“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?”
An odd hesitation. “Well, yeah, yeah, Skye did their infant readings, but Glen—that’s my oldest; just turned 18—he decided to go somewhere else for his adult reading. Waste of money, if you ask me. Skye would’ve given him a discount.”
My compad bleeped while I was in a cab. I turned it on.
“Yo, Toby.” Raymond Chen’s fat face appeared on the screen. “We got the registration information on that blaster signature.”
“Yeah?”
Ray smiled. “Do the words ‘open-and-shut case’ mean anything to you? The blaster belongs to one Rodger Hissock. He bought it about eleven years ago.”
I nodded and signed off. Since the lock accepted his DNA, rich little brother would have no trouble waltzing right into big brother’s inner office, and exploding his head. Rodger had method and he had opportunity. Now all I needed was to find his motive—and for that, continuing to interview the family members might prove useful.
Eighteen-year-old Glen Hissock was studying engineering at Francis Crick University in Wheel Three. He was a dead ringer for his old man: built like a wrestler, with black hair and quicksilver eyes. But whereas father Rodger had a coarse, outgoing way about him—the crusher handshake, the loud voice—young Glen was withdrawn, soft-spoken, and nervous.
“I’m sorry about your uncle,” I said, knowing that Rodger had already broken the news to his son.
Glen looked at the floor. “Me too.”
“Did you like him?”
“He was okay.”
“Just okay.”
“Yeah.”
“Where were you between ten and eleven this morning?”
“At home.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“Nah. Mom and Dad were at work, and Billy—that’s my little brother—was in school.” He met my eyes for the first time. “Am I a suspect?”
He wasn’t really. All the evidence seemed to point to his father. I shook my head in response to his question, then said, “I hear you had your sooth read recently.”
“Yeah.”
“But you didn’t use your uncle.”
“Nah.”
“How come?”
A shrug. “Just felt funny, that’s all. I picked a guy at random from the online directory.”
“Any surprises in your sooth?”
The boy looked at me. “Sooth’s private, man. I don’t have to tell you that.”
I nodded. “Sorry.”
Two hundred years ago, in 2029, the Palo Alto Nanosystems Laboratory developed a molecular computer. You doubtless read about it in history class: during the Snow War, the U.S. used it to disassemble Bogatá atom by atom.
Sometimes, though, you can put the genie back in the bottle. Remember Hamasaki and Dejong, the two researchers at PANL who were shocked to see their work corrupted that way? They created and released the nano-Gorts—self-replicating microscopic machines that seek out and destroy molecular computers, so that nothing like Bogata could ever happen again.
We’ve got PANL nano-Gorts here, of course. They’re everywhere in Free Space. But we’ve got another kind of molecular guardian, too—inevitably, they were dubbed helix-Gorts. It’s rumored the SG was responsible for them, but after a huge investigation, no indictments were ever brought. Helix-Gorts circumvent any attempt at artificial gene therapy. We can tell you everything that’s written in your DNA, but we can’t do a damned thing about it. Here, in Mendelia, you play the hand you’re dealt.
My compad bleeped again. I switched it on. “Korsakov here.”
Suze’s face appeared on the screen. “Hi, Toby. I took a sample of Skye’s DNA off to Rundstedt”—a soothsayer who did forensic work for us. “She’s finished the reading.”
“And?” I said.
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 siuiation 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; tailing 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?”