The Year's Best Science Fiction: Eighteenth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “We have a possible suspect.”

  Mike Wilson showed her his cybofax, running the image. “Do you recognize this man? We think Byrne knew him.”

  Tamzin leaned forward with considerable interest, fabric straining. Amanda saw Wilson’s glance slither helplessly down to her cleavage, and prayed hard no one else had seen.

  “No. I don’t.”

  He went onto show the image to Margina, Claire, and even Colin. They all said they had never seen the man before.

  “What about threats?” Amanda asked. “Do you know if anyone was being abusive to him recently?”

  “No,” Tamzin said. “There was nothing like that. He did have a few crank callers, everyone as famous as us has them; but the agency screened them for him.”

  “I’d like a record of them, please,” she told Colin.

  “I’ll get it squirted over to you,” he promised.

  “Thank you. Greg, anything you need to know?”

  “The pictures in your fiancé’s apartment are interesting,” Greg said. “How long’s he been buying them?”

  Tamzin blinked, slightly baffled. “Since he moved in, I suppose. Byrne appreciated fine art, music, culture; he wasn’t just an action hero, you know. He was friends with a lot of people in the media and arts. Inspiring people. He was even writing a script for a drama that we would star in together. Now that’s talent.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. The pictures are all original, aren’t they?”

  “They’re Byrne’s collection,” Tamzin said in pique. “Of course they’re original.”

  “I see. Thanks.”

  Amanda had somehow expected more; she had seen Greg interview suspects before. When he didn’t ask anything else, she said: “I’d like to talk to Claire alone for a moment, please.”

  Margina’s face tightened in fury; she gave her youngest daughter a warning glare as she stalked out. Tamzin didn’t even bother with that; she ignored everyone as she left. It was Colin who was left to take Daniel’s hand and lead the lad away.

  Claire slumped down petulantly into the sofa. She was wearing an oversize rouge T-shirt and baggy black jeans; cloaking while Tamzin exhibited. Always opposites. “Now what?”

  “I really will be brief,” Amanda said. “This is going to be personal, I’m sorry. Did you know about Tyler’s obsession with recording events in his bedroom?”

  “You’ve found the memox crystals?” Claire asked in a small voice.

  “Yes, we did.”

  “I knew you would. Byrne liked me to watch them with him. He enjoyed the ones of him with famous people. There were a lot; actresses and singers, socialites, people like that. I know it was all wrong, but one more bad thing on top of all the rest didn’t seem to matter much, not by then.”

  “Do you know if he was recording the pair of you that night?”

  “I don’t know. I knew he did sometimes. I didn’t ask. I never wanted to think about stuff like that.”

  Amanda took a quick look at Greg, who was watching impassively. There was no clue as to what he saw with his sixth sense. “Thank you, Claire. I know that wasn’t easy. I’d just like to go back to that night one more time. Did you see or hear anything unusual there?”

  “No. I told you already, there was nothing different.”

  “Not even with Byrne—he wasn’t acting oddly?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t do anything that made you angry, or upset?”

  “No! Why are you asking this? You think I did it, don’t you? I didn’t! I didn’t! Tamzin thinks I did. Mum hates me. I didn’t want any of this. You think I did?” Tears were starting to slide down her cheeks. She wiped at them with the back of a hand, sniffling loudly.

  “Okay, Claire, I’m sorry. And you’re sure you didn’t recognize the man Mike showed you on the cybofax?”

  “Yeah, I’ve never seen him. Who is he?”

  “I wish we knew.”

  As soon as they all got back into Amanda’s car, she turned to Greg. “Well?”

  “Claire’s telling the truth. She didn’t kill him.”

  “God damn it! I’m sure she knows something about this.”

  “Not that I could sense. She certainly didn’t recognize the killer’s face, there was nothing odd about the apartment that night, and Byrne was behaving normally. You’re going to have to come at it from a different angle.”

  “Shit.” She faced forward and gripped the steering wheel. “It has to be someone with a big vicious grudge eating at them.”

