“It’s irrelevant anyhow,” I said. “The point is that he wasn’t there when it happened.”
“I know. But he must have known that, even though no one could prove he’d been in the area at the time, it wouldn’t look good. Maybe it’s time we went over and talked with the ILEA people.”
I’ve commented earlier that I have serious doubts about the existence of true love. Maybe I should rethink that.
The Interstellar Law Enforcement Agency is an arm of the Confederate government. Its local headquarters is located in the center of Andiquar just west of the Hall of the People. The building isn’t much to look at, rectangular and flat, three stories high, set amid pools and fountains. A statue of Justice, a blindfolded woman holding a scale, stands among the columns at the front entrance. The parking area is marked for official business only, but there were empty spaces and we were able to get clearance as we drifted overhead. “Should have called first,” Alex said. “We got lucky.”
As we descended toward the blinking light that marked our designated spot, Alex called in and identified himself. “We’d like to talk with someone about the Octavia incident,” he added.
It was a male voice. He sounded young.
“The space station that vanished eleven years ago near a black hole.”
He was back a minute later.
Heavy clouds drifted across the sky and a brisk wind complicated the parking. But we got down okay, climbed out, and walked around to the front entrance. The doors opened and we strode into a circular lobby with a half-dozen offices, numbered 101 through 106. The main desk, actually the only desk, was located immediately on our right. It was unoccupied.
As we approached, we got a voice:
“Yes.”
An elderly man with white hair and a wiry white mustache waved us in. He was seated beside a display and a bookcase. There were only a few volumes. Mostly it was filled with family photos. “My name’s Roger Cassidy,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Alex introduced us as we made ourselves comfortable on a sofa. “We’re doing some work on the Octavia incident. I was wondering if there’s been any recent information about it. Has the ILEA picked up anything new during the last few years?”
“I’m sorry to say that nothing’s changed since the original investigation, Mr. Benedict. We don’t know what happened. We don’t even have a decent theory.”
“Have you ruled anything out? Aliens, for instance?”
Cassidy gave us a tolerant smile. “Not really.” His reaction indicated he thought the alien theory was nonsensical, but he wasn’t going to say so. “Right now, anything’s possible.”
“Did you have access to the transmissions that would have come in during the month before the disappearance?”
“Yes, we did.”
“What can you tell us about them?”
“There was nothing suggesting a problem.”
“Was there anything other than routine reports?”
“Of course. There were occasional messages from the research team to their colleagues at DPSAR and the Quantum Research Group.”
“Would you be able to show them to us?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Benedict. They’d require a release. But I’d recommend you save your time. Both DPSAR and QRG have dismissed the notion that any of them have a connection to the disappearance.”
“What other messages have you?”
“That is all. There were numerous personal communications, but all are locked down by privacy laws. We were able to acquire messages to certain recipients, but the vast number went to people for whom we could devise no reason to get a court order.”
“Did you get to see any of those? Any of them get turned in voluntarily?”
“Some. Not many. I wasn’t working here at the time all this happened. But I understand there were a few copies that were made available.”
“Was there anything that caused some alarm?”
“Not that I know of, Mr. Benedict. If I may ask . . .” He removed his glasses and set them on the table. “Is there something specific you’re looking for?”
“No.” Alex paused a moment. “We know some of the people who’ve been hurt by the affair. Who are desperate for answers. We were hoping the ILEA might be able to provide something.”
“I wish we could. This is an issue that’s haunted us for a long time. But there’s just nothing there. We can’t even be certain a law was broken.”
“What about Reginald Greene? Is there any possibility he could have been involved?”
“Mr. Benedict, I don’t see how that would have been possible.”
“Is there anything at all you know of that we’re missing?”
“Well, there might be one element: One of Charlotte Hill’s friends told us that she, Charlotte, sent a message saying something didn’t feel right. Apparently she didn’t explain, and as far as I know, we never saw the transmission.”
“Something didn’t right?”
“That’s about it.”
“Can you give us the name of the friend?”
“I’m sorry. When people talk to us, they have a guarantee of privacy.”
“Well, that wasn’t very helpful,” I said as we went back out into the lobby and through the doors onto the parking lot.
“Yeah,” said Alex. “I don’t think Greene had anything to do with it. The truth is that, even if he’d wanted to cause some damage, I don’t see how he could have managed it. I’d like to talk with someone who was familiar with whatever happened between him and Charlotte.”
“I hope you’re not talking about Olivia.”
“No, people don’t usually lay romantic stuff out with their parents.” He was walking slowly in the wrong direction. I had to stop him and point us toward our lander. “Sorry,” he said, “I wasn’t thinking. There somebody I remember reading about. A woman Charlotte played chess with during her college years. Karen Something. Give me a minute.”
We got back into the skimmer and started for home. He got on the datanet and began a search for Karen and chess. It was a popular name in the area but he saw nothing about a Karen who played chess at a high level. We weren’t halfway back to home before he shut it down. “Nothing here that rings a bell,” he said.
When we got to the country house he started up the staircase, stopped, held an index finger to his lips, and smiled. “Bianchi,” he said. “Karen Bianchi. That’s who it was. Olivia mentioned her too. She said she was Charlotte’s best friend through her college years. I wonder if she’s one of the two friends cited in the report?” He hurried the rest of the way up the stairs, obviously intent on locating Karen Bianchi. Ten minutes later he came back down. “Okay,” he said, “I’ve got her. Her name Karen Bianchi. It’s Randall now. I left a message for her.” He was going back out the door. “I have an appointment. If she calls, find out if she stayed in contact with Charlotte on Octavia. And if she has any idea what might have happened. Whether anything unusual was going on. Okay?”
He hurried out, jumped into the skimmer, and left.
My own work had piled up. Chad had been missing for a week. I’d been trying to get evaluations for the more recent artifacts that had come in. And while I was engaged in that, a client arrived with what she claimed was a script for , a classic eleventh-century play by Roger Ackerly. The script was autographed by Ackerly and I was in the process of verifying it when another guy arrived with a vintage skimmer. His name was Alfonso Picariello. I asked him to hang on while I finished with the Ackerly play. It took about twenty minutes to confirm. The owner was offering it to us to buy, or we could put it on auction. Our choice. It was the sort of choice Alex was supposed to make. I could only guess at its potential value.