Psychic Killer: 6/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Chapter Eight
The incident, it appeared, had taken place on the spreading lawn behind the hotel. A crowd had gathered there, and they followed Wanda as she worked her way through it.
A young man lay on the ground and another man was kneeling beside him, dabbing with a handkerchief at the trickle of blood from a split lip.
Wanda surveyed the picture, grimly. "What happened?"
"The guy over there punched him in the mouth," someone said -- probably a hotel guest, Linley thought, judging by the Bermuda shorts and loud Hawaiian shirt. "Just walked up to him, out of the blue, and swung. Nice, clean hit."
Of course, as Alan had predicted, it was Brian O'Hara. The boy was standing to one side, flanked by the security men. He was staring fixedly at the ground before him.
"Is there a doctor coming?" Wanda asked.
"Right here." A man in white shorts and a blue-flowered shirt pushed his way through the crowd and knelt beside the injured man.
Wanda turned to Brian O'Hara. The young man was still studying the toes of his shoes. She nodded curtly to the guard.
"All right, bring him." She turned on her heel and strode back toward the hotel.
Wanda's office, as security officer for the conference, was on the sixth floor, to the left of the panel of elevators and across the dividing hallway, diagonally across the intersection from Lyn's room. The security men escorted Brian O'Hara to the office and Wanda took a seat at her desk, her face expressionless. Linley and his companions unobtrusively ranged themselves along the wall. The Security Officer gestured to the guards. "You can go, but stay right outside."
The two men went out. Linley quietly closed the door after them.
Wanda surveyed the bellhop for several seconds without speaking. O'Hara stood still, not looking at her.
"All right, Private O'Hara," she said, suddenly. "I want an explanation."
O'Hara said nothing. Wanda waited, tapping one fingernail against the surface of her desk. The silence began to grow uncomfortable and at last, the woman spoke again.
"Very well, you give me no alternative. I'm going to be forced to charge you with assault against a civilian, and insubordination. Are you certain you don't want to tell me what happened out there?"
Brian stared at the floor. "Nothing happened," he muttered. "The guy was asking for it."
"Explain."
The young man's face flushed a dull red. "I can't. It involves somebody else."
"Really." Wanda surveyed him frostily. "Where were you at 0300 this morning?"
"Huh?" He looked up, obviously startled. "I was at home, ma'am. Asleep."
"You didn't come to the hotel for any reason?"
He stared at her. "No, ma'am."
Linley felt a touch on his arm. "Let's go," Alan whispered.
They went softly out. Mark closed the door gently behind them and sighed. "I'd say we're drawin' a blank here, kid ... General." He carefully didn't look at the expressionless guards, glancing instead at his chronometer. "It's almost lunchtime. What say we eat and get back to this business, afterwards."
"Good idea." Alan took his wife's arm. "Shall we?"
As they headed toward the elevator, Mark glanced at his partner. "I gotta get outta the habit of callin' you that. It was okay when you were in your twenties, but you're a general now, for Pete's sake."
"That's okay, Mark." His partner grinned. "I've been 'kid' to you for so long, I'd miss it if you stopped using it. Besides, I still look kind of like a kid."
"And you probably will when you're fifty," Mark said.
"Probably." Alan seemed unperturbed at the prospect. "Don't worry about it."
**********
The Topsail Café was filling up with the lunchtime crowd when they arrived. A hostess seated them in a booth to one side of the reserved section, distributed menus and departed.
Alan opened his menu, studying it absently. Lyn and Mark did the same, then Lyn put hers down.
"So, Brian O'Hara *is* capable of violence," she said, thoughtfully. "I didn't think ... do you suppose he could be the one, Alan?"
Alan shook his head. "I don't know, Lyn. He could be, I suppose. He has a temper -- but he's in love. After we eat, I'd sort of like to talk to him in private. He had his shields up tight when Wanda was questioning him."
"I saw that," Lyn said. "He might have been upset about his girl -- he did say, yesterday, that he thought she was seeing someone else."
Alan recalled the conversation. "I know."
"It does make an interesting coincidence," Lyn continued. "Jim Francois *is* a ladies' man." She dimpled suddenly and then became serious again. "He does look a little like this fire dancer Brian hit, too -- if he's the one Brian's girl is seeing."
"Don't forget our missin' ... miss*ing* playboy," Mark interjected. "We don't *know* Meeks an' him had something going. Osgood didn't strike me that way, to tell the truth. And then, there's the shooting last night."
"And," Lyn continued, "you've got a reputation with the ladies that won't die, Mark."
Linley snorted. "I'm an old married man, now, baby. Julia's got nothing to worry about." He turned the coffee cup upright in its saucer. "You don't throw away first class for second rate stuff unless you're a damn fool. I ain't a fool."
