by Lee Killough
After another repeat of the authorization code, the log appeared.
“That’s more interesting,” Mama said.
Doubrava routinely made three calls every week. Twice a week to a 212 number, once in the middle of the week — sometimes just a text — and again on Saturday or Sunday. Every weekend he called one of two 303 numbers. He had called both the 212 and a 303 number on Sunday.
“Area code 303 is for Denver,” Mama said. “I recognize it from an aunt living there.”
Querying Athena gave them the 212 caller’s ID as Adresina Cooper in New York City. One Denver number belonged to Melora Foster — his mother, Janna remembered from the station records — and Sunday’s Denver number to Jamison Doubrava, his father.
Mama pursed his lips. “So he calls home regularly, either his mother or father. I wonder who Cooper is.”
“Could be a femfriend, as often as he calls.”
“Let’s see. Athena, play this call.” Mama touched the Sunday log entry.
The screen split into two images. On the caller’s half Doubrava wore a patient expression while on the other a tiny space station circled an image of Earth above the word Connecting. After a long interval in which the Earth image flickered several times, answering appeared on the screen, followed by the image of an old fashioned office door with an upper panel of frosted glass lettered in gold: Cooper Investment Associates.
A pleasant female voice said: “Welcome to Cooper Associates. Our business hours are from nine am to five pm Monday through Friday. Yes, we’re old-fashioned. If you know which agent you wish to speak with, say the name. If you wish an appointment, say ‘Appointment.’ If you wish to leave a message, say ‘Message.’ If this is a personal call, you know the magic words.”
Doubrava rolled his eyes. “Knock, knock.”
The doorway disappeared, replaced by a face saved from generic beauty by a square jaw, which she emphasized with a sleek, backward sweep of mahogany hair. “Yo, bo.”
Doubrava raised a brow. “Is that any way for a professional female to greet a client, like a ganger?”
She grinned. “Today you’re not a client and I’m in a wild side mood from watching a VR vid of Bones of Blood.” As if to prove it, she reached back, released her hair, and tousled it bushy with her fingers.
“Perilous pursuits, explosions, gratuitous violence and gore?”
“And sex. Incendiary sex.”
He pulled in a long breath. “I wouldn’t mind some of that. Come up and visit.”
She snorted. “And have it be like last time . . . an air dance in the ballroom, the adventure of sex in zero gee, then the rest of the week playing spectator while you keep the peace? No.” She pushed some of the bush back from her face. “If you actually want to spend time with me, you take some leave and come down here. When not otherwise occupied with said incendiary sex, we’ll eat in restaurants where there’s a decent wine list and you don’t have to be belted in your chair. I can also get us tickets to Celine Simon’s new play 86 and Monkey Dishes. Since you know her, maybe she’d invite us backstage.”
“I doubt it. She demanded another bodyguard after a week because I ended protection at her bedroom door and refused to act as her gofer and masseur. Here’s a better idea. Let’s rendezvous on the Glenn and take a shuttle to the Moon for a week at the Tralfamadore.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Isn’t that the hotel where all the rooms are transparent domes?”
“No one can see in, only out. Think of it, lying in an acre of bed with the Earth and stars overhead. I’m sending you pictures.”
He held up a data stick that he plugged in off-screen.
“Is there any way to know what’s on that stick?” Janna said.
“The dining room, club, and spa are also domed. Is that attachment downloading all right?”
“It’s slow but coming.”
A minute or so later she turned her screen to another one, which showed an image of a lunar crater surface with a cluster of gleaming bubbles, followed by an image of a bedroom under a dome of stars.
“Interesting,” Mama said.
“What?”
“The size of the file for just two images.”
“Maybe it’s only two images she’s opened.”
Bringing the screen back to her, Cooper sighed. “It’s tempting I admit. But it’d cost a fortune. Not to mention the time away from my business. I have more clients than you.”
