neighbouring villas, but none from this building.
“No one home, Jimmy.”
“No? That’s odd. Weiss asked to phone and tell his wife that he’d be late back.”
Chandra took a card from his belt, ran it through the door lock. The door swung open and they stepped inside and moved through the open-plan house. Lights came on automatically as if the pair were being ushered through the rooms by a ghostly guide. Vaughan gazed about him, amazed by an Aladdin’s cave of rich carpets, furnishings, works of art: free-standing sculptures occupied strategic positions throughout the ground-floor, and paintings—both old oils and more modern plasma graphics—decorated the walls.
“Genevieve Weiss is an artist,” Chandra told him. “She specialises in com-gen ‘painting’, according to the files I accessed earlier. Apparently she’s very highly regarded. Her pieces fetch millions on the interplanetary market.”
The two men walked from room to room like children in wonderland. Vaughan had never experienced such space between four walls since arriving on the Station. He whistled. “You could get agoraphobia just walking to the john.”
He detoured down a short, carpeted corridor, came to what was obviously a child’s bedroom: a shadowy platoon of teddy bears and clowns lined the far wall. As Vaughan strayed across the threshold, the sensors activated a soft bedside, light.
On the bed a single sheet outlined the form of a child, blonde hair showing on the pillow.
“Jimmy,” he called. “Here.”
Chandra appeared down the corridor. He peered past Vaughan at the child. “I thought you said there was no one home?”
Vaughan nodded. “There isn’t.”
Chandra looked at him. “Shielded?”
Vaughan shook his head.
He crossed to the bed and pulled back the sheet to reveal the little boy’s face, still and pale. He felt for a pulse at wrist and throat, found none. “He’s been dead for a couple of hours.”
Chandra unfastened the boy’s pyjamas, checked the thin torso. He found the puncture marks on the inside of the arm. “Hypo-ject. I think you’ll find that whatever killed him was administered through the vein.”
The two men exchanged a glance and hurried from the room.
They found Genevieve Weiss sprawled on a Chesterfield in the lounge, her scarlet gown flowing to the floor as if arranged for maximum aesthetic impact. Her head was thrown back over the arm of the Chesterfield, long black hair hanging in a sheer fall. Her throat, a beautiful exposed arch of cream flesh, was marred by the ugly bruise of a hypo-ject entry point. The gun had fallen from her limp fingers and skittered across the chessboard tiles.
“You said that Weiss called his wife?” Vaughan said.
Chandra nodded. “Around three hours ago.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“Of course, I was in the same room.” Chandra shrugged. “He told her he’d been delayed and wouldn’t be home till dawn.”
Vaughan thought about it. “It might have been a prearranged signal, warning Genevieve that he’d been rumbled.”
“Maybe.” Chandra shrugged. “But why? Why would she kill her son and take her own life, just because her husband’s fake identity is about to be discovered?”
Vaughan regarded the dead woman, thinking of the cold oblivion that had taken Genevieve Weiss. Some intimation of that oblivion, recalled from all those years ago, sent a shiver through him.
Chandra glanced at him. “She’s in a better place now,” he murmured. “They both are.”
Vaughan turned a withering look on the cop. “Are you quite sure about that, Jimmy? Are you sure they’re not both stone cold dead and gone?”
Chandra opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. He turned his back on Vaughan and spoke into his handset.
Vaughan moved across the room, pausing before an archway leading to an unlit room. He passed into
“No one home, Jimmy.”
“No? That’s odd. Weiss asked to phone and tell his wife that he’d be late back.”
Chandra took a card from his belt, ran it through the door lock. The door swung open and they stepped inside and moved through the open-plan house. Lights came on automatically as if the pair were being ushered through the rooms by a ghostly guide. Vaughan gazed about him, amazed by an Aladdin’s cave of rich carpets, furnishings, works of art: free-standing sculptures occupied strategic positions throughout the ground-floor, and paintings—both old oils and more modern plasma graphics—decorated the walls.
“Genevieve Weiss is an artist,” Chandra told him. “She specialises in com-gen ‘painting’, according to the files I accessed earlier. Apparently she’s very highly regarded. Her pieces fetch millions on the interplanetary market.”
The two men walked from room to room like children in wonderland. Vaughan had never experienced such space between four walls since arriving on the Station. He whistled. “You could get agoraphobia just walking to the john.”
He detoured down a short, carpeted corridor, came to what was obviously a child’s bedroom: a shadowy platoon of teddy bears and clowns lined the far wall. As Vaughan strayed across the threshold, the sensors activated a soft bedside, light.
On the bed a single sheet outlined the form of a child, blonde hair showing on the pillow.
“Jimmy,” he called. “Here.”
Chandra appeared down the corridor. He peered past Vaughan at the child. “I thought you said there was no one home?”
Vaughan nodded. “There isn’t.”
Chandra looked at him. “Shielded?”
Vaughan shook his head.
He crossed to the bed and pulled back the sheet to reveal the little boy’s face, still and pale. He felt for a pulse at wrist and throat, found none. “He’s been dead for a couple of hours.”
Chandra unfastened the boy’s pyjamas, checked the thin torso. He found the puncture marks on the inside of the arm. “Hypo-ject. I think you’ll find that whatever killed him was administered through the vein.”
The two men exchanged a glance and hurried from the room.
They found Genevieve Weiss sprawled on a Chesterfield in the lounge, her scarlet gown flowing to the floor as if arranged for maximum aesthetic impact. Her head was thrown back over the arm of the Chesterfield, long black hair hanging in a sheer fall. Her throat, a beautiful exposed arch of cream flesh, was marred by the ugly bruise of a hypo-ject entry point. The gun had fallen from her limp fingers and skittered across the chessboard tiles.
“You said that Weiss called his wife?” Vaughan said.
Chandra nodded. “Around three hours ago.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
“Of course, I was in the same room.” Chandra shrugged. “He told her he’d been delayed and wouldn’t be home till dawn.”
Vaughan thought about it. “It might have been a prearranged signal, warning Genevieve that he’d been rumbled.”
“Maybe.” Chandra shrugged. “But why? Why would she kill her son and take her own life, just because her husband’s fake identity is about to be discovered?”
Vaughan regarded the dead woman, thinking of the cold oblivion that had taken Genevieve Weiss. Some intimation of that oblivion, recalled from all those years ago, sent a shiver through him.
Chandra glanced at him. “She’s in a better place now,” he murmured. “They both are.”
Vaughan turned a withering look on the cop. “Are you quite sure about that, Jimmy? Are you sure they’re not both stone cold dead and gone?”
Chandra opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. He turned his back on Vaughan and spoke into his handset.
Vaughan moved across the room, pausing before an archway leading to an unlit room. He passed into