Lyn smiled. "I think that's probably the nicest compliment you've ever given any woman, Mark."
"And," Alan said, "it has the virtue of being true. I'm no fool, either." He raised an eyebrow at her.
Lyn's cheeks turned pink. "Who says Shallockian men are the most accomplished charmers in the Sector," she murmured, and fell to studying her menu. Mark winked at him.
Ed Quade and Terrence passed their table and Alan heard a snatch of conversation.
"Looks like a storm on the way," Quade was rumbling in his deep voice, as the two men seated themselves at a table some two meters away. "Those thunderheads are covering half the sky out there."
Terrence glanced toward their table and nodded. Alan raised a hand in return, but noted that the two men didn't approach. Probably getting sick of being questioned. He didn't blame them at all.
The waitress approached, poured coffee for all, took their orders and departed. They sat drinking the coffee and watching the crowd of people as they waited for their meal. Alan saw Baker arrive and be seated at a solitary table.
Their lunches arrived and Alan ate silently. The strains of Hawaiian music from several room speakers made conversation difficult to overhear -- if one were not a psychic. Alan suppressed his instinctive dislike of eavesdropping and listened to Quade and Terrence as they talked while waiting for their meal.
The conversation seemed to be about Osgood's disappearance. The general feeling seemed to be that Osgood was their murderer -- that perhaps he had excused himself from the dinner table for a few minutes and no one noticed. It would be an easy thing to do. Then, when Westover and Linley showed up, he panicked. He must have tried to kill them, but failing that, he'd fled the hotel. He'd show up eventually, of course; he couldn't get off the island as long as the police stayed on their toes.
Wanda Blake entered the room. She came directly over to them. Mark and Alan rose.
"I can't get anything out of him, Alan," she began, without preamble. "He won't talk, and he won't lower his shields. The fellow he slugged is in the hospital -- broken jaw -- and, rather interestingly, he doesn't want to press charges."
Mark sat up sharply from his comfortable slouch. "Why not? Did he give a reason?"
"I haven't spoken with him, but no, apparently not. I find that rather disquieting. Why shouldn't he press charges? The boy attacked him."
"Unless, of course," Lyn interjected, "he's got something to hide."
"That had occurred to me," Wanda said, meditatively. "I wish you'd talk to the O'Hara boy, General -- and perhaps, to the other man as well."
Alan nodded agreement, shifting restlessly in his chair. The waitress stopped by the table, filled the coffee cup for Wanda, refilled the others' cups, and departed. Alan hardly noticed. The skin on the back of his neck was crawling with uneasiness. It was as if the malevolent presence that he had sensed in Travis Dean's room was here, somewhere close by and regarding him with secret amusement. He glanced around with apparent casualness.
Terrence and Quade were now eating at their table and had been joined by Tang Fu, who had just completed his order and was handing his menu to the waitress. As he watched, Travis Dean crossed the room and approached the table, apparently requesting to join the three men, for they nodded and the newcomer seated himself in the table's fourth chair.
Any other conventioneers around? Again, he scanned the lunchroom without seeming to.
The place was full of lunch hour customers and waitresses were hurrying back and forth. He saw Colonel Baker across the room, seated alone at his table, and Meeks, waiting to be seated, talking to a man he didn't know. Colonel Finnar also was there, apparently having just entered. He spoke to Meeks, who glanced in Alan's direction, but did not reply.
Any others here? None were seated in the cordoned off section, but they might be here. He didn't want to stand up and look for them too obviously.
It was gone, now. He had felt it only for a few seconds; his telepathic sense had been unable to pinpoint it in the short amount of time he'd had. But, he thought, it wasn't *really* gone. His skin was crawling as some other, more subtle psychic sense continued to warn him of that malevolent presence, doubtless now concealed behind shielding, still watching him.
But, who could it be? A Jil spy who had somehow penetrated their organization? Unlikely -- a real Jilectan would be given away by his size, and a human spying for them would hardly be careless enough to allow such feelings as he had sensed to be revealed in the presence of as powerful a telepath as himself, even for an instant -- or, for that matter, in the presence of Lyn, Wanda or Jim Francois, who was now talking to Finnar in the waiting area. Meeks stood silently, watching the crowd, an expression Alan couldn't quite identify on his face.
Lyn was speaking to Wanda.
"Do you have anything on record about the man O'Hara slugged?"
Wanda nodded. "Lawrence Fink, believe it or not. Twenty-eight years old, born on Terra, according to his statement. His background's a bit vague. He's only been on New Hawaii for about two years and his records were apparently lost or fouled up. He's an excellent dancer and a handsome, charming man. Women like him. He plays the field a lot -- no steady girlfriend, no relatives in the area. He's never done anything illegal that we know, short of a couple of parking tickets and one driving while intoxicated -- but that was a technical. He was letting his computer do the actual driving."
