They passed from the elegance and subdued murmurs of the dining room to the rattle and organized confusion of the kitchen. The variety of odors assaulted Bowman, causing her stomach to growl, which was thankfully overridden by the ambient noise. She recognized some appetizing smells, but there were some exotic aromas that defied identification, even after she passed the sizzling or boiling pans and pots. There were some, too, that brought a more negative reaction, such as something with still-writhing appendages that made several attempts at escape before a lid was slammed over the squirming mess. That particular entrée’s aroma reminded her of fish that had been dead for weeks.
As various as the dinners being prepared, so were the species of the cooks and chefs making the preparations. It could easily be a gathering of Trade Pact Board Members, were it not for the frenzied activities. And the lack of arguing.
The hostess hurried them to the rear of the kitchen toward a door that stood ajar. She pushed it open and motioned Bowman and ’Whix inside without so much as an announcement of their presence. Then she quickly vanished to return to her job.
Ansel’s small figure hunched over a data pad, poking an index finger at the screen, sliding the digit to move icons and files. The ancient Human’s wrinkled face pursed with frustration, and his tapping became more agitated.
“Our fruit vendor is charging way too much,” he said without looking up, making Bowman wonder if he was speaking to her or just complaining to himself. “Outrageous fees for transporting fruit that is probably grown in the hydroponics right here on station. I shall have to investigate further and deal with the vendor accordingly.”
He slid the pad aside and looked at her. “But that isn’t why you came here, is it . . . Commander?”
“No,” she said, “it isn’t. Commander Bowman and Constable P’tr wit ’Whix. We’re investigating the death of Jak Chesterton. I understand that you discovered the body.”
Ansel’s eyes twitched. “Yes. I did. Dreadful business, that. I was under the impression that there was no foul play, that he died of heart trouble or some such thing.”
“Plexis Security hasn’t made an official ruling,” Bowman said, omitting the fact that any such ruling would be hers. “What makes you believe that?”
His lips made a quick smile. “One hears things. One cannot help it here, at the Claws & Jaws. Rumors and gossip travel faster than light speed on Plexis. So, Commander, why are the enforcers investigating?”
“Hom Chesterton was a commissioner.” She gave him a disarming smile. “Purely standard procedure on someone of such high profile. You understand.”
The corner of his mouth quivered. “Of course. But how can I help you? I did nothing more than stumble over his body. Plexis Security has my statement. I doubt I could add anything more to it.”
“Show us where you found the body.”
He pushed himself up from his chair, moving his thin body in a slow and deliberate manner. “If that will help, of course. This way.”
He led them out of the small office, squeezing between her and ’Whix to reach the door. Then down the hall, past other doors on either side until reaching the heavy metal door leading to the maintenance corridor. He undid the lock, pushed down the latch, and shoved, causing the door to slide into the wall. Outside, the buzz of machinery echoed along the long course of the service corridor. In either direction, the curve of the station caused the disconcerting upsweep of the corridor, less noticeable in more populated areas. Even on the concourses of each level, objects interrupted the view of the distant curve so that visitors had more of an illusion of being somewhere other than inside a metal can spinning through space.
Servos whizzed by. Maintenance robots rolled from one job to another, checking wiring and plumbing, monitoring for problems that might seem insignificant but could prove disastrous or deadly. Some servos cleaned, keeping away dust or corrosion. They maintained the delicate balance that kept life on Plexis continuing to exist. Servofreighters made deliveries to the various businesses along the corridor, while others digested trash, burping methane to be collected.
“Where did you discover the remains?” Bowman asked.
Ansel flared out his hands. “Right here.”
Bowman handed ’Whix the small holo projector. He set it on the deck where Ansel had indicated and activated it.
The aged Human turned his head away as the body of Chesterton flashed into existence at his feet.
“Did you know Commissioner Chesterton?” she asked.
“No.”
“Surely you recognized him.”
