Xenopath (9 page)

Sunlight falling
through the un-opaqued viewscreen to his left dazzled him for a
second, before his eyes adjusted and he made out what was obviously a
study. Books lined three walls, and overspill piles tottered on the
carpet, alternating with holo-cubes showing various specimens of
alien fauna.

He stopped on
the threshold, staring at the messy remains that filled the chair
before the desk. He glanced at the coagulated blood that covered the
carpet. Evidently Travers had been dead for hours.

He moved back
into the lounge and got through Kapinsky's answering service, gave
Travers's address and told her to get here fast. Then he called K.J.
Kulpa and reported a second slaying.

He knew he had
to go back into the study, but something stopped him. He lifted his
handset again, and before he realised what he was doing he had tapped
out Sukara's code.

Her smiling face
filled the screen, dazzling him with relief. "Su, you don't know
how good it is to see you."

"Jeff, you
okay? You look white as a ghost!"

He smiled. "I'm
fine. I thought I'd call, see how you are."

"Oh, I'm
okay. Tired. You know. Oh—she just kicked!" She laughed,
and her delight filled Vaughan with joy. "It's so strange, Jeff,
having someone inside you."

"What have
you got planned for this afternoon?"

She gave a
guilty smile. "I'm meeting Lara for coffee. What have you been
doing?"

"I'll tell
you all about it tonight," he said. "I love you, Su,"

"Love you,
too," she echoed. He cut the connection and stood in silence,
his heartbeat loud, wanting to be far away from this place, drinking
coffee at some quiet, shaded cafe in the Park.

He moved to the
study door and leaned against the woodwork. The killer must have
stood right here, he judged, said something to attract Travers's
attention: Travers swivels in his seat, and the killer fires his
laser, sweeping it in his or her signature loop, causing maximum
injury with minimum effort.

The result was
that Travers's head and arms lay on the carpet. His torso sat on the
charred swivel chair, feet planted incongruously on the floor.

Vaughan returned
to the lounge. He de-opaqued the viewscreen and sat in the sunlight,
dictating into his handset a report of that morning's interview with
Hermione Kormier and the latest discovery.

Kapinsky arrived
ten minutes later, closely followed by Kulpa and the SoC team.

He gave Kulpa
the pin detailing his investigations, as protocol dictated, and
waited until Kapinsky emerged from the study. She crossed the lounge
as if breezing down a fashion catwalk and sprawled in a deep armchair
across from him, arms and legs spread.

He told her
about his meeting with Hermione Kormier.

She watched him,
her expression blank.

"You've
been busy for a new boy," she said when he'd finished. "Any
thoughts?"

He stared at
her. He could live with his new job, the intrusive mind-reading and
butchered bodies, but it was hard to take the fact that he was
employed by someone he didn't particularly like.

"Where to
begin?" he said. "The common link is Mallory, of course.
They came across something there, saw something, heard something... I
don't know. Kormier's wife said he was a different person when he got
back, a month ago. He had a couple of meetings with Travers, and they
both end up dead."

Kulpa emerged
from the study and tossed Kapinsky a pin. "That's all the
information we've collated from this one. If you need anything more,
shout."

While the SoC
team packed up, and the corpse team moved in, Kapinsky inserted the
pin into her handset. She spoke into her 'set, sounding bored.

"Estimated
time of death?"

A neutral female
voice replied, "
Two a.m., plus or minus ten minutes."

Vaughan said,
"Couple of hours after the killer got Kormier."

Kapinsky
grunted, "All in a night's work." To her handset she said,
"Means of death?"

"Instantaneous
laser laceration of carotid artery.'"

"Weapon
used?"

"Kulatov
MkII blaser, set at maximum burn."

"And
estimated range of laser?"

"Between
two and three metres."

"Does the
victim have dependants, next of kin?"

"Victim's
marital status: single, no known relations. "

Kapinsky killed
her 'set and looked across at Vaughan. "Let's presume, for the
time being, that we're dealing with one killer here, okay?"

"Looks that
way."

"So where
were we?"

