“Ummm. You would prefer to discuss this someplace else?”
“I would, but it is clearly a matter for law enforcement. Mr. Brynear has documented the discovery.” Which meant law enforcement had already been summoned. What, she wondered, could Captain Olin have been up to? Smuggling? But what? She realized she had no idea how large a “scrubber” was, or what would fit into it. But she couldn’t ask over an unsecured com line.
“It seems I have a good chance to win our wager,” Cecelia said. “Where shall I meet you? I have legal advice with me.”
“We could all come there, or you could come to the refitters. . . . Your counsel should know. . . .”
“We’ll come.” She felt she had to have some refuge from conflict; she would meet trouble elsewhere. In a few brief phrases she explained the little she understood to the young man, who gulped and asked permission to call back to his office. “While I change,” she said, and headed for the bedroom and Myrtis. What did one wear when one’s crewman had died of an accident that might be related to smuggling, and the goods—whatever they were—had been found aboard one’s yacht? What could convey innocence, outrage, and the determination to be a good citizen? She had never been skilled at this sort of thing. . . . Berenice would have known instantly which scarf or pin, which pair of shoes, would give the right impression. Cecelia opted for formal and dark, with a hat, which hid the unruly lock of hair that wanted to stand straight up from her head.
When she emerged, the young man explained that a senior partner would meet her at the refitter’s . . . he would escort her there, and hand over the case papers. Cecelia smiled at him, and raged inwardly. They should have sent a senior partner in the first place . . . no doubt they were billing the family at the senior partner’s rate.
Chapter Six
“Ah . . . Lady Cecelia?” The gray-haired man flicked a glance at the younger one that made him hand over his briefcomp and then leave.
“Yes, and you’re—?”
“Ser Granzia, and you’re quite right that we should not have sent a junior partner.” He offered his arm; she took it. “We should have known that you would not call in legal help for a minor problem, and the . . . individual who made that decision has been so informed.”
“Ah. I had wondered.” Cecelia let herself be guided into the front office of the refitters. A respectful secretary murmured that Mr. Desin and Chief Brynear were waiting for them in the conference room. Ser Granzia, it seemed, knew the way; his guidance was subtle but unmistakable. Cecelia noticed that the flat gray tweed carpet of the front office gave way to a flat utilitarian surface dully reflecting the overhead lights. On either side, small offices stood open, cluttered with terminals, parts, schematics. She didn’t recognize any of it. Around a corner, carpet reappeared, this time a rich green, much softer. Double doors at the end of the corridor led into a spacious conference room with a wide window to the same sort of view her hotel suite provided. Four people waited there, a tall man in conventional business attire, a shorter one in a rumpled coverall, a nondescript person no doubt representing law and order, and Captain Serrano. On the wide polished table that Cecelia recognized as brasilwood lay a small packet, something lumpy encased in a bag or sack.
“The owner, I presume?” said the tall man. “I’m Eniso Desin, madam. And this is Chief Brynear, the individual in charge of your refitting, and Mr. Files, the local investigator for CenCom.”
“Lady Cecelia de Marktos a Bellinveau,” said Ser Granzia. Cecelia had not heard herself introduced formally for some time; now she remembered why she disliked it so. It sounded silly. “Of the Aranlake Sept, fides de Barraclough.” It could also go on another five lines or so, if she didn’t stop him. The complete formality gave the genetic makeup, political affiliations, and social standing of the male and female lines for six generations . . . but was usually reserved for those assumed to be ignorant of it, and in need of awe.
“And yes, I’m the owner,” she said, when Granzia paused for breath.
“The ship’s registry,” Files said, “lists you as Lady Cecelia Marktos. I presume that’s equivalent?”
“Yes,” Cecelia said. “The registry doesn’t have room on the owner’s line for all of it. I asked, and they said it would be adequate.”
“And you are the same Lady Cecelia to whom the yacht designated SY-00021-38-HOX was originally registered?”
“Yes, of course I am.” Who else, her tone said.
His gaze flicked from her to Captain Serrano and back. “Then I regret to inform you that your vessel has apparently been involved in illegal activities of a criminal nature.” Cecelia wondered what illegal activities of a non-criminal nature would be, but didn’t ask. “How long has this . . . Captain Serrano . . . been your commanding officer?”
“Since I left the Court. I dismissed my former captain for incompetence and refusal to follow my orders, and Captain Serrano had just resigned from the Regular Space Service. She had signed with the employment agency I use and they recommended her highly.”
“And that agency is?”
“I don’t see what this has to do with anything,” Cecelia said, beginning to feel grumpy. Whatever was going on, she was sure Captain Serrano hadn’t been involved. The woman might be a stiff-necked military prig, but she wasn’t any kind of a criminal. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain just what sort of illegal activity you are talking about.”
“Do you know what that is?” Files pointed to the packet on the table.
“No.” She felt her brows rising, as much irritation as ignorance. She didn’t like people playing games with her. “I suppose you are going to explain?”
“In good time, madam. You’re sure you’ve never seen it before?”
“I told you—” she began in an exasperated voice; Ser Granzia intervened.
“Excuse me, but if you are contemplating criminal charges against Lady Cecelia, or her captain, you surely remember that you must inform them.”
“I know that,” Files said. “But if the lady had nothing to do with it, her answer might help—”
“I think she will answer no further questions until you have explained, to my satisfaction, what you think it is.” Ser Granzia’s voice, mellow and lush though it was, contained no hint of yielding.
“We believe it to be smuggled goods. It has not yet been subjected to forensic examination, but just glancing at it my guess is proprietary data.” From Files’s expression, he hoped she wouldn’t understand.
“You mean—trade secrets? Something an—an industrial spy might have made off with?”
“Possibly. Because proprietary data is secret—”
“Are secret,” Cecelia murmured. She might not know much about industry, but she knew data was a plural noun. Files grimaced.
“Whatever you say, madam. Are secret—anyway, theft is not reported. It may not be known. It’s not like jewels in a vault.”
“Could it be military?” That from Heris Serrano. Cecelia looked at her captain who looked back with dark, inscrutable eyes.
“Possibly,” Files said. “Forensics will tell us.” Clearly he had no intention of sharing his turf with anyone. “Then, if it is—”
“Fleet should know.” Not even a ridiculous purple uniform could make Heris Serrano look unimportant. Cecelia tried to imagine her former captain in the same garb, and realized that he’d have looked like a purple blimp straining at its tether. This woman, in his black, would have looked dangerous. “Fleet forensics could assist.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Files said. Ser Granzia stirred at Cecelia’s side; Files shot him a glance. “Did you have legal advice, Ser Granzia?”
“That if it is possibly a military secret, the captain is correct: some representative should be present when it is examined in any detail. Otherwise we may all find ourselves compromised. You remember, no doubt, the decision of Army versus Stillinbagh?”