Iterations and other stories (collection)

I took a cab over to his office. Unlike Skye, Rodger had a real flesh-and-blood receptionist. Most companies that did have human receptionists used middle-aged, businesslike people of either sex. Some guys got so rich that they didn’t care what people thought; they hired beautiful blonde women whose busts had been surgically altered far beyond what any phenotype might provide. But Rodger’s choice was different. His receptionist was a delicate young man with refined, almost feminine features. He was probably older than he looked; he looked fourteen.

“Detective Toby Korsakov,” I said, flashing my ID. I didn’t offer to shake hands—the boy looked like his would shatter if any pressure were applied. “I’d like to see Rodger Hissock.”

“Do you have an appointment?” His voice was high, and there was just a trace of a lisp.

“No. But I’m sure Mr. Hissock will want to see me. It’s important.”

The boy looked very dubious, but he spoke into an intercom. “There’s a cop here, Rodger. Says it’s important.”

There was a pause. “Send him in,” said a loud voice. The boy nodded at me, and I walked through the heavy wooden door-mahogany, no doubt imported all the way from Earth.

I had thought Skye Hissock’s office was well-appointed, but his brother’s put it to shame. Objets d’art from a dozen worlds were tastefully displayed on crystal stands. The carpet was so thick I was sure my shoes would sink out of sight. I walked toward the desk. Rodger rose to greet me. He was a muscular man, thicknecked, with lots of black hair and pale gray eyes. We shook hands; his grip was a show of macho strength. “Hello,” he said. He boomed out the word, clearly a man used to commanding everyone’s attention. “What can I do for you?”

“Please sit down,” I said. “My name is Toby Korsakov. I’m from The Cop Shop, working under a contract to the Soothsayer’s Guild.”

“My God,” said Rodger. “Has something happened to Skye?”

Although it was an unpleasant duty, there was nothing more useful in a murder investigation than being there to tell a suspect about the death and seeing his reaction. Most guilty parties played dumb far too long, so the fact that Rodger had quickly made the obvious connection between the SG and his brother made me suspect him less, not more. Still… “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” I said, “but I’m afraid your brother is dead.”

Rodger’s eyes went wide. “What happened?”

“He was murdered.”

“Murdered,” repeated Rodger, as if he’d never heard the word before.

“That’s right. I was wondering if you knew of anyone who’d want him dead?”

“How was he killed?” asked Rodger. I was irritated that this wasn’t an answer to my question, and even more irritated that I’d have to explain it so soon. More than a few homicides had been solved by a suspect mentioning the nature of the crime in advance of him or her supposedly having learned the details. “He was shot at close range by a blaster.”

“Oh,” said Rodger. He slumped in his chair. “Skye dead.” His head shook back and forth a little. When he looked up, his gray eyes were moist. Whether he was faking or not, I couldn’t tell.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Do you know who did it?”

“Not yet. We’re tracing the blaster’s EM signature. But there were no signs of forcible entry, and, well..

“Yes?”

“Well, there are only four people whose DNA would open the door to Skye’s inner office.”

Rodger nodded. “Me and Skye. Who else?”

“His cleaner, and another soothsayer.”

“You’re checking them out?”

“My associate is. She’s also checking all the people Skye had appointments with recendy—people he might have let in of his own volition.” A pause. “Can I ask where you were this morning between ten and eleven?”

“Here.”

“In your office?”

“That’s right.”

“Your receptionist can vouch for that?”

“Well… no. No, he can’t. He was out all morning. His sooth says he’s got a facility for languages. I give him a half-day off every Wednesday to take French lessons.”

“Did anyone call you while he was gone?”

Rodger spread his thick arms. “Oh, probably. But I never answer my own compad. Truth to tell, I like that half-day where I can’t be reached. It lets me get an enormous amount of work done without being interrupted.”

“So no one can verify your presence here?”

“Well, no… no, I guess they can’t. But, Crissakes, Detective, Skye was my brother…”

“I’m not accusing you, Mr. Hissock—”

“Besides, if I’d taken a robocab over, there’d be a debit charge against my account.”

“Unless you paid cash. Or unless you walked.” You can walk down the travel tubes, although most people don’t bother.

“You don’t seriously believe—?”

“I don’t believe anything yet, Mr. Hissock.” It was time to change the subject; he would be no use to me if he got too defensive. “Was your brother a good soothsayer?”

“Best there is. Hell, he read my own sooth when I turned eighteen.” He saw my eyebrows go up. “Skye is nine years older than me; I figured, why not use him? He needed the business; he was just starting his practice at that point.”

“Did Skye do the readings for your children, too?”