“No. I don’t usually pay much attention to our customers. I haven’t the time or the luxury. If I watched the news media for every important person who happened to visit Plexis, I’d never get anything done.”
Bowman paced around the image of the body, which lay upon its back. Certainly a different appearance than the corpse that lay in the morgue. There was a trace of agony on the frozen features, which had vanished with the relaxation of death. He had felt pain in this death. It could have been slight, as an upset stomach, or intense, as if his mind was being ripped away. She couldn’t tell. Not yet.
“What brought you out here?” she asked.
Ansel stood against the bulkhead near the door, as far from the image as possible. He looked at it with something other than a passing curiosity. More like dread.
He looked up, suddenly realizing she had asked him a question. “Pardon?”
“Why did you come into the access corridor? It doesn’t seem to be something you would normally do.”
Ansel pointed to a device to his right. “Our trash digester had been acting up. I came out to check if it had been repaired or not. It hadn’t been, as you can see. It leaked. Completely intolerable. The fees we pay, and this is the service we get.”
Below the access panel to the digester, a puddle had formed. It was a dark mess of indescribable composition that congealed on the deck.
“’Whix,” she said to the constable, “turn off the holo emitter for a moment.”
The Tolian bent down and thumbed the control, causing the corpse to vanish.
Ansel gave a small sigh of relief.
Bowman looked for the puddle from the leaking digester. It was no longer there, but had been part of the projection.
“So your digester is fixed?” she asked.
“Apparently so,” Ansel said.
She waved to the constable. “Please activate it again, ’Whix.”
“Really, Commander,” Ansel protested, “do I need to be here for your investigation? This is quite . . . disturbing. Bad enough the first time, but to endure it again and again . . . I do have work to do.”
“Indulge me a little while longer, Hom,” she said, bending down to examine the image of the stain. “Curious.”
“Commander?” Ansel said.
She pointed to a mark on the deck as long as her thumb. “Don’t you see it, Hom Ansel? Something had inadvertently stepped in that puddle of muck from the digester and left a print. It appears to be a paw mark.”
Ansel squinted at where she pointed.
“Really? I can’t see anything.”
Bowman straightened and placed her fists on her hips. “Definitely a paw mark. There was another being here, a small being with bare paws or feet. Almost looks like a hand.”
Ansel made a dismissive gesture. “There are vermin in these service corridors, especially around food storage bins and digesters. The servos do what they can to get rid of them, but no system is perfect. Vermin. Annoying creatures, but harmless. That’s what it was. Is that everything, Commander?”
He slid open the door. “When you are done, you may come through this way. I’ll leave it unlocked for now.”
When Bowman did not object, Ansel quickly disappeared inside and slid the door shut, leaving her and ’Whix with the hologr
aphic corpse. Bowman ignored the image of the body but concentrated on the print on the metal deck plating. She had seen more than her share of Plexis’ version of “vermin.” Some could reach a formidable size, but most were no larger than the length of her hand. Their paws were narrow with claws. And they did not have opposable digits.
“The Human . . . Hom Ansel,”’Whix said through the tinny voice of his translator, his crest feathers ruffling, “was very nervous.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Perhaps he does not deal well with death.”
“Perhaps,” Bowman echoed. “But there’s another reason for his anxiety. He just lied to us.”
“Really? How were you able to determine that, Commander?”
“He’d know what vermin tracks look like. That print isn’t from anything local. Furthermore, Chesterton did not simply walk through the kitchen and out the back door. You saw Ansel unlock the door. Someone had to escort Chesterton out.”
“You suspect Hom Ansel?”
“I suspect he knows more than he has said. He lied to us. How much, we will find out. Of course he knew Chesterton, or at least recognized him. But only an idiot would kill someone and then claim to discover the body. Scan the print and transfer it to station security.”
Bowman activated her com link and contacted Wallace.
“Constable ’Whix is sending you an image of an animal print,” she said. “I want to know what species left it?”
“Got it, Commander.” She didn’t like Wallace’s condescending laugh. “So now the enforcers are chasing LEMS?”
