“Displacement, power supply, and requirements, formulae of power allocation, weight of water, and precise size of the installation.”
Dena turned to Thompason.
“You heard the worm,” she said. “Start cranking out files. Either you can transfer them to his personal number or I can read them and he’ll see them through my eyes.”
The manager, suitably cowed, turned and led her to the elevator. His staff followed them.
The PR woman sidled up beside Dena.
“I’m Tanya Coller, Sergeant Malone. I’ve seen you on the news, as I’m sure you surmised. We’ll do everything we can to help. Don’t you find it odd to live with a Salosian seeing everything you do?”
“You have no idea,” Dena said, glad for a friendly face. “You should hear his running commentary on my clothes closet. I think he’s a secret fashion designer. I don’t measure up.”
Ms. Coller giggled, then steeled herself. As the elevator doors opened, Dena understood why. A host of airborne press cameras swarmed in and surrounded them, aiming their lenses at each person in turn. Small screens on the front of each unit bore the live image of the newsperson operating it. As one, the cameras all hovered facing Dena.
“Continental Gazette, Sergeant,” barked a burly man in his fifties with deep mahogany skin and artfully grayed temples that lent him an air of gravitas. “How did the accident occur? Will you release pictures of the body?”
There was no perceptible use in trying to equivocate with the press. Their intelligence was often better than that of the police. Dena was sure that was how they had arrived on the scene so swiftly. Someone in the hotel had tipped them off, possibly for payment, or they had the ANCHOR conference under surveillance. Nothing new there, so she couldn’t feel irritated about it.
“There will be no images, pending notification of the family,” Dena said, trying to look businesslike and sympathetic at the same time.
“But Mrs. Sesman is already here,” said the image of a newswoman with pale skin and braids of golden hair wound in a bun on top of her head. “She already gave us a statement.”
Damn it! Dena thought. All she needed was a hysterical relative swooning for the press.
“Dr. K’t’ank, what is your take on the case?” asked a third newsman, a round-cheeked, tawny-skinned man of approximately Dena’s own age. “How could this accident have happened? Should all infinity pools be banned from now on?”
There was nothing K’t’ank would have liked better than to offer his opinion at immense length.
“One tragedy can be extrapolated in many ways,” he began. Immediately, Dena took off the bracelet and stuffed it into her pocket. A muffled wail erupted. She smiled at the cameras.
“Sorry, no more questions now!”
“Malone!” K’t’ank said, via bone conduction, which only she could hear. “That is unfair! They request my wisdom!”
“You can’t give them anything but a guess right now,” Dena reasoned, willing her blood pressure not to give away her annoyance. “I still have to get that data for you. Let’s not delay the investigation.”
“Understood,” K’t’ank said. He totally lacked tact, but he understood the difference between surmise and proof. “All must be made clear in the proper fashion.”
This was when Ms. Coller, the PR woman, came into her own. Very smoothly, she signaled for a group of hovering bots with the hotel’s logo on them, each of which picked out a news camera and herded it gently into her wake. She beckoned to them with a crooked finger.
“This way, please, ladies, gentlemen, and others of the press. I will have an official statement for you in a few minutes, with updates as we get them. Let me upload to you biographies of each of the witnesses and brochures of our luxury presidential suite.”
The foyer cleared, leaving a few curious guests, Thompason and his security chief. Dena tapped the manager on the shoulder.
“The sooner you give me that data, sir, the sooner we’ll be out of here.”
“Er, yes,” he said.
“I perceive tics in the skin of Thompason’s face,” K’t’ank said, his voice echoing in her skull. “Do these denote irritation of the epidermis or some other symptom?”
“I see that, too,” Dena said, watching the man’s cheeks jump as though invisible fleas were dancing on them. She put the bracelet back onto her wrist. “Mr. Thompason, is there a reason why you look so nervous?”
His face flushed, and he shook his head violently, making his jowls wobble.
“No, of course not!”
