting in the control area. I closed the door—manually—behind me, leaving Kugeler and Ms. Iveson in the foyer. Lead tech was Moorty. I looked at him. "What did you find?"
"We used a scope screener on the manual power cutoffs. Very, very interesting, Lieutenant. Not a single fingerprint anywhere. Not on the covers, not on the sides.” That didn't surprise me. My guts got tighter. "What about the system programming?"
"It's like you suspected, Lieutenant. Remote overrides. Could be triggered from outside the property. Or anywhere inside.”
Looked at the second tech—Alfonso. "You agree?"
"Yes, ser.”
"Ser?" offered Moorty. I waited.
"We can't put this in the report, but someone inserted what I'd call taps in the system, then removed them. There was also a small unit mounted back here. Adhesive traces on the metal.”
That figured, too. "I'll need a report. What you can report. Schematics or whatever. Two copies. One to Captain Cannizaro, one to me. And we'll need to seal the room and put it under constant remote.”
They both nodded.
Cannizaro knew something was wrong. Had to have known from the start. Needed someone to prove it—or someone to get killed to blow it open. I didn't like either option. Didn't want it to go that far. If I couldn't find more proof, question might be how much I let Parsfal know—and when. Problem was that, like the comm types said, you can't send half a quark.
I smiled and opened the door.
"What did you find?" demanded Kugeler.
"Some more suggestions that your suspicions might have merit, Ms. Iveson.” Admitted that because I didn't want them immediately bashing Cannizaro. "We need to see where they take us.” Paused, then added, "We're going to seal and monitor the control room.”
"You're admitting that there was a possibility of murder?" Kugeler persisted.
I looked at him. Hard. "Mr. Kugeler. I can't speculate publicly. There are some suggestive and unresolved matters here. There are several possibilities. First, unlikely as it seems, Nanette Iveson died in an accident, and Evan McCall committed suicide in grief. Second, a series of coincidental events, not murder, but not suicide, killed both. It has happened. Third, someone set up both deaths to appear as accident and suicide. Right now, there are problems with each of those possibilities. None fits neatly. What I feel, what you feel—they don't matter in resolving this. What matters is what DPS can prove.”
Kugeler nodded.
Irene Iveson glared. "You aren't saying—"
"Irene,” Kugeler interposed quickly, "the lieutenant is being more than fair. We asked for an investigation. He has listed the possibilities, and he is investigating. He has only been looking into this for a little more than a day. He has already found more than his peers have. I think that, for the moment, he is being very open and fair.”
I had to correct one thing. "Didn't find more overall. They found a great deal. I happened to find several additional pieces of evidence that may make more sense of what they found.”
Kugeler smiled. He understood. "You will keep us informed, Lieutenant.”
"Yes. I will.” Didn't have much choice on that.
Chapter 28
Cornett
Early on Thursday evening, I was standing just inside the foyer of the conapt, checking the time. I was waiting for Marco. He had an electral that was licensed for use in Denv, and he was the only full-acoustic accompanist I knew who did. I certainly couldn't afford the license. That was why Dad's '54 Altimus was garaged at Raymon's.
Had it been a good idea to accept the gig? Did an adjunct professor of voice at UDenv have a choice? The gig paid, and not much non-rez singing did anymore. Even if the Claytons had insisted they wanted someone who could sing both Golden Age and art song, I had to wonder. I pushed aside the doubts. I didn't need those before performing, and I was getting paid.
I found myself looking out at the drive. Marco was late. Not late, I corrected myself. Not so early as you'd like, Luara. I glanced out, catching a glimpse of my own reflection in the armaglass doors of the foyer. The blue gown had been a compromise, not a performing gown, exactly, nor an evening formal, but what did one wear to an old-fashioned soiree held by one of the wealthiest filch in Denv? The cut flattered my figure. It was comfortable, and it did set off my hair.
I'd already warmed up in the conapt, slowly, because I had a fairly demanding performance ahead, in more ways than one.
When I saw Marco's battered Viera pull up in the cul-de-sac that served all the conapts on the south side, I stepped outside. I made sure the door shut, and the systems were armed. Then I turned. The sky was changing from a pale bright blue into that deep shade that came with first twilight. A beautiful shade, but I shivered as I looked up, wondering if we would see streaks of fire before long.
The Martians hadn't said anything, not really, about the destruction of the Russean orbiter or about the death of their foreign secretary. The PDF kept saying they had the asteroid debris under control, but if they did, why did they keep talking about it?
I was still a little numbed by Michael's sudden death, and by Mershelle's. I'd gotten a link message from Student Affairs. Like Michael, she'd been a victim of ebol4. She'd been a hardworking student, and like that, she was gone. Even in a modern world, life was fragile, and death could still be sudden. Too often it was still the good who died young.