“‘Lems?’”
“Little Enigmatic Monsters. We’ve been trying to get rid of them for years. Personally, I think they came off of Retian ships, but we don’t really know. They’re quick, can squeeze into tight places, and like to hide. They pop out, scare customers, then disappear. They steal things, even electronics, which we’ll later find dismantled, as though they were examining them. Mostly, they steal shiny things and food. There’s probably only a half dozen on the entire station, but they’re annoying. The good thing about them is that they eat vermin, and don’t ask how we found that out. It’s gratifying to witness enforcers at work.”
She disconnected the link in the middle of his laughter.
That was disappointing. She had hoped for some exotic species—at least one that she had never encountered, to be a clue—which now was unlikely. This so-called LEM would have nothing to do with this case.
Still, Ansel would know it wasn’t vermin that left that print. Why had he been so insistent to suggest it was?
* * *
• • •
Bowman headed spinward to the more exclusive levels of Plexis. Here, in the famous Hidleberg Hotel, beings of a certain class resided when onstation. The rich and powerful. The owners of corporations and systems. The movers of systems. The hotel’s lobby was large enough to dock a spaceship. The two enforcers were ignored by the clientele. At the concierge desk, Bowman had Rykard Kessler paged. An escort was arranged to take her and ’Whix to Kessler’s suite.
At the apartment door, Kessler smiled and motioned her and the constable inside.
“Forgive the intrusion, Hom Kessler,” Bowman said without so much as a glance at the plush surroundings of the suite. “We are investigating the death of Commissioner Chesterton.”
Kessler pursed his lips. “But I thought the investigation was complete. Poor Chesterton died of cardiac failure. What more is there?”
“Routine questions,” she said with a small smile. “Just some loose odds and ends. You were his assistant, correct?”
“Associate. Chesterton was the trade commissioner but also head of the Imesh Conglomerate. I am the associate administrator.”
“Then you take control now that he is deceased.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that, Commander. The board of directors controls the conglomerate. Chesterton was appointed administrator because he was a major shareholder.”
“And who gains those shares now that he is dead?”
Kessler’s eyebrows rose. “I’m sure that is all in his will. As he no longer has any living family, I am certain it will be dispersed appropriately. I certainly do not stand to inherit anything, if that’s what you’re implying, nor do I gain any advantage over his death. If you need such information, I’ll pass on your request to his law firm.”
No need. She’d put ’Whix on it. “How was he when you last saw him?” Bowman asked.
“He complained of chest pains, but disregarded it as indigestion. He assured me he was fine, or I would not have left him alone.”
“Why would he have used the rear exit to the restaurant?”
Kessler looked up at the Tolian. “I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Know of anyone who might want to see him dead? Were there any threats?” Bowman asked.
Kessler shifted uneasily. “No. We haven’t had any incident like that since his cousin, Denyl Constantine, died several years ago. He was the previous administrator. Anarchists, from a revolution on one of the colony worlds. There had been all kinds of threats back then. Constantine and his family were murdered.”
“How curious,” Bowman murmured. Two deaths of corporate administrators? It added a more planetary flavor to the case, not that she’d give it to Imesh Port Authority. “Then would these same individuals be a danger to Commissioner Chesterton?”
“I don’t see how. We haven’t had any problem since then.”
Bowman turned toward the door. “I won’t keep you, Hom. I’m sure you want to return to your homeworld as soon as possible. Tell me,” she said, pausing, “what brought you to Plexis in the first place?”
“Meetings,” he said with a tired sigh. “The Conglomerate is seeking to expand. That means investing time at the Imesh Trade Mission on Plexis. We must meet with other businesses and planetary leaders to arrange or modify agreements. We need something, they need something. It’s all a matter of ironing out the details. Chesterton hosted.”
“And you’re certain no one that either of you have met with would want to see the commissioner dead.”
Kessler shook his head. “There would be no advantage in that, I assure you.”
