“Want to go ask him for it back?”
The senior sergeant considered it and shook her head. “If Sapperfield’s watch had been broken…but it was a solidstate model, undamaged. So far we’ve got nothing to connect Big D’s slicer with this case, so it’s the princeps’ evidence, not ours.”
“But you had a real lapse there, Les.” He took her elbow. “Definitely time for our lunch break.”
* * * *
It was a ninety-minute lunch break: time economical from a fancier’s point of view. It might have been even more leisurely, but the restaurant in the Rolling Glades Shop Stop was a 2020, specializing in the decor, cuisine, and nostalgic hustle of that decade. The recurrent sound of plastic dishes cascading into a plastic bag was recorded right in with the music.
After thumbprinting the check, Corwin Poe trailed along to the pubtrans station on the pretext of comparing its bus and subtrain offerings with taxi service. They soon learned that the only difficulty involved in getting from the shop stop to Sapperfield’s neighborhood at almost any hour of day was choosing from a variety of connections. Sapperfield had used the pubtrans system habitually: the station troubleshooter recognized him from Click’s description as one of those characters who made her wish public transport had stayed robotized all the way, not been semi-rehumanized back in the Thirties. She could not, however, provide any descriptions of possible student sweeties. More Owlsfane Garber midschoolers than you might expect, she testified, came down here every day to catch a bus or subtrain. Especially the seniors and postgrads. She calc’d she must have seen nearly every Garber scholar for years pass through here one time or another. Had she seen any girl who liked to travel alone? She laughed. “Lady love you, ain’t eleven the age they all start loving to travel alone? And all make it home safe, too. So you pollies must be doing your stuff right, huh?”
The troubleshooter was a scrawny wrinklebag, but honest compliments roused friendly feelings in the heart of any polly, and Click started exchanging winks with her.
Corwin Poe offered, “I could perhaps make a trial run or two via likely routes, putting discreet questions to station troubleshooters along the way.”
Click surfaced from his mock flirtation. “Aren’t you due back at Owlsfane Garber?”
“In a few weeks. Today M. Cage wanted me principally for the initial session. I believe he was seeking a prop to help him through a potentially awkward hour; it had been some years since his last tour of classroom duty. Angela and I rendezvous at four to take tea in the Chantilly Gardens, but until then I can put myself at your disposal.”
“At your own disposal,” Lestrade spelled out. “We can’t sanction civilian volunteer work at a few hours’ notice, but we can’t cancel any nontoxic hobbies, either. I’ll give you my number. Phone if you get anything positive to report, not otherwise.”
“Strictly off the record,” he concurred. “And with the most meticulous concern for personal safety.” After using a fingerlength gold pen to copy her number into a small paper-page memo booklet, he wished them good day and turned to the troubleshooter for help in selecting his routes and connections.
“Well, anyway,” Click remarked on their way up and out, “we’ve seen the last of Owlsfane Garber for one day.”
“Sooner or later,” Lestrade replied, “we’re going to have to get Poe an amateur snooper permit.” Just as sooner or later this afternoon she was going to have to tell her partner that they were heading back to the midschool at 16:00 to collect Cunningham, thanks to that shaky little semi-confession.
Make it later. Telling Click about it. Say about 15:35.
Chapter 29
Lestrade seemed preoccupied. Now was not the time to press her for a decision on wiping the Dutois tape, so Click eased his tension (forgotten during lunch) by lighting his pipe at the first red traffic signal. About half a block later, Lestrade twisted one of the rider’s side vents to aim its airstream at him. Maybe she was just feeling too much breeze on herself, or maybe she did it from plain habit. She didn’t act annoyed. More, just preoccupied. But he put his pipe back in the snuffer and spent the rest of the drive to Heartlands Academy whistling tunes he knew his senior liked.
At Fifth and McCarthy she said, “You’re sounding good today, Dave.” At Eighth and Mizuma she repeated the comp, as if forgetting she’d already paid it. He watched his driving even more closely after that.