  “The murderer knew all about the cameras,” Greg said. “Not that Tyler exactly kept it a secret. That makes it more likely to be a jealous boyfriend or husband of some girl that Tyler’s had up there.”

  “Then why the hell can’t we find a match for his face?”

  “We’ll get him,” Mike Wilson said. “It’s just a question of time now.”

  “Yeah, right.” She switched on the power cell, and drove off. “Sorry to waste your time, Greg.”

  “I don’t think you did,” he said cautiously. “There’s something not quite right about the crime scene. Don’t ask what, it’s just a feeling. I just know something’s wrong there. It might come to me later; these things normally take time to recognize. Can I give you a call?”

  “Please!”

  “Thanks. So what’s your next step?”

  “Work through his friends and acquaintances, and the girls on the crystals. See if any of them recognizes the murderer. Just a hell of a lot of datawork correlation, basically.”

  Making sense out of Byrne Tyler’s twisted finances was one of Amanda’s biggest priorities. She had emphasized that often enough to Vernon and Mike Wilson, both of whom assured her of their total agreement. But there was no accountant waiting for her on Monday morning when she arrived at the station. Mike Wilson was in full apology mode, explaining that the person he had asked to be assigned to the Tyler case was finishing off another audit. “But he’ll have completed that by tomorrow at the latest.”

  “You mean he’ll be here tomorrow?”

  “I would assume so.” He handed her a memox crystal. “Peace offering. This came in from Tyler’s agency. It’s an index of all his professional contacts, people he’s worked with over the last eighteen months. They’ve also got records of his crankier fans.”

  Amanda gave the crystal a mistrustful glance; the number of people they were going to have to interview was expanding at an exponential rate. She went into the office to see what progress Alison had made identifying the girls on the memox crystals.

  It was considerable. Amanda’s eyebrows quirked several times as she ran down the list. For an ex-soap star he had an astonishing sex appeal. How he got to meet so many women in such a short time (during his engagement), and have such a success rate was beyond her. Sure he was boyishly handsome, and kept himself in top physical shape … They started to draw up an interview schedule. Most of it would have to be done over the phone; the preliminary inquiry, anyway.

  Vernon called her into his office at 8:40, requesting a full briefing. He was appearing on Radio Rutland soon to explain the case to the public. The police station had been receiving a steady stream of requests from the media, which had doubled since Starlight’s interview and pictures of a mourning Tamzin had appeared on the datatext channels last night.

  There wasn’t much she could give him. They certainly weren’t going to announce the failure of the characteristics assembly program to find the murderer. Vernon would just have to stick to confirming the investigation team was “progressing”; that anything else at this time could prejudice the case. He departed for the studio, fidgeting with his tie and collar.

  Greg Mandel called her mid-morning, and asked to have a look around the apartment again. She agreed to meet him up there, glad for the break. The women on Alison’s list that she’d called so far were uniformly apprehensive when they found out what the enquiry was about, brittle facades hiding real fear of discovery. It was a shabby process, leaving her f
eeling depressed and less than wholesome.

  Greg’s big EMC Ranger was waiting outside Church Vista’s courtyard gates when she arrived.

  “Any clue what you’re looking for yet?” she asked when they went inside.

  “Sorry, no. I guess I’m just here chasing phantoms.” He tapped a finger on the rim of the glass and wood door leading out to the courtyard. “Logically, we ought to start with the point of entry. Do you have an idea where the murderer came in?”

  Amanda flipped her cybofax open, and consulted the report from the scene-of-crime team. “No. According to the security ‘ware logs, the main door here was opened at 21:12 hours with a duplicate card issued by Tyler, that’s two minutes after the ’ware recorded the Ingalo driving in through the gates—which matches up with Claire’s arrival. Then it was opened again at 23:09, from the inside, when she left.”

  “What’s the security system like?”

