“No, sir. In fact, apparently he had also provided recreational drugs to the mistress, not a known user. She doesn’t remember a thing. Consensus from the investigators is that he wished to perform acts upon the mistress’s body in which she would be reluctant to engage in a fully conscious state, but that the drugs he took to enhance his own pleasure and performance killed him by causing a heart attack before he could complete such acts.”
“You don’t believe any of this.” It was not a question. The father made beckoning motions with both hands.
“Would it interest you to know that the dead druggie was one Colonel Charles Petane and that Miss O’Neal checked in today a bit after eleven, complete with a bag for the cleaning department?”
The priest paused for a moment and replied gravely, “Members of the clergy of Holy Mother Church do not use foul language.”
“I’m aware of that, Father.”
“I wasn’t reminding you. Spill it. What else do you have?”
“A person matching the description Miss O’Neal was wearing when she came in checked out of a hotel in Chicago this morning. The same hotel where Miss O’Neal’s cab picked her up on her way to report in. The same hotel where she requested the cleaning department retrieve and clean a car and assorted personal effects. The name on the hotel register, by the way, was Marilyn Grant. Miss Grant had been a guest of the hotel since Friday evening. I won’t know until a discrete opportunity presents itself, but I would expect that if I check trees and other likely spots in the vicinity of the late colonel’s house and his mistress’s apartment that I will find traces of the adhesive we customarily use to affix temporary surveillance cameras.”
“Don’t. If she got by with it, I don’t want to arouse any suspicions by getting caught doing belated cleaning.” He called up the Petane file on his AID and reviewed it briefly. “If they do turn up foul play, Petane was sufficiently small fry that an investigation won’t lead anywhere. We’ll just hope it stays on the books as an overdose rather than an unsolved murder.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes for a minute. “I doubt she has any idea of the havoc this is likely to wreak with our Indowy friends.”
He stood and walked around the desk, shaking the operative’s hand as the younger man rose. “Thanks, Levon. I’ll take it from here.”
As he left the office, clearly having been dismissed, the operative heard his boss issuing terse instructions to the AID.
“Get Mike O’Neal, Sr., here as soon as possible, I don’t care if you have to dispatch a shuttle just for him to do it. Get the rest of Team Isaac in with him if you can, but don’t hold up his departure more than two hours maximum for their sakes.”
Chapter Eight
The furniture in Father O’Reilly’s office had been discreetly changed since this afternoon, as had the lighting. A small storeroom on the same hall contained furniture suitable for any of the species a Bane Sidhe base commander was likely to deal with in the course of his duties. The area in front of his desk had been set up with a comfortable chair for a human, one for an Indowy, and a low coffee table that would be appropriate for both. He had placed his AID on the coffee table to reduce his tendency to fidget with it when he had to discuss something particularly unpleasant.
Bane Sidhe base personnel, as opposed to operatives, did use AIDs. Clean ones. Manufactured on site, in fact. O’Reilly’s AID had information not only on comfortable light frequency combinations for humans and each alien species, but the least uncomfortable compromises for any combination.
He had a freshly brewed pot of strong coffee, as well as an ice bucket with distilled bottled water enriched with aesthetically appropriate trace minerals, set up on a table in the corner of his office when the Indowy Aelool arrived.
As he handed the Aelool his customary glass of iced water with an olive, even after all this time he couldn’t help being reminded of a small, fuzzy green teddy bear.
Human and Indowy facial expressions and body language had virtually nothing in common, but those of all races who dealt with other species frequently made a habit of learning to interpret and copy as many of the other races’ nonverbal cues as possible. Consequently, the priest knew exactly what his friend meant when he reacted to the human’s addition of a large shot of Bushmill’s whiskey to his coffee by raising the fleshy muscle directly above one eye and tilting his head slightly.
“We have a problem,” Father O’Reilly said.
“I gathered that. You normally do not add such a substance to your drink until much later in the evening.”
“Thomas, display the colonel, please,” the priest addressed his AID. A foot-high hologram of the late Colonel Charles Petane appeared above the coffee table.
“Until yesterday, this man was one of our minor agents. To refresh your memory, he was recruited after he was instrumental in causing the loss of Team Conyers. It was believed that his position as the U.S. Army liaison to Fleet Strike was the first step to his eventual development as an important source of sensitive information and that that potential value outweighed any deterrent value to killing him in retaliation for the deaths of the team members,” he began, pausing to see if he had successfully refreshed Aelool’s memory.
“If I recall correctly, that was a matter of some debate.”
“And involved the decision to protect some of our operatives from knowledge of the decision, yes. That’s an awful euphemism, isn’t it? More to the point, we lied.” He took a large gulp of his coffee.
“Most of my compatriots in our side of the organization did not understand the need,” Aelool said, “but, yes, I remember your people felt it necessary and I believe I can appreciate why. I don’t remember a follow up as to the usefulness of information the agent provided, but right now I am more curious about your choice of verb tense in describing him.” Aelool’s eyes appeared to be focused on the olive at the bottom of his glass, watching it roll as he tilted the glass slightly.
“The agent is deceased as of yesterday evening. We believe that Cally O’Neal became aware that he was alive and killed him. We are still gathering information.”
“This is no small thing.” The alien’s closed posture radiated concern to O’Reilly, who had become an expert in communication with Indowy generally and this Indowy in particular. He set his glass carefully on the table and met the human’s eyes.
“I would be most grateful if you would add about half a shot from that bottle to this drink.” The Aelool sat very still, expressionless, as he waited for his host to fulfill the request. “I understand your expertise in the psychology of sophonts other than your own species, Father O’Reilly, but I wonder if it is possible for you to understand how very badly my people are likely to react to this incident.” He rubbed one hand across his face, slowly. “What have you done in response so far?”
“I’ve got Michael O’Neal, Senior, en route at the moment, and I’ve just informed you of the incident. Miss O’Neal checked in late this morning, on her own, so I haven’t as yet needed to take any action to secure her. No one has as yet attempted to discuss our concerns with her.” He retrieved the bottle and added a shot to the glass. He had seen the Aelool consume alcohol perhaps twice in the past twenty years. Its effect on Indowy was slightly more intense than on humans, even after accounting for differences in body mass. They rarely indulged.
“Good. I would suggest that you don’t. You will need to gather information from her, I understand that. It will not minimize the damage much, but it will at least be somewhat helpful if O’Neal Senior conducts all conversation with her on this matter. Although you humans do not have clans as we do, to my people it will look as though she has been brought up in front of her acting head of clan to answer for the act. This will be a small help, but it will be a help. Among Indowy, you will understand, such a meeting in a circumstance of misbehavior is a serious consequence in and of itself.”