According to basic datafacts, Heartlands Academy had kept its name intact for close to a century, while other education plants were turning from elementary and high schools into primary colleges, middle colleges, and youth colleges. The data even showed that Heartlands had started out as an all-girls’ school, although that naturally ended with the Great Reform. In effect, it was an exclusive youth college, last stop before opting for a realizers’ State U., a fanciers’ Ivy Academia, or one of the few humungous degree factories that still catered to both perceptive persuasions without distinction.
Virginia Wang Greene, sixteen-year-old sister of Mandra W. Lotus, spent her days at Heartlands, and Lestrade wanted to interview her away from home. The princeps—”Headmistress” they called her at Heartlands—looked like a relic from the year the original cornerstone had been laid, but turned out to be cooperative at short notice, and by 14:15 they had Ginny to themselves in the nurse’s back room. (No student groves at this academy. A museum in action.)
Les had described the younger sister as “very pretty.” You wouldn’t guess it by looking at the older sister. Ginny might as well have been in one of those old all-girl schools, poor kid. Of course, she was obviously nervous, alone with a pair of pollies, and watery nerves hurt more people’s looks than they helped, but they didn’t cause bug eyes and lank hair. If it was a case of daughters taking after their fathers, the second Arthur Wang Greene must have been a lot better looking than the first. Funny, you’d expect a doppler like Mrs. Abigail to find the handsome one first and fit the successors to his mold.
Prelim intros over, Lestrade sat on the nurse’s cot beside Ginny and began gambitting with, “You’re a registered reality perceiver, M. Greene.”
“Yes.” Nice voice, but aimed at her shoes. Good thing Click’s tapebox was sensitive.
“And Tested with soaring scores the first time,” Lestrade went on. “But continuing your education in a youth college geared for fanciers. Your own choice, or your family’s?”
Ginny raised her line of sight a few centimeters. “Heartlands Academy was founded for reality perceivers.”
Click put in, “Back in the days when fanciers still had to lie low or risk getting institutionalized.”
“Heartlands has a proud tradition. The best way to see the reality without is by learning to see the reality within.” Add rhyme, and Ginny could be reciting her school song. “We may look cloistered, M. Officers, but we’re getting the best possible preparation for both university and life.”
Lestrade cleared her throat. “But your mother’s a fantasy perceiver. Probably your younger sister will register that way, too. You fed her excuse into the computer today, didn’t you?”
The girl glanced up at the policewoman, then back down at the floor.
“M. Greene,” Lestrade pressed gently on, “we have reason to believe that neither your father nor your sister’s father is living at home, and it’s doubtful your mother could enter any record beyond her prints. And I don’t think you’d leave doing things like this to a dayservant.”
“Mandra is computer literate,” Ginny mumbled to her knees, tucked close beneath her long tweed Heartlands school uniform skirt.
Lestrade said, even more gently, “You won’t do your sister any favor by suggesting she entered her own excuse this morning.”
The girl looked up and down again, gripped the edge of the cot, moved her hands to her lap and then, in faked nonchalance, to her knees. “Well, she really is sick today. When I’m sick, I have to ente
r my own excuses. What else can we do? She really was too sick to go to school, and Mother knew exactly what she was thumbprinting.”
The senior sergeant continued, “Actually, we aren’t so much concerned with who entered your sister’s excuse, as why. She looked pretty healthy yesterday.”
Another glance from Ginny. This one rested on or near the policewoman’s face for maybe half a second.
Lestrade nodded. “Yes, I was the visiting officer. I’m sure they told you.”
“Well, she just got sick. It came on very suddenly. Mother didn’t beat her or anything like that. Mother ... Mother’s a sort of throwback. You must’ve seen that much. In a lot of ways. But she doesn’t believe in corporal punishment after the age of twelve.”
“I didn’t suspect that.” Lestrade’s voice suggested to her partner that she almost wished she had. “M. Greene ... what do you know about the way M. Douglas Sapperfield died?”
Click had rarely heard the screw snapped so compassionately.
The girl fumbled. “M. Sapperfield?”