Marco was holding the door to the Viera for me. He wore a simple black dinner jacket with the bow tie and black trousers that had marked male concert attire for centuries.
"Thank you.”
"I even cleaned the seats,” he said before closing the door.
I couldn't help but smile.
Marco threw himself into the driver's seat and continued, as if there had been no hesitation while he walked around the electral, "And I went through the Schumann a couple more times. It really gets to you after a while.”
Almost all of Schumann's songs did. More than once I'd wished I could sing Dichterliebe—but he'd written it for the male voice, and it didn't transpose, not well.
"The Moore pieces… they're not all that special, except when you sing them, Luara. Klaus kept wondering why I was practicing them…”
I let Marco talk as he drove out the Connector, and then took Southside Parkway. We passed a huge place with golden walls. That was the Kuhrs mansion. I'd sung there two years earlier, at their youngest daughter's wedding. Farmer south was an
even larger mansion with greenish walls and a miniature mountain to the west.
The Clayton estate had no walls, just hectares of park-like green grass and trees and hills. The lane wound through the grounds until we reached the house itself, set on a rise overlooking a lake. The house was of rose marble and sprawled across the rise. In the center was a shimmering crystal dome at least a good fifty meters across.
"That's really quite something.” For the first time, Marco stopped chattering.
He eased the Viera under the towering covered and columned entry portico at exactly five forty-five, forty-five minutes before the soiree was to begin. That was so we could have a few minutes of practice in the actual space, and so that he could accustom himself to the piano. He'd have more time than I would. He had to play background music for a half hour before I sang, and for the time between my two sets.
The Claytons had a doorman, tall and dark and impressive in a gold and black uniform. The uniform could have been military two centuries earlier, with its high stiff collar.
"Might I announce you?" The doorman smiled politely as he opened the door.
"Luara Cornett. I'm singing tonight. This is my accompanist, Marco DiMicelli.”
His eyes blanked for a moment, the way that happens when a permie links to a system. I wondered what he'd done to merit readjustment. They claimed that it took three crimes or two violent ones, but I wondered.
"Yes, Ms. Cornett. They're expecting you… and Mr. DiMicelli.”
Another permie appeared to open Marco's door. "I'll park it for you.” He pressed a locator tag upon Marco.
The entry portico was floored in more of the rose marble. When we walked through the arches and open double doors, a tall and slender blond woman, wearing a swirled green Grecian chiffon that uncovered her left shoulder, met us.
"You must be the singer. I'm Alcesta Clayton—Roberta's mother. Roberta wanted an old-fashioned soiree, and her father insisted that there was nothing to do but have an acoustic chamber concert—the kind that they had before resonance.”
When music was still music, I reflected. I was surprised that the daughter was agreeing to unmodified vocal music. I've always disliked singing for the post-ed group. They're too young to really understand, and old enough to think they're experts at everything. To them, music is good if they like it, and bad if they don't, and they use their considerable verbal skills to justify then-unsupported opinions.
"You are that kind of singer, aren't you? I mean, you don't use all that equipment?"
"Just the piano, and my voice.” I half turned. "This is my accompanist, Marco DiMicelli.”
Marco bowed, smiling politely.
"Dorn will be so happy you're here. And so will Roberta.” With another smile, she glanced back over her shoulder. "Here she comes. Well… I'll leave you two in her capable hands. It is her soiree.”
"Very nice to meet you.” I inclined my head.
So did Marco. He barely had recovered when the other tall woman reached us. She was wearing a black and red dress that was sheathlike, but not quite that clinging.
"Professor Cornett, I'm Roberta Clayton.” She was tall, like her mother, but with jet-black hair and broader shoulders. Her eyes and smile were warm, but with the kind of warmth I associated with politicians, like Dr. Hinckle, the university president. "I'm so glad that you're here.”
She offered another smile, this one confidential. "Father said that you'd be doing some Golden Age vocals, as well as the more classical pieces. Is there any chance that you will be singing 'My Funny Valentine'? It's Father's favorite.”
"Actually, there is.” I was singing it. It had been on the request sheet. I hadn't been about to ignore that.
"Good.” She smiled a third smile. "Let me show you to the piano and the Crystal Room.” She turned and led us along a marble-walled corridor to a green-carpeted ramp that circled downward.
The Crystal Room was the huge expanse under the rose crystal dome. It was part solarium, part garden, and partly an indoor formal courtyard. There were small tables set in an arc around a fountain. In front of the fountain, a three-meter-high white-bronze sculpture of a unicorn bowing his head to a maiden, there was a dais raised about five decimeters above the polished rose marble of the courtyard. On the dais was a three-meter concert Stein way, shimmering black, and seemingly untouched.
"It was tuned this afternoon,” Roberta said.
Marco nodded acknowledgment.
