Suze’s green eyes blinked. “Nothing stood out. Skye wouldn’t have been a compulsive gambler, or an addict, or inclined to steal another person’s spouse — which eliminates several possible motives for his murder. In fact, Rundstedt says Skye would have had a severe aversion to confrontation.” She sighed. “Just doesn’t seem to be the kind of guy who’d end up in a situation where someone would want him dead.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Suze. Any luck with Skye’s clients?”
“I’ve gone through almost all the ones who’d had appointments in the last three days. So far, they all have solid alibis.”
“Keep checking. I’m off to see Skye’s sister-in-law, Rebecca Connolly. Talk to you later.”
“Bye.”
Sometimes I wonder if I’m in the right line of work. I know, I know — what a crazy thing to be thinking. I mean, my parents knew from my infant reading that I’d grow up to have an aptitude for puzzle-solving, plus superior powers of observation. They made sure I had every opportunity to fulfill my potentials, and when I had my sooth read for myself at eighteen, it was obvious that this would be a perfect job for me to pursue. And yet, still, I have my doubts. I just don’t feel like a cop sometimes.
But a soothsaying can’t be wrong: almost every human trait has a genetic basis — gullibility, mean-spiritedness, a goofy sense of humor, the urge to collect things, talents for various sports, every specific sexual predilection (according to my own sooth, my tastes ran to group sex with Asian women — so far, I’d yet to find an opportunity to test that empirically).
Of course, when Mendelia started up, we didn’t yet know what each gene and gene combo did. Even today, the SG is still adding new interpretations to the list. Still, I sometimes wonder how people in other parts of Free Space get along without soothsayers — stumbling through life, looking for the right job; sometimes completely unaware of talents they possess; failing to know what specific things they should do to take care of their health. Oh, sure, you can get a genetic reading anywhere — even down on Earth. But they’re only mandatory here.
And my mandatory readings said I’d make a good cop. But, I have to admit, sometimes I’m not so sure …
Rebecca Connolly was at home when I got there. On Earth, a family with the kind of money the Hissock-Connolly union had would own a mansion. Space is at a premium aboard a habitat, but their living room was big enough that its floor showed a hint of curvature. The art on the walls included originals by both Grant Wood and Bob Eggleton. There was no doubt they were loaded — making it all the harder to believe they’d done in Uncle Skye for his money.
Rebecca Connolly was a gorgeous woman. According to the press reports I’d read, she was forty-four, but she looked twenty years younger. Gene therapy might be impossible here, but anyone who could afford it could have plastic surgery. Her hair was copper-colored, and her eyes an unnatural violet. “Hello, Detective Korsakov,” she said. “My husband told me you were likely to stop by.” She shook her head. “Poor Skye. Such a darling man.”
I tilted my head. She was the first of Skye’s relations to actually say something nice about him as a person — which, after all, could just be a clumsy attempt to deflect suspicion from her. “You knew Skye well?”
“No — to be honest, no. He and Rodger weren’t that close. Funny thing, that. Skye used to come by the house frequently when we first got married — he was Rodger’s best man, did he tell you that? But when Glen was born, well, he stopped coming around as much. I dunno — maybe he didn’t like kids; he never had any of his own. Anyway, he really hasn’t been a big part of our lives for, oh, eighteen years now.”
“But Rodger’s fingerprints were accepted by Skye’s lock.”
“Oh, yes. Rodger owns the unit Skye has his current offices in.”
“I hate to ask you this, but -”
“I’m on the Board of Directors of TenthGen Computing, Detective. We were having a shareholders’ meeting this morning. Something like eight hundred people saw me there.”
I asked more questions, but didn’t get any closer to identifying Rodger Hissock’s motive. And so I decided to cheat — as I said, sometimes I do wonder if I’m in the right kind of job. “Thanks for your help, Ms. Connolly. I don’t want to take up any more of your time, but can I use your bathroom before I go?”
She smiled. “Of course. There’s one down the hall, and one upstairs.”
The upstairs one sounded more promising for my purposes. I went up to it, and the door closed behind me. I really did need to go, but first I pulled out my forensic scanner and started looking for specimens. Razors and combs were excellent places to find DNA samples; so were towels, if the user rubbed vigorously enough. Best of all, though, were toothbrushes. I scanned everything, but something was amiss. According to the scanner, there was DNA present from one woman — the XX chromosome pair made the gender clear. And there was DNA from one man. But three males lived in this house: father Rodger, elder son Glen, and younger son Billy.
Perhaps this bathroom was used only by the parents, in which case I’d blown it — I’d hardly get a chance to check out the other bathroom. But no — there were four sets of towels, four toothbrushes, and there, on the edge of the tub, a toy aquashuttle … precisely the kind an eight-year-old boy would play with.
Curious. Four people obviously used this john, but only two had left any genetic traces. And that made no sense — I mean, sure, I hardly ever washed when I was eight like Billy, but no one can use a washroom day in and day out without leaving some DNA behind.
I relieved myself, the toilet autoflushed, and I went downstairs, thanked Ms. Connolly again, and left.
Like I said, I was cheating — making me wonder again whether I really was cut out for a career in law enforcement. Even though it was a violation of civil rights, I took the male DNA sample I’d found in the Hissock-Connolly bathroom to Dana Rundstedt, who read its sooth for me.
I was amazed by the results. If I hadn’t cheated, I might never have figured it out — it was a damn-near perfect crime.
But it all fit, after seeing what was in the male DNA.
The fact that of the surviving Hissocks, only Rodger apparently had free access to Skye’s inner office.
The fact that Rodger’s blaster was the murder weapon.
The fact that there were apparently only two people using the bathroom.
The fact that Skye hated confrontation.
The fact that the Hissock-Connolly family had a lot of money they wanted to pass on to the next generation.
The fact that young Glen looked just like his dad, but was subdued and reserved.
The fact that Glen had gone to a different soothsayer.
The fact that Rodger’s taste in receptionists was … unusual.
The pieces all fit — that part of my sooth, at least, must have been read correctly; I was good at puzzling things out. But I was still amazed by how elegant it was.