Vaughan said,
"Mallory. The connection. Kormier and Travers found something
there. You know anything about the planet?"

"Christ,
Vaughan, there're so many colony worlds out there I've lost count.
I'm an investigator, not an encyclopaedia."

"It was
simply a question," he said, staring at her.

She shrugged. "I
know fuck all about the place." She indicated her handset. "But
I'll access the Station's database."

He nearly
congratulated her, but held his tongue.

She tapped her
handset's keypad and said, "Colony planet. Mallory. Information
by specific question."

Vaughan glanced
across the lounge. The corpse team was manhandling a white body bag
through the door and up the narrow stairs, their task not made easy
by the fact that the corpse was in four pieces. He looked away.

Seconds later a
transistorised male voice issued from Kapinsky's handset. "
Connection established. Proceed."

She said,
"Political situation, population, indigenous population?"

Ten minutes
later they had a brief outline of the colony world of Mallory, Eta
Ophiuchi. It was a class II Earth-norm world, land-sea ratio
seventy-thirty, equable climate approximating to Earth sub-tropical,
approximately the size of Luna. It was owned by the
Scheering-Lassiter organisation, who governed by a democratically
elected committee of twelve. The planet had no sentient native life
forms, but a vast ecology ranging from bacteria up to arboreal
primates. Its population was just 6.3 million, its main industries
uranium and diamond mining and agriculture.

Vaughan said,
"We really need to talk to someone at Scheering-Lassiter."

"So okay,"
Kapinsky said, "except the Scheering-Lassiter people aren't
playing ball."

"What did
they say?"

"I
requested a meeting with some official in charge of colonial affairs.
A stone-faced bitch said no-can-do. She told me they're detailing
their own in-house team of investigators to look into the killing.
Which, Vaughan, is entirely within their rights. We're private
investigators—we've no jurisdiction. Can't make the bastards
see us."

Vaughan almost
mentioned the pass-card he'd palmed from Kormier's study, but
something stopped him from showing his hand. Chances were if he told
her about it, she'd commandeer the card and waltz into the
Scheering-Lassiter headquarters all guns blazing.

He'd go there
himself; make discreet enquiries.

He said, "I
have contacts at the Station. I'll see what I can do, okay?"

"You get in
there, you're a better man than me, Vaughan."

She stood up and
moved to the viewscreen, leaned against it and said to him, "I
went over to the police HQ, accessed the files. I thought I'd check
Kormi-er's death against any others over the past year or so."

"And?"

She shrugged. "I
dunno. I might've found a match. It's a long shot. Nine months ago, a
woman was found lasered in the arboretum on Level Two— in the
same way, crossed loop, same weapon. It was in the dead case file."

"Who was
she?"

"Dana
Mulraney. An off-worlder, from Tourmaline. She'd been on the Station
for six months. She was with a lover at the time. I did some
checking. Her partner's still living here."

"You plan
to question him?"

"I'm
meeting
her
at four."

"I'll check
out Scheering-Lassiter."

Kapinsky was
shaking her head. "Let's do this together. I want to see you in
action."

Uneasy, he
nodded. "Fine by me."

They left the
apartment and took an air-taxi north.

Five minutes
later the taxi decelerated, banked tightly and came in to land
outside the Bengal Tiger's skyball stadium. From the outside, the
edifice looked like some corporeal HQ in downtown Manhattan. The
imposing matt black polycarbon facade was inset with a thousand
silver viewscreens, which reflected the late afternoon sun in a
scintillating array, like so many holo-screens tuned to the same
station.

Vaughan climbed
out and stared up at the towering southside of the stadium. He
glanced at Kapinsky. "She works here?"

"You could
say that," she replied. "You heard of Petra Shelenkov?"

"Can't say
I have."

"You not up
on skyball?"

"Don't
follow sport."

"Not even
the Tigers?"

Vaughan sighed,
eager to be out of the heat of the sun. "Didn't know it was
compulsory," he said.

"Jeez, I
thought every citizen on the Station was following them last season.
They won the World Championship, you know? Famous last minute victory
over Chicago?"