"If you don't mind, I'll leave you two to do what you need to do. After you're ready, please feel free to eat or have something to drink. Everyone will eat as they please.” Roberta gestured toward a long buffet table, covered with pale rose linen.
"Generally, I don't eat until after I sing,” I explained.
"That's fine, too.” With a last flashing smile, she was gone.
Marco just stared for a moment.
I smiled. Roberta Clayton had put on quite a performance, and the soiree hadn't even begun.
"It looks almost new,” murmured Marco as he stepped up to the Stein way. "I hope it's not too stiff.” He sat at the piano and ran his fingers across the keys. "Good sound. Not too stiff.” He looked up. "Could we do just a bit of the Schubert? And then the second Poulenc piece?"
I stepped up on the dais.
We practiced for only about ten minutes. I had a hefty amount to sing later.
Marco and I got something to drink from one of the bars set up around the Crystal Room. Actually, I had plain soda. He had a red wine of some sort. I wouldn't have anything until after I sang. The Claytons had four real bars with real bartenders and real fermented liquors and wines, not imitation formulated alkie. The bottles at each bar cost more than I made in a year, perhaps two, or even three. Even though I sang at soirees five to ten times a year, I still felt slightly out of place. It was sobering to sip a glass of wine, good as it was, that cost more than I made in a full day of teaching. So I didn't, until after I sang.
I laughed at myself. I enjoyed good wine as much as anyone. I only had the sobering thoughts after I left the ball, without either glass slipper, and returned to my more than modest conapt.
So Marco and I sat and talked. We didn't talk about music, but about everything from the way the ebol4 epidemic had come and started to go in less than two weeks to why Dr. Hinckle was close to useless as a university president, at least from the viewpoint of the faculty. Or the adjunct faculty, since both of us were mere adjuncts. As we talked, more and more elegantly clad couples slipped down the ramp and into the room. Marco slipped away to the Stein way and began to play. Even though there were more than a hundred people there by six forty-five, not one had joined us. I wondered, not for the first time at a soiree, if I wore an invisible sign that proclaimed: "Hired Singer.” I was to do what amounted to two sets. I would begin with a series of art songs. Then I was to take a half-hour break before doing the Golden Age vocals. At seven o'clock, Marco nodded in my direction, and I walked to the dais and the piano.
After beginning with the easier Moore songs, I did a series of short Wolf pieces, followed by the Poulenc, and then by Schubert's "Gretchen an spinnrade.” Along the way, I got some applause, and surprisingly, relative quiet. Then I did the Schumann "Frauen liebe und Leben,” before finishing up the first half with the Evans piece, "Lives of Quiet Desperation.”
I don't do many modern art songs for one reason. There aren't many. I had to search to find even the Evans piece.
We got more applause. I hoped it wasn't from relief. Marco announced that he would be playing for half an hour, and that I would be back singing Golden Age popular vocals right after that.
I slipped back to the table in the corner, stopping by the nearest bar to get more plain soda, before reseating myself.
A tall man approached and inclined his head. "Professor Cornett, I'm Dorn Clayton, Roberta's father. I won't intrude much, because I know you have more to sing, but I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed the art song.”
"Thank you.” I
meant it. Usually, I got polite thanks, and words about how important culture was.
"That was beautiful, especially the Schumann. I've always felt that Schumann was as great a composer as Mozart or Beethoven, but because symphonies are more popular, the art song composers are denigrated.”
I wasn't certain I'd go that far. So I answered, "I love his songs.”
He laughed. "Perhaps I overstated my case.” He smiled. "I did prevail upon Roberta, and I'm very glad that I did.”
"She is lovely.”
"Very lovely, very bright, and hasn't the faintest idea of what is truly beautiful music. Like most of her generation.”
What do you say to that? "She agreed to your choice. She must respect it.”
He laughed, self-deprecatingly. "That was her concession to me. She's very astute, and very good at reading people.”
"She does seem very capable.”
"Oh, she is. But, I must go and not tire you.” He paused. "Also, given recent events, I also liked the Evans piece.” He smiled and quoted:
"Most lead lives of quiet desperation,
So vainly seeking divine inspiration,
Ignoring the smile of a child just kissed,
The scent of roses after gentle mist,
The robin's song across a morning lawn,
Following the soft-blazing orange of dawn…”
"There isn't much modern art song,” I said.
"There isn't much modern art, Professor.” He inclined his head. "I do look forward to hearing your second set.”
As I sipped the soda, I composed myself, half listening to Marco play. I wondered at the difference between father and daughter. Before I knew it, Marco had nodded at me, and I was walking back to the dais.
I led off with a humorous number, one lampooning, in a way, classical song, something called "Art Is Calling to Me.” That got both laughs and applause. Then came a series that led off with "What Good Would the Moon Be?" from a Weill drama, then "The Twelfth of Never" and "We Kiss in Shadow.”
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