"Still, if his records were destroyed, and he's only been here a couple of years --"
"Worth checkin' out," Mark said, thoughtfully.
"But, he didn't have access to the sixth floor," Wanda said.
"Not that we know of," Alan said. "Still, he might manage it. Suppose he's a high tech burglar, for instance. I can think of a couple of ways I might be able to get on Sixth without a ring. If I can, somebody else can."
"But, you're a high-powered psychic," Wanda said. "That makes it a little different."
"How do we know," Lyn said, softly, "that *he* isn't a psychic, too?"
Silence at the table for a long moment.
"I think," Alan said, slowly, "that I'll go talk to Brian O'Hara right after lunch. If I can't get anything out of him, I may go see Mr. Fink. In fact, I might go see him, anyway."
"Not a bad idea," Mark said. He took a swallow of coffee. "Y'know, it might help if you just let go for a bit, you know, let your subconscious work and quit thinking."
"Maybe, Alan said. Mark's suggestion was a good one. He had learned in the past that stewing over a problem rarely solved it. On the other hand, if he let his conscious mind rest, his subconscious often came up with the answer.
He glanced out the window. They were directly across from the hotel's Olympic sized swimming pool, and, as he watched, a girl in a bright, bubble-gum pink swimsuit launched herself through the air in a graceful dive. Her slender body struck the water with barely a splash and disappeared beneath the surface.
Lyn was smiling. "Good diver," she remarked.
"Yeah," Mark agreed, fervently. "Got real nice legs, too."
Lyn laughed. "Too bad, Julia couldn't come with us," she remarked, casually.
"No kiddin'." Mark saw her too casual expression and grinned suddenly. "You ever been to the Maui before, baby? Your pop's a power water skier, ain't he?"
"*Isn't* he, Mark," Lyn corrected, automatically. "Yes. He was born on New Hawaii, in the Pele Islands."
"I didn't know that," Linley said. "So he's a Confederation citizen, huh?"
"Sure is," Lyn confirmed. "He was a champion power skier, thirty years ago, here on the planet. I've never had a chance to visit before, though." She sighed, wistfully. "I'd sort of like to see some of the island, now that I'm here. I probably won't have another chance for quite some time."
"Maybe we all can," Alan said. "I was only here once before, with Mark, of course, and Kevin and Angie -- when we rescued Reena Eckland from the Jils and broke up their drug running operation. We spent most of the time running around in the jungle, dodging poisonous snakes and 'trols; we never did get to see much of the Maui. Maybe after we finish this business, we'll have some time to tour the island and see some of the sights before we go home."
Travis Dean turned in his seat to look at them.
"Well, General Westover," he said, sarcastically, "I thought you were here for a job, not a sightseeing tour."
Alan stared at the man, a little taken aback. "You must not have heard everything we said, Colonel." He glanced sideways to assure himself that the indicator for the section's privacy screen was on. It was.
"Oh, I heard. You'll find some poor schmuck to blame it on -- me, probably -- then run off on your sightseeing tour. Your kind never take your duty as seriously as the rest of us -- but then, why should you? You've got it made; you're psychics; the Underground welcomes you with open arms, no matter how badly you do your jobs."
Quade leaned over, grasping the man by one arm. "Travis!"
Dean pulled his arm free. "Did you hear what he --"
Alan interrupted him. "That's quite enough, Colonel," he said, quietly.
Dean turned back to him, opening his mouth to speak. Again, Alan cut him off. "I'll speak to you upstairs, after lunch. We can discuss it further, then."
He got up, picked up his plate and glass and moved deliberately to another table, Lyn and Mark following him. Behind him, he heard Dean speaking to the others at his table.
"The truth hurts, I guess. Sorry, fellas, but I had to say it."
"Shut up, you idiot!" Terrance snapped.
"And now, I suppose he'll run crying to the Weavers that Colonel Dean has been naughty and talked nasty to him. I was an officer when that young snot was in grade school! Where does he --"
Seating himself, Alan saw Quade come to his feet so abruptly that he jarred the table, sloshing water and coffee on the immaculate linen.
"That will be enough, Dean," he rumbled, his deep voice carrying the note of annoyance clearly to everyone in the shielded section of the room. "Alan's my friend, and I won't sit here and listen to you run him down!"
People in the other section of the restaurant were staring, but the fact didn't seem to upset the black man. He picked up his plate and crossed the room to Alan's group.
"You got room for me over here, kid?"
"Sure, Ed."
Terrence arrived behind him. "How about me?"
Mark scooted over. Across the room, Alan saw Tang Fu looking embarrassed as he signaled the waitress for his check. Alan could almost read his lips as he spoke quietly to Dean.