  “Good quality ’ware, standard application. All the doors and windows are wired up, and the log function records every time they open and close; motion and infrared sensors, voice codeword panic mode with a satellite link to a private watchdog company. I’d be happy here.”

  “Sounds foolproof.” Greg walked across the ground floor to the big window wall. Broad patio doors were set into it, to the left of the stairs. “What about this one?”

  “It’s a manual lock, you can only open it from the inside. There isn’t even a catch outside.” Amanda glanced at the log again. “That was closed from 1900 hours onward.” She followed after him as he went into the kitchen, which overlooked the courtyard. All the marble worktops were clean, there was nothing out of place, no food stains, tall glass storage pots of dried pasta unopened, spice jars full; even the line of potted ferns on the windowsill were aesthetic, healthy and well-watered. It was as though the whole place had been transplanted direct from a showroom. The band of windows above the sink had two sections which could open. Both had solid manual-key security bolts. Greg didn’t even have to ask. “They haven’t been opened for ages,” she told him. “Not since June, actually.”

  There was a cloakroom next door; emerald-green ceramic tiles halfway up the walls, cool whitewashed plaster carrying on up to the ceiling. A hand basin at one end, toilet at the other with a small window just above it, four panes of fogged glass. Greg went over and looked at it. The top half of the frame was open a crack, its iron latch on the first notch. When he lifted the catch and pushed it open further the hinges creaked, protesting the movement.

  “My cat couldn’t get through that,” Amanda said.

  “Fat cat,” Greg replied. “What about upstairs?”

  Main bedroom, the bathroom, and both guest bedrooms all had wide windows equipped with security bolts. Out of the ten which opened, the security bolts were unfastened or loose on three, leaving just the standard latch to deter burglars.

  “How would they get up to them?” Amanda asked skeptically when they finished checking the last guest bedroom.

  “I’ve used wallwalker pads in my army days,” Greg said. “And I’m not sure how strong those trellises outside are, maybe they’d act like a ladder.”

  “Security log says they stayed closed. You want me to run forensic checks on the external wall?”

  “Not particularly. If you have the technical expertise to circumvent window sensors, then you can walk straight in through the main door.”

  Amanda’s cybofax bleeped. She accepted a call from Mike Wilson. The accountant definitely wouldn’t be available before Wednesday—did she want to wait, or get someone else in? One was available for Tuesday, but Wilson hadn’t worked with him before. Amanda scratched irritably at her forehead; as Crescent was paying, she wanted results quickly, and, to her, one accountant was no different from any other. She said to get one in for Tuesday morning, first thing. It didn’t matter who.

  “No progress on finding a match for the murderer’s face,” Mike Wilson said. “And you won’t believe how many of Tyler’s showbiz pals have had discreet trips to the surgeon. It doesn’t help our visual comparison programs.”

  She finished the call and went off to find Greg. He was downstairs again, crouching over the red body outline. “I’ve been thinking about motive,” he said. “All we’ve come up with so far is jealously.”

  “The accountant’s in tomorrow—maybe we’ll find a big debtor.”

  “Could be, except the kind of debt that drives someone to kill isn’t normally one you’ll find on the books. And killing someone means you never get paid.”

  She glanced around at the paintings. Tyler had spent a lot of money on them, no matter how questionable his taste. “You think they stole something?”

  “We know it had to be a professional who broke in here. It could have been someone trying to reclaim a debt the hard way. Maybe the death was an accident after all. What we have is a burglar who hadn’t done enough research on his target to know Claire was making nighttime visits. I mean, they certainly kept it quiet enough. Tyler was awake when he wasn’t supposed to be.”

  “Could be,” she said.

  “Crescent Insurance must have a list of his paintings; it’s simple enough to check they’re all here.”

  “Okay. We’ll try that.”

  “Sorry I can’t come up with anything more concrete.” He made his way out, stopping to take one last look at the small odd painting. Frowning. Then left with a rueful wave.