He seemed reluctant to spit it out. The security man hovered protectively to his side. Dena raised an eyebrow. Thompason almost trembled, but remained silent. Dena let him have it. The second eyebrow levitated and joined the other. She knew he couldn’t take that kind of pressure. His breath burst out of him like an explosion.
“It was purchase and installation!” he exclaimed. “Oh, God, I knew it would come out sooner or later. I was only trying to save the Castana money!”
“What’s the issue? Someone had to buy the pool. Isn’t it your job?”
“Yes, of course it was! But the penthouse project was running millions over budget. I swear, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen!”
“What did you do?” She asked.
Hastily, Thompason pushed her through a nearby doorway. The security man followed, and the portal, a handsome oval of teak wood and polished bronze, thudded into place behind them. Dena braced herself, readying a counterattack in case they planned to attack her. It wouldn’t be the first time a suspect tried to derail the police by disposing of an agent. The Chief of Police had gone on all the news channels to inform the public that all officers were in constant contact with their precincts. Dena thought it had saved her life at least twice.
Instead, she discovered she was in an opulent office suite that made the penthouse look like a single-room occupancy for down-and-out swimmers. If millions had been spent upstairs, billions had gone into Thompason’s private domain. Each of the chairs was hand carved from nearly translucent poki wood, imported from one of the exoplanet settlements outside the solar system. The brilliant red enameled desktop stood on tripods of wavy golden feelers that looked as if they were still alive, not shed by the gigantic insectoids of Actarel V that had grown them.
“Let me explain,” Thompason began. Dena cut him off.
“Let me guess,” she said dryly. “You cut corners. Money was running short, and you had to find a bargain somewhere.”
Thompason stared at her wide-eyed. “How did you know?”
“Call it police instinct, sir. Where and how did you economize on an infinity pool? Where did you buy it?”
Thompason stopped to fondle a living sculpture from Deimos, a blobby, colloidal being that had been discovered only when its kind had been transported to Earth and allowed to warm up for the first time in its two million year life. It leaned into the manager’s caress, then oozed into a flattened disk on its pedestal.
“Uh, well,” he said, sitting down at his desk with his hands folded on the top, his head almost concealed behind his hands. “Mm-mm mss-phuss.”
“Would you care to mumble that again?” Dena asked. “I’m not familiar with that planet.”
“Government surplus!” Thompason burst out.
“Government surplus? Our government? What were they doing with luxury swimming pools?”
“I found them on a website,” the manager confessed. “We were running over budget on the penthouse suite. I saw the pools for sale at a tenth of retail. It seemed like the answer to a prayer. I thought, what harm could it do? They were built to government specifications!”
“The same government that gave our space explorers inocculations against bird flu and smallpox? That government?”
“Well, yes. But nothing has happened until now! Hundreds of guests have enjoyed the pool.”
“I suppose none of them ever went swimming in a car before.”
“No, but if th
ey had wanted to, we of the Castana wouldn’t have refused them permission,” Thompason said. “We offer the supreme experience in luxury accommodation.”
Tamm cleared his throat uncomfortably. Dena straightened her shoulders.
“Who knew you bought it as surplus?”
“Ummmm… no one?” Thompason said.
“How sure are you about that?” Dena asked. “Someone had to sign off on your purchases, didn’t they?”
“No, Sergeant,” Thompason said, drawing himself up proudly. “My employers trust me to get the job done.”
“The installers? The deliverybots?”
“I knew,” Tamm spoke up. Thompason glanced at him in dismay. He shrugged. “I know everything that comes in and goes out of this place. It’s my job.”
“Data, Malone!” K’t’ank said suddenly. “While you gather impressions to determine their guilt, I require hard information!”
The two men jumped. Dena held out her skinnypad.
“I need all the input on this,” she said. “Like I said, the sooner you give it to me, the sooner you can get rid of us. Then I want to speak to Mrs. Sesman.”
###
The widow didn’t have much to contribute. Coffee-skinned and brown-eyed, model-thin, with a sweep of artfully arranged silver hair piled high on her head, Laila Sesman made Dena feel like a bundle of rags. She was ensconced in a thronelike seat in a private sitting room hidden behind another one of those concealed doors in the lobby of the Castana.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what my husband was doing with the car. The Circo was his current favorite toy. He had many responsibilities, so he liked to break the tension in any way he could. It wouldn’t have been beyond him to drive it into an elevator. Or through an open window on an upper floor. It had virtually unlimited range. He could have driven it to the Moon.”
“He liked… practical jokes?” Dena asked, trying to sound tactful.
“You’ve never heard of Noble Sesman?” Mrs. Sesman countered. She sighed. “Yes. It’s a wonder we haven’t been plunged into an interstellar war because of him. But once people get over being mad at him, they’ll do anything for him.”
“Define ‘being mad,’“ Dena said.
The widow waved a slender hand. “Oh, any web search will bring up a thousand examples. Noble caused as many diplomatic incidents as he defused. It’s how he and I met, you know. I was on a mission to Salos that he led.”
Then Dena noticed the platinum bangle on her wrist.
“You, too?” she asked.
Mrs. Sesman smiled. “Yes. N’a’bun and I have been together for years. We were one of the first successful pairings Alien Relations ever had. N’a’bun, say hello.”
A musical voice, clearly female, issued from the woman’s bracelet.
“Hello, human and fellow Salosian.”
“Greetings,” K’t’ank said. “I am K’t’ank.”
“Greetings back. How long since you saw the homeworld?”
“Seventeen Terran years,” K’t’ank said. “Malone is my fifth host. And you?”
“Thirty-four. What does a Salosian have to do with police procedure?” N’a’bun asked.
“It is most interesting! Humans do away with one another in surprisingly different manners.”
“Can you two talk in private?” Dena said. “I’m here for a reason.”
“Of course,” N’a’bun said. “K’t’ank, my private frequency is 80.5.6.”
She felt K’t’ank settle into a coil near her spine. It threw off her weight for a moment, and she rubbed her back.
Mrs. Sesman smiled. She gestured to a deeply cushioned chair covered in soft brown velvet.
“Sit down, Sergeant. I’m surprised to see you without your floatchair, particularly in your current state.”
“My what?”
The lady’s delicate hands wafted over the ornate arm rests of her own lushly padded, high-backed armchair.
“A floatchair. Like mine. It’s one of the benefits of hosting a Salosian. Alien Relations needs us to prevent simple accidents that would interfere with our guests being able to enjoy the Sol system and other human settlements. They have determined falls are the primary reason that humans become infirm. It runs on a miniature antigravity engine about the size of your fist, but throttled down for safety. You mean, you don’t have one?”
“No, I never heard of them,” Dena said. “No one ever told me there were any benefits, let alone a floatchair.” She regarded Mrs. Sesman’s chair with envious eyes.
Mrs. Sesman looked at her oddly.
“All these things are due to Salosian-hosts as part of our arrangement with Alien Relations. Didn’t you go through the training? What about your contract?”
“I have no contract.”
“Did you give them your FIL?”
“Yes. My fingerprints are on file with them.”
“Well, then, dear, you have rights! You didn’t read it, did you?”
“No, ma’am. There wasn’t time. K’t’ank was in danger of dying.” Dena hesitated, thinking back to the moment when everyone in the medical examiner’s office was yelling at her at once. “It was… complicated.”
Mrs. Sesman shook her head.
“They pushed you into an uncontrolled transfer? They gave you no training at all?”
“No! I mean, I didn’t know I needed any.”
“You’ve coped amazingly well, then, dear. You’re a natural. Alien Relations could use a thousand like you. I’ll bet they didn’t tell you about the allowance, either.”
“Allowance?” Dena knew she was echoing the woman stupidly, but she struggled to absorb everything Mrs. Sesman was saying.