"Travis, that wasn't the smartest thing you've ever done, believe me! What the devil got into you? Waitress, my check, please!"
Dean's was much louder than the other man's, drawing the attention of the Weavers and of Meeks, who had just entered the conventioneers' seating area in the wake of a hostess. "Well, if he thinks he can just --"
"Shut *up*!" Tang glanced uneasily around. "Are you *trying* to attract attention?" He glanced up, as the waitress deposited the check by his plate. "Oh, thanks." He stood up, took the slip of paper and departed abruptly. Dean glared after him a moment, then went back to his meal.
Alan saw both the Weavers watching him, frowning, and Meeks was almost ostentatiously studying his menu, careful not to glance at him. Finnar seated himself with Arcturian indifference, completely ignoring the situation, although Alan was sure he had noticed the incident.
Mark's mouth was set in a grim line; Lyn was flushed with anger and the two newcomers were looking acutely embarrassed. Wanda frowned, thoughtfully.
"What do you suppose got into him? I can't imagine Dean talking like that to a superior officer. Most out of character."
"I don't think he was talking to Alan," Lyn said. She had gone very pink, her brown eyes sparkling with anger and hurt pride. "I think he was speaking to me. I'm the one who suggested the sightseeing tour, you know, and he outranks me."
"Damned fool," Quade muttered. He glanced across at Lyn. "No one in our organization is supposed to talk like that to a psychic -- whether he outranks him or not. You know, sometimes, I wonder if Dean likes psychics at all."
"He doesn't," Linley growled.
"Mark," Alan said, quietly.
Linley shrugged. "He's pushed it a bit far this time, don't you think, buddy?"
Alan sighed, acknowledging the inevitable. Quade and Terrence were both looking at him, their faces two large question marks.
Lyn shrugged. "Why not, Alan? He sure isn't trying to keep it secret." She turned to Quade and Terrence. "Colonel Dean dislikes psychics. He thinks we're freaks, perverts, something unclean. He's very prejudiced."
Quade and Terrence stared at her.
"But, he's never been this ... blatant about it before," Alan said. "I don't understand it. Unless, it's the strain of this whole thing. After all, the guy who shot at Jim was standing next to his room."
"Either that," Mark said, coldly, "or he *is* our murderer."
Alan looked quickly at his partner, wondering seriously for the first time if what Linley suggested could be true. Travis Dean? Dean didn't like psychics. Would he go so far as to take a shot at one or two if he thought he could get away with it?
But, Alan had read his mind! He hadn't believed Dean capable of murder. Could he be so very clever that he could hide such capabilities behind selective shielding? Unlikely; Alan had known Dean for a great many years, since before the Underground had learned the technique of producing selective shielding in non-psychics. Surely, he would have known if Dean had harbored such murderous feelings. But still --
"A man who hates psychics should not be in a position such as his," Quade rumbled. "It causes trouble in the organization."
"The High Command knows about it," Alan said, peaceably. "They've taken steps to minimize trouble, and Dean is a very capable officer, otherwise."
"It still seems a bad place to have him," Terrence said, looking troubled. "Any psychic must certainly detect his attitude, and it can't fail to cause hurt feelings and unpleasantness -- on both sides. He should be transferred for his own good, and the good of the organization."
"I'm sure Admiral Weaver will do what he thinks is right," Alan replied, noncommittally.
"I suppose you're right." Terrence finished his coffee. "You done, Ed?"
Quade gulped his coffee. "Now I am."
"Good." Terrence started to rise, then glanced at Lyn. "Colonel, I've always been friends with Travis, and I don't understand what he just did, but I'd like to apologize for him, if I may. He really is intensely loyal to the Confederation; I can swear to that. And he *isn't* a murderer."
Lyn managed a smile. "Thank you, Colonel Terrence."
The man smiled at her, then he and Quade walked away toward the cashier's station.
"Still," Wanda said, mildly, "I think I just put him back on my list of suspects."
"Dean?" Mark asked.
"Of course."
Alan shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know, Wanda. He just doesn't have the personality of a murderer. And he's too loyal to do anything to harm the Confederation's cause." He rose to his feet. "I'm finished. Let's go."
Lyn was silent as he paid the cashier, but her cheeks were still flushed with anger. As they left the café, she spoke suddenly, her voice hushed but still indignant. "How *dare* he talk to you like that -- or me, either, for that matter! You should report him, Alan!"
Mark glanced sideways at him. "You know, kid, she's right. If you don't do something, I will."
Alan nodded. "I'm planning to write a letter of official reprimand, Mark. I hate to do it, because he's a good officer, otherwise, but I don't see how I can ignore this episode."
"Good." Mark let the subject drop. "Now, where's young O'Hara?"
"In my office on Sixth," Wanda said. "I've got him under guard."
Sixth floor was silent when