“The databank shows you took some of his courses when you were at Owlsfane Garber. Your sister was taking his beginning geo course this term. You two must have talked about him.”
Ginny looked from senior to junior sergeant. Click began to see that she was one of those homely girls who could be pretty if they chose. Straighten up that slouch, diet a little, shampoo every second or third day instead of every fifth, use a little eyebrow pencil or whatever, a bright dimple patch or nail coloring to add a hint of teen quazz—not a stunner, but she could be pretty.
“He’s taping this, isn’t he?” the girl asked, still looking at the junior sergeant.
“All right, Dave, you can tab it off,” Lestrade told him, seconding her verbal with a nod.
He took the box out of his pocket, held it up in Ginny’s sight while tabbing it off, and shot them a grin.
“You understand, M. Greene,” the senior recited, “we may have to ask you to repeat on record any information that could be material to convicting the guilty or clearing the mistakenly suspected.”
“I ... I can’t say anything. Not ...” Ginny kept shaking glances between Click, Lestrade, and the floor. Finally she leaned over and whispered in the policewoman’s ear.
Lestrade replied, flat as a century-old tire, “You also understand that if it’s material to the case, I’ll have to discuss it with my partner. So he’ll probably be hearing it anyway.”
Ginny sat a few seconds longer, never looking at him again. Eventually she nodded. “All right. But I still can’t ... in front of him.”
He took his cue and stood. “How long do you want?”
“Wait for me,” she replied. “Outside the building. In the polcar, if you like. Maybe you can work on the Tibbald Narcine case.”
* * * *
At 14:47 Lestrade came out looking grim. She slid into the rider’s seat, slammed the door, looked at her watch and compared it with the polcar clock before uncompressing her lips. “Dave, I’ll have to see Mandra. Better get to the Greene bungalow before I cool. I think we’ve got time.”
He geared it. “I still don’t exactly relish fielding Mrs. G. for you, Les.”
“Mandra Lotus was one of Sapperfield’s little student sweeties. Probably the latest and last. Probably the person who entered our tiplist for me. Ginny said she wasn’t sure about that, and I believe her. She was honest about everything else. Now, would you rather field Mrs. Greene for me, or interview Mandra?”
He said, “I’ll take Momma Greene.”
Chapter 30
14:47. Just forty-three more minutes, just one more class period and the few minutes till it started. It was Dame Elfreda’s class in Historical Backgrounds, and she had a screenshow scheduled. Usually Cunningham looked forward to her class.
Maybe as soon as the session’s over, I should scoot to my locker first, he thought. Get my stuff so I’m all ready to go out the front door when he’s done with me. No, I’d better head straight for the office, it’s clear around on the other side of the building. I bet he’ll come down harder if I keep him waiting. Maybe I could go get my stuff now? Let’s see. Jacket, that new geometry program for M. Euclid’s class ... wonder if Dame Elfreda’s going to tell us to read a story in this book tonight? Oh, yeah, those sentence printouts for M. Webster, maybe Mom can help me with all that. It’s a whiz for Badge. Gol, I’ll never get it all done tonight, wonder if they’ll take getting arrested for an excuse?
He started charting it on his brainscreen: down two halls to his locker, get it open, grab his jacket and stuff, highheel it back here. He looked at the clock. It’d be a pretty tight squash. Besides, Badger was just coming in. Cunningham stood up, waved, and punched the cushion he was saving for his friend. Dame Elfreda let them scatter around the floor on cushions when she ran screenshows, and she never cared about a little talking and bouncing before class so long as everybody clammed down when the bell chimed.
Badger came over and took his cushion. “Thanks, Cony.” He always said thanks, every time.
They sat down. “It couldn’t have been chains,” Cunningham whispered, meaning the Princeps’ flagellator.
“Well, that’s what they looked like,” Badger still insisted. “And sounded like, too. Nine or ten on a leather-covered handle. Very thin, but real metal chains all the same.”
“Yeah, but they couldn’t have been. That’d be against the guiderules, wouldn’t it? Even princeps have to go by the guiderules. Look, Badge, you’re having a Dungeon Chess day today, you said so at lunch.”