* * *
• • •
Bowman stood in the service corridor outside the Claws & Jaws, pondering the upsweeping horizon. Farther down, someone was working on a servo, clattering tools. Jak Chesterton came out here for a reason. It wasn’t to escape media reporters or prying eyes. Something drew him here, and he died. Could he have been lured from the restaurant?
The door to the restaurant clanked open and out came the elderly Human, Ansel, escorted by ’Whix.
“Thank you for joining me, Hom Ansel,” she said.
“I wasn’t aware I had much choice, Commander Bowman,” Ansel replied. “Although I want to cooperate as much as I can, I do hope this won’t take long.”
She clasped her hands behind her back and stepped closer to him. “The sooner we come to the truth, the sooner you may return to your duties.”
Ansel eased back, colliding with the Tolian. The constable’s feathered crest rose slowly as he stared down at the Human.
“What—what do you mean?” Ansel asked.
“Commissioner Chesterton did not simply wander through the kitchen and exit through this door. He was escorted. You brought him out here.”
“How—” Ansel’s eyes widened in surprise, then he composed himself. “What could possibly make you believe I would have taken him through?”
“Your reaction just now,” Bowman said, inching closer, glaring at him. “You have not been entirely honest with us, Hom Ansel. I hope that is about to change. Now, you escorted Chesterton through that door.”
Ansel gave a small nod.
“Good,” Bowman said with a nod of her own. She turned away and
looked around the corridor. A servofreighter whizzed by to deliver merchandise to another establishment. “Now, why would Chesterton be interested in seeing your service corridor. If you were going to talk to him in private, you would have used your office. So, it was to meet someone else.”
She gave him a casual glance and studied the flash of panic in his eyes, indicating that her guess had been correct.
“Who are you protecting?” she demanded.
“No one!”
“A Trade Pact Commissioner was murdered,” she said, although she had no proof to indicate that. Ansel needn’t know about her lack of evidence. “There are two options. Either you killed him yourself, which I doubt, or you brought him to his murderer.”
“No, she wouldn’t—”
Ansel clamped his mouth shut. His eyes darted to the corridor behind her.
“You know the killer,” Bowman said. “Things will go easier on you if you tell me. Plexis Security won’t be as understanding.”
He shook his head and lowered his eyes. “It was me. I did it. I killed Chesterton.”
Behind him, ’Whix ruffled the feathers crowning his head. His mouth turned up at the confession.
Bowman sighed. “Very well. I don’t believe you, but if you insist on protecting an assassin and confessing to the murder yourself, I have to accept it. ’Whix, take Hom Ansel into custody and escort him to the Conciliator’s brig.”
She heard the footsteps from behind before she saw Ansel wince and squeeze his eyes tight.
“He didn’t do it,” a voice said from behind her.
Bowman turned to see a young female Human. Tall and thin, just past her second decade. She wore a pair of stained and wrinkled service coveralls with the station logo on the breast, a thick belt around her thin waist carrying pouches of tools. Her narrow face was smudged and her short yellow hair tousled. Her eyes glared with determination at Bowman as she pushed back the sleeves of her coveralls, revealing slender, tightly muscled forearms.
“I know,” Bowman said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Ylsa, and this is Gemma.” She motioned down, without taking her intense blue eyes from the enforcer. Bowman looked down to see the animal for the first time. It slipped from behind the young Human in sleek, stealthy movements. A long shadowy shape with short black fur that glistened. Its tail lashed back and forth, twitching. The tufted, triangular ears on top of its head rotated, as though searching for sounds. It had been on all fours, but stood now on hind legs, coming as high as Ylsa’s knees. Its handlike forepaws, tipped with claws, gripped the fabric of the coveralls. Suddenly, it squirmed up Ylsa’s back to perch on her shoulder, tail curled around her neck, large eyes made for nocturnal hunting fixed on Bowman.
The Clan Chronicles--Tales from Plexis Page 18