He shrugged. "So
Shelenkov plays skyball."

"Star
signing from Vladivostok Vampires a couple of seasons ago."

Vaughan looked
at Kapinsky. "You follow the Tigers?"

"Me?"
she wisecracked. "You're joking, right? It's a mug's game."

He stared at her
as she set off across the parking lot and entered the dark shadow of
the stadium, then followed.

They flashed
their IDs at a security guard and stepped through a revolving door.
Kapinsky led the way along a corridor until they came to a steep
flight of concrete steps. They climbed, minutes later arriving at the
first tier of banked seating.

Vaughan had
never been inside a skyball stadium, and he was surprised at the size
of the place. On all four sides, six tiers rose around the central
playing area—a great box-like rectangle, demarcated by
low-powered lasers, two hundred metres long, seventy wide, and fifty
deep. He was reminded of an aquarium, and the way the skyball players
darted through the air, like so many polychromatic tropical fish,
heightened the effect.

Kapinsky edged
along a row of seats and sat down.

Vaughan joined
her and watched the players practise defensive manoeuvres. They wore
power packs and jetted through the air in pursuit of an oval rubber
disc, which they struck with shields towards a goal board at each end
of the playing area.

He was surprised
at how physical the game was, even in this workout. The players wore
padding, but even so the way they rammed each other seemed sufficient
to break bones. From time to time a collision resulted in a
malfunctioning power pack, and the unfortunate players tumbled from
the playing area and landed with a thump on a sprung rubber mat far
below.

They'd been
watching for about ten minutes when one of the attacking players,
swaddled in a red padded jacket, swooped from the playing area and
landed in the aisle a few metres below where they were sitting.

The woman
climbed, unbuckling her helmet and wiping sweat from her face.

She was a
big-boned Slav in her late twenties, blonde hair cropped spiky short,
with muscles on her arms and legs like a cartoonist's caricature of a
superhero on steroids.

She sidestepped
along the row of seating below Vaughan and Kapinsky and sat down in
front of them. She nodded at Vaughan suspiciously, smiled at
Kapinsky. "You wanted to talk to me about Dana, no?"

Vaughan let
Kapinsky do the talking.

"We think
her death might be linked to a case we're investigating," she
said. "We're just checking out a few leads."

Shelenkov
shuttled an ice-blue glance between them. "So who's the
sidekick?"

"Vaughan,"
he said, before Kapinsky could answer for him.

"You both
telepaths, no?"

He nodded.
Kapinsky said, "It's the best way to get results, darling."

"Listen, I
don't want no man fucking with my head, okay?"

Vaughan held up
both hands. "That's fine by me," he said, glancing at
Kapinsky and killing the beginning of a smile.

"You don't
mind if I...?" Kapinsky began, indicating her handset.

"If it's
necessary for the investigation, then okay."

Kapinsky tapped
her handset and smiled. "This won't take long. I just want to
ask you a few questions."

Shelenkov
nodded. "Just like the pricks who said they were investigating
Dana's death, and then did fuck all?"

Kapinsky said,
"The cops, they're stretched a lot of the time, yeah? Haven't
always got time to follow things up. These days, a cop's lucky to
have three days on a murder before it goes in the dead case file."

Shelenkov looked
none too impressed. "That's what the bastards told me nine
months ago," she said. "You know what? They asked me half a
dozen questions—just six, yes?—then left and never got
back to me. We're talking about a murdered woman, no? They treated
her death like a fucking traffic violation."

Kapinsky closed
her eyes, then opened them and looked at Vaughan. He could see that
she'd read something.

Discreetly—not
wanting to anger the skyball giant in the slightest—he pressed
the start-up code into his implant and awaited the painful flare of
an angry mind at close range.

It came, rocking
him.

Shelenkov
carried an image of her dead lover in her mind like an icon, to which
she paid daily devotion: they had been together six years when Dana
was murdered, the best six years of Shelenkov's life, and now—

Raging pain, a
whirlwind of grief so powerful that Vaughan reached out to kill the
link.