“Let Kai take care of the others. Look . . . it’s my treat, a reward for your investment genius. Let me fly you to the Moon to dance beneath the stars. Did I mention that the dining room, spa, club, and ballroom are also domed?”
She snorted. “Yeah, yeah.”
Doubrava grinned. “So let’s do it. Study the pictures and imagine yourself there. Think about it.”
“Very well. Meanwhile . . . how are your parents and siblings?”
“Haley is solidly entrenched as the Queen of Forensics and—” He tilted his head. “Damn . . . I’ve got to go.”
“I’m so surprised. Bye, bo.” She blew him a kiss and they disconnected.
Mama ticked his tongue. “Stock purchases make a good code and investment advising an ideal cover for contacting corporations in search of a buyer for whatever was on that data stick. He has access to the entire station. He spent time alone in the morgue.”
“But doesn’t hesitate to include himself among the suspects, and would he have given us all this access with his authorization code if he had something to hide?”
“Like a taste for luxury protecting the uber-rich . . . where sharp ears there, and here, might also collect insider information for Ms. Cooper to capitalize on.” Mama paused. “Frankness about being a suspect is a good way to appear unconcerned. True, there wasn’t anything in that conversation I can interpret as code for Chenoweth will die on Tuesday and arrive back on Earth Friday. The size of the file he sent her is curious, though.”
“So due diligence says we check him out. How about watching some of the earlier calls?”
“I’m more interested in Fontana. He has the most to lose if the vote Friday goes against Crispin Lanour.”
After Athena produced the director’s log, they scrolled through the sixty days. Fontana made even more calls than Doubrava. To and from a 505 area code number three and four times a week and to 361 usually twice a week.
Mama said, “Athena, where is area code 505?”
“Area code 505 is Santa Fe New Mexico.”
“The location of Lanour-Tenning’s corporate headquarters. Athena, identify the caller.”
“Caller ID is withheld.”
They raised eyebrows at each other.
Mama touched the most recent appearance of the number, on Tuesday. “Play the recording of this call.”
“Unable to play. The call is scrambled.”
“Stealth calls,” Janna said.
“Between Fontana and Santa Fe it’s more likely to be confidential corporate business.”
True.
“Athena, identify the location of area code 316.”
“Area code 361 is in Corpus Christi, Texas.”
“Where his wife lives,” Janna said.
Once a month he exchanged a text message with Mars. Four numbers he had called once each — all with international area codes — and received return calls from three. Then beginning the past Friday came calls from and to several Topeka numbers — one of them Headquarters — and an Emporia number.
Eliminate the texts to Mars and flurry of calls since Friday and they had the four one-times and the wife Mercedes Altimira.
“I think we can eliminate the single calls, too,” Mama said.
“The single calls total seven,” Janna said. “What if they’re spoofed numbers, all actually to and from the same individual?”
Mama frowned. “That’s possible . . . though the most recent is a return call a week before Chenoweth died. If he’d worked out the final details that far ahead, wouldn’t the agents have be
en able to set their plans earlier than they did? On the other hand, Fontana called his wife on Sunday, the day before the agents approached the Wraiths. And regular calls to her wouldn’t seem suspicious.”
“Due diligence, Mama,” Janna said. “Rock, paper, scissors to decide about checking out the one-times first?”
He threw a rock, her paper.
He sighed. “Okay. Let’s see who those four numbers purportedly belong to.”
To Janna’s frustration, none belonged to individuals. Athena identified them as Altachem in Vancouver; the University of Edinburgh; the Schutte Klinik in Munich; and Kenyatta University in Nairobi.
“We need to check out the African call.”
“Except Kenyatta never called back and Edinburgh did so nine days ago,” Mama said. “I’m thinking when we check them out, we’ll find those calls are for recruiting. The timing of the call to his wife on Sunday makes it more significant. Let’s check it first.”
Fine.
He scrolled to that call and touched the number. “Athena, play this call.”