  Amanda used her cybofax to connect directly into Crescent’s memory core, and requested Tyler’s home contents file. Greg was wrong. All the insured paintings were there. Amazingly the most expensive one was View of a Hill and Clouds. She paused in front of it, not quite believing what she was seeing was worth 20,000 New Sterling. Art, she thought, just wasn’t for people like her.

  The accountant did arrive on Tuesday morning. He had brought three customized cybofaxes and a leather wallet full of memox crystals loaded with specialist financial analysis programs. His assiduous preparation, eagerness, and self-confidence did a lot to offset the fact that he looked about eighteen. Amanda assigned Alison to assist him.

  Greg turned up at the station just before lunch. “I got your message about the paintings,” he said. His manner was reticent, not like him at all.

  “It was worth following up,” she assured him. “I would have got around to doing it anyway.”

  “That feeling I had that something was out of kilter. I know what it is now. It’s that small oil painting, the funny one with the flying saucer or whatever. I’m sure of it.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I don’t know, but something is.”

  “I know it stands out from the others. But it turns out Tyler knew the artist: they went out partying together when McCarthy visited England a few years back. And believe it or not, it’s the most expensive piece there.”

  “Ah.” Greg began to look a lot more contented. “It’s wrong, Amanda.”

  “How? It’s still there, it wasn’t stolen.”

  “You asked me in on this, remember?” he said gently. “I didn’t think I’d have to convince you of all people about my gland all over again.”

  She stared at him for a minute while instinct, common sense, and fear of failure went thrashing about together in her head. In the end she decided he was worth the gamble; she had asked him in because she wanted that unique angle he could provide. Once, she’d heard Eleanor, his wife, call his talent a foresight equal to everyone else’s hindsight.

  “How do you want to handle it?” she asked in a martyred tone.

  He grinned his thanks. “Somebody who knows what they’re about needs to take a look at that painting. We should concentrate on the artist, too … get Alison to mine some background on him.”

  “Okay.” She called Mike Wilson over.

  “An art expert?” he asked cynically.

  “Crescent must have a ton of them,” Greg said. “Art fraud is pretty common. Insurance companies face it every day.”

  �
�We have them, yes, but …”

  “An expert has told us something is wrong with the painting, and this is my investigation,” she said, not too belligerently, but firmly enough to show him she wasn’t going to compromise on this.

  He held his hands up. “All right. But you only get three lives, not nine.”

  Hugh Snell wasn’t exactly the scholarly old man with fraying tweed jacket and half-moon glasses that Amanda was expecting. When he turned up at Church Vista Apartments he was wearing a leather Harley Davidson jacket, a diamond stud through his nose, and five rings in his left ear. His elbow-length Mohican plume was dyed bright violet.

  He took one look at Tyler’s collection and laughed out loud. “Shit. He spent money on these? What a prat.”

  “Aren’t they any good?” Amanda asked.

  “My talent detector needle is simply quivering … on zero. One hates to speak ill of the dead, my dear, but if all he wanted was erotica, he should have torn the center pages out of a porno mag and framed them instead. This simply reeks of lower middle-class pretension. I know about him, I know nothing of the artists—they say nothing, they do nothing.”

  Mike Wilson indicated the McCarthy. “What about this one?”

  Hugh Snell made a show of pulling a gold-rimmed monocle from his pocket. He held it daintily to his eye and examined the painting. “Yeah, good forgery.”

  Amanda smiled greedily. “Thanks, Greg.”

  “No problem.”

  “It’s insured for twenty thousand,” Wilson said.

  “Alas my dear chap, you’ve been royally shafted.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Hugh Snell gave him a pitying look. “Please don’t flaunt your ignorance in public view, it’s frightfully impolite. This isn’t even a quality copy. Any halfway decent texture printer can churn out twenty of these per minute for you. Admittedly, it will fool the less well versed, but anyone in the trade would see it immediately.”

  “Makes sense,” Amanda said. “The smallest and most valuable item, you could roll it up and carry it out in your pocket.”