“Yes. A direct deposit. Every week. It’s not that generous, but it’s better than nothing. You need to put in your claim and give them your automatic transfer code. Come and see me later today, and I’ll give you the support material that those oafs forgot.”
Material on how to deal with K’t’ank? Money? A floatchair? Dena knew her eyes lit up. But her professional composure got out and stomped up and down on her hopeful enthusiasm.
“I can’t, ma’am. This is an ongoing investigation. I am not allowed to socialize until it’s over. You’re a… a witness.”
“You mean suspect,” Mrs. Sesman said, lightly. “I understand. I haven’t been in the diplomatic service for thirty-five years without being able to read between the lines.”
Dena felt sorry for her. As much out of professionalism as sympathy, she dropped her eyes to her notes.
“So what do you think happened today?”
“It was probably the result of a stupid prank Noble thought up.” Tears sprang to Mrs. Sesman’s eyes for the first time. “He told me he was going to surprise those ‘stuffed shirts’ in the penthouse, as he called them. He always had a raucous sense of humor. It looks as if whatever he set up went terribly wrong. I always knew it would end this way, but I’ll hold my head up. In the meantime, I will instruct that foolish man out there to order you a floatchair. I will see you later, my dear. N’a’bun will have given your symbiote our contact information.”
###
Dena rode out of the hotel on a green upholstered floatchair that was nicer than everything that she and her husband owned put together. It was so comfortable she couldn’t imagine ever getting out of it. People walking at street level glanced at her with a mixture of curiosity and envy. She was embarrassed at the attention, but it was blissful relief for her back and swollen feet. Defying gravity was great. The field that the chair emitted was limited. It took her only a foot or so off the ground, but the difference in comfort was unbelievable.
“I really hope that woman didn’t kill her husband,” Dena told Ramos. “This is great!”
“You shouldn’t have taken that chair from her,” he said. “Looks like bribery. The police can’t look like we can be bought.”
“It’s just a loaner from the hotel!” Dena argued. She wriggled into the padding. It rose to envelop her spine. �
��Alien Relations owes me one. This goes back as soon as mine arrives.”
“You’ll be lucky if you keep it past the time we get back to the precinct. If Potopos sees it, it’ll be his ass in the chair and yours in the hotseat.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“Because I don’t have a worm in my belly? I don’t eat the one in the tequila, either, Malone. You’re just the one who didn’t say no.”
Dena knew Ramos was right. Captain Potopos insisted on examining the loaner, if by examining he meant that he confiscated it for his personal use for the rest of the day. Dena didn’t care, since she had to plant herself in front of the library console and research all the people involved in the case. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see their boss gliding through the corridors or floating up the station stairs like a late-model Dalek.
Looking up Sesman’s past was better than watching a comedy tri-dee. His wife hadn’t exaggerated her husband’s behavior. Though he was a philanthropist, he was famous for stupid stunts, like greeting the Centauran ambassador on his first arrival in the Sol system with a custard pie to his blue-scaled face. To save the diplomatic mission, the Terran council had to pretend that they greeted every visiting interplanetary dignitary with pies. Hasty photoshopping of greeting images of other diplomats kept the situation from escalating into interplanetary war. The lineup of elegant men and women in fancy tunics with cream dripping off their faces had always made Dena laugh. In the back row of each picture, the late Mr. Sesman stood with a grin plastered across his face from ear to ear.
“I wondered how that custom got started,” Ramos said, watching over her shoulder. “They never told us in school. I tip my hat to the gentleman. The guy was a genius. Too bad he’s dead. Maybe I should use pies during witness interrogations. It’d brighten up the interviews. How about enemies? Anyone decide that they had enough of his humor and this was the time for payback? Who wanted to drown him in a swimming pool?”
Dena shook her head over the picture of Sesman among the pie-covered diplomats. “Nobody. Everyone I have contacted thinks he was a great guy and a good administrator. Tough but fair. A tribute to ANCHOR.”
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