The screen split again, half showing Fontana’s face against a nebula background — placing him in his office. On the other half, a slim, tanned female with a cascade of bronze hair and three strategically located little stars lay on a chaise beside a domed swimming pool. Outside, paving and steps separated the dome from a beach and the Gulf stretching blue to the horizon.
“Hi, sugah.” Mercedes Altamira’s rich voice echoed slightly. “Seein’ you makes up for a lot this week.”
Hunger flashed in Fontana’s wolf’s eyes. “Seeing you makes up for a lot in my week, too. What’s happened there?”
She sighed, setting the stars on her nipples trembling. “The usual. Handing out nutritional counseling to clients who want to be slimmer and healthier without giving up any sugar, fat, or calories.” She tilted her head, brows lifting. “Not to criticize, darlin’, but you look tired. Is it the job or has Ms. Nakashima finally managed to ravish you and rob you of sleep?”
He smiled. “I don’t have time for sex. There’s too much to do.”
She laughed . . . a rich, sensuous sound from deep in her throat. “Lord don’t I know that. My space man. But you’ve got time right now. How about some phone sex?” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Let me tell you what I’d do if you were here or me there instead of however many hundreds of miles apart.” She peeled off the three stars and arched her browned body.
Beside her, Mama took a sharp breath.
Even being solidly hetero, Janna felt a blast of heat. “If they wanted to distract anyone monitoring the call, that’s one way to do it.”
On the screen, Fontana shook his head. “Be good, Merc. We don’t want to fry the satellite connecting us, or shock an eavesdropper.”
“Reminding her they might be hacked?” Mama said.
Altamira laughed again and sat up on the edge of the chaise, wrapping a towel around her. “All right. But only because we won’t endanger satellites or eavesdroppers much longer. Unless . . .”
Fontana’s forehead creased. “Unless what?”
Janna and Mama both leaned closer to the screen.
“I’ve had a text from Mariah. She’s pregnant and Morgan’s got fingers crossed for herself. The way they’ve always done things together, I’m betting she is.” She paused. “I’d love to be there with them.”
“Is this code?” Janna asked.
“Maybe not. He does have daughters on Mars, remember.”
Fontana rubbed his neck. From his expression, he wanted to swear, or argue, but said, “Could you make it before the babies are born?”
“With luck. You know me, efficient and detail-obsessive. There’s a launch window on Thursday for a seven month trip. Transluna and Aero-Ballantine both have flights. A-B’s fare is a little lower but Transluna leaves from Johnson.” She paused. “I know it means probably two years of separation from you. But . . .” She let her voice trail off.
He heaved a deep sigh. “I know.”
“I don’t suppose you could come with me?”
He sighed even more deeply. “No.”
“Not going to burn his bridges before he has to,” Janna said.
“If he could even have made it down to Earth in time to catch that ship.”
Fontana said, “Will going interfere with winding up the house sale?”
She and Mama pricked their ears.
“House sale might be code,” Mama said.
“No. The money’s in escrow and the realtor says the buyers are impatient to finish signing and take possession.”
“Then sign tomorrow.” Fontana sighed again and waved a hand. “Wave as you pass me on the way to Mars.”
“Is the hand a signal?” Janna said. “Five fingers to signal delivery in five days, which would be that Friday?”
“I love you,” Fontana said.
“I love you, too, sugah.”
As the call concluded, Mama’s mouth pressed in a thin line. “We definitely need to see his previous calls.” He scrolled back through the log to a call two weeks before. “Athena—”
“Where’s Ian?”
They turned.
A beaming Zea Cathmore floated in the portal, stabilizing her position by gripping its rim.
“He’s out being a presence in the station,” Janna said. “I take it you’ve found something on the suit?”
Cathmore grinned. “I know why the seal on Chenoweth’s suit failed.”