“The polly saw them, too. Or something gruesome.”
“He would’ve stopped Princeps Cage if he saw anything hokey.”
“Well, his face got very strange when he saw the princeps bring it out. I think he was jealous. I think he’d have liked to swing it himself. But he saw it, too. Or something. And pollies have to be reality perceivers, don’t they?”
“Yeah, but look here, Badge, if Princeps Cage was really using a whip with chains—”
“Why don’t you ask Big D about it?” Badger snapped. Then his look sort of melted. “Oh, darn, I forgot! See here, Cony, the princeps didn’t do anything to me.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t do anything, just hit the Big D back.”
“I knew about Friday night all along, but he didn’t do anything to me for it, only asked me some questions—”
The bell chimed. Everybody quieted down right away, but Badger leaned close and whispered, “I’ll bet he lets you off with a warning, too, Cony.”
Chapter 31
Dangerous even to hint you felt in a hurry, with a junior partner eager for any excuse to floor the pedal. For once, Lestrade let Dave Click dodge through city traffic at the maximum 35 kph for polcars going without siren. She even encouraged him with frequent glances at watch and clock.
Eventually he said, “Wild date tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s the fortunate floater?”
A ten-year-old boy depending on us for his anchor to the future, but she wasn’t quite ready to tell Click that, so she fobbed him off with, “You might be surprised.”
He stopglided at a red light, checked the cross street and sped on without waiting for the green. One of the polly’s little compensations, though Lestrade preferred not to practice it. She frowned at him. Force of habit.
“We can always put this off till tomorrow,” he suggested. “Give you time to plan your attack.”
She shook her head. “It’s got to be now. I made Ginny promise not to phone her family. I didn’t make her promise to keep mum once she gets home from school.” That would have been too much to hang on a teenage kid.
“The old surprise attack, huh? Al Everymind would not approve.”
“Al Everymind can preach it to the pansies. Surprise attacks this style mean we aren�
�t much better prepared than they are.”
“So we give Momma Greene and Mandra a few hours to get forewarned. Might be worth it. Aren’t you the one who likes to talk about going in cool and calm?”
“There are occasions when the longer you give yourself to cool down, the harder it is to stay calm.” Right now, Cunningham was as much Lestrade’s anchor in the future as she was his. Get through this next hour, and if more was involved here than fancy morality between a schoolgirl and a professor who had gotten himself coincidentally murdered by someone else, a whole police battery could help take over future official dealings with Mrs. Greene’s household. Meanwhile, go there right now and we have to be in and out with no shillying.
* * * *
Click rolled to park at the curb. “Want me to go in first?”
“No. But keep close at my shoulder.”
They went up the walk side by side, he falling back half a step only when they reached the door. She proved the steadiness of her hand by using the brass knocker in preference to the chime button.
After a few moments Mrs. Abigail Greene opened the door on its guard chain and peered out with no flicker of recognition. “Yes?”
“Sergeants Rosemary Lestrade and David Click, Mrs. Greene. Regional Police.”
The doppler’s gaze licked from one to the other as if uncertain which was which. “Do you have any identification?”
Click whipped out his I.D. and held it to the opening. Mrs. Greene scrutinized it closely. “What do you want, officers? Oh my God, has anything happened to Art?”
“I’m here to talk with you about that,” said Click. (Lady bless him.) “My partner would like to see your daughter for a few minutes.”
“Mandra’s sick today,” Mrs. Greene answered hesitantly, unchaining the door.
“I’ll try not to disturb her, ma’am,” said Lestrade. “Her room is upstairs?” Leaving Click to his volunteer task, the policewoman climbed. Two steps, a turn landing, fifteen more steps to the bedroom floor. Seven doors, three closed. The narrow one would be a linen closet. The one at the end was probably a combined bathroom and comfort station. Lestrade knocked on the remaining closed door. No answer. She knocked again.
The Fanciers & Realizers MEGAPACK Page 43