Chapter Seven
She touched her headset. “Link to Doubrava.” following that seconds later with, “Hey . . . I know the mechanism that could have made the suit seal fail. The wax. . . . No, I won’t explain. You need to see it. . . . All right.” To them she said, “He’s going to bring Chenoweth’s wax from the locker porto.”
Janna lifted her brows at Mama. “If the wax caused the seal failure, would the killer leave it to be found?”
Mama shook his head. “Ask him to bring any wax from Titus’s locker, too.”
Cathmore touched her headset again as she pushed off the portal and sailed down the hallway.
Mama followed her. “Why not show us while we wait for Doubrava?” Janna heard no reply but Mama called, “Come on, Bibi.”
She joined them in the lab.
Cathmore still had the VE suit laid out on the long work table, but she stood by the near section with its scene board, her head coming just to the tabletop.
“Do you want your chair?” Mama asked.
“For this I prefer being down here. Observe the vend token on the table. I coated it with wax I scraped out of the suit seal. Pick it up.”
Mama did so. His forehead and scalp furrowed.
Janna learned why when he peeled it loose to hand to her. Beyond tacky, the token almost glued itself to her fingers. “Okay. Now what?”
Cathmore smiled. “Clench your hand.”
Janna obeyed. “For how long?”
“That depends how hot-blooded you are.”
Mama’s eyes narrowed. “Heat affects it? How?”
“Wait and see.” Seconds ticked by, then a minute, and two minutes. Three minutes. Cathmore’s lips moved, counting.
Mama persisted. “How can the wax affect the seal? If I understand correctly, it isn’t really needed. It’s just something the crews feel adds insurance.”
Cathmore nodded. “My understanding, too. Okay, lay the token back on the table. Lay it on. Don’t drop it.”
Janna laid her hand on the table, palm down, and opened her fingers, releasing the token.
When she pulled back her hand, Cathmore said, “Okay, now pick it up.”
Janna tried, but her fingers slid off the edge. A second attempt failed, too. She planted a thumb to hold it in place while sliding a fingernail under the other side. As soon as her thumb pressed down, the token squirted from under it and shot across the table, hitting the scene board. From there it ricocheted back toward her. Janna grabbed it . . . only to have it squirt from her h
and and head for the lab portal.
Where it struck an entering Doubrava in the chest and deflected upward.
“What the hell?”
Despite his surprise, he reacted by leaping to catch the token as it caromed off the ceiling. And lost it as Janna had.
Spurting out of his hand, it jetted past Mama into the row of instrumentation down that side of the room.
Janna began appreciating why Cathmore chose to remain low.
Mama went after the token. Rather than try grabbing it, however, he stretched a cupped hand above it and came gently down to the counter. After several moments, he peered under his hand, then lifted it away.
Doubrava skated over. “A token?” He started to reach for it.
“Don’t!” Cathmore punched his leg. “You’ll start it off again!”
He paused over the token, then gingerly pinched the edges between his thumb and forefinger.
Janna winced as it slid loose.
He quickly slapped his hand over it. “It’s like trying to pick up quicksilver. What did you do to it, Zee?”
“Just coated it with the wax on the suit seal,” Cathmore said. “That’s what killed Chenoweth.”
“What!” A dozen questions flared in the turquoise eyes. “Why would he wax the seal with anything like this?”
“If you’ll remove your hand so the token cools, you’ll see. On second thought, let’s hurry it along with my own version of Fire-freez.” She reached into a drawer for a spray bottle and spritzed the token. “Now pick it up.”
He did so. After turning it over in his fingers, he pressed it down on the counter top. “Amazing. The same stuff goes from quicksilver to this?”
Cathmore nodded. “Almost glue when cold, nearly a zero coefficient of friction when heated up. It made the suit seal so slick it squirted apart.”
“Where did the smuggler find it? Who would make something like that?” Janna said.
“Not deliberately,” Cathmore said. “It’s likely a failed attempt at the perfect lubricant.”
“And our smuggler acquired some after overhearing the inventor cry in his beer about it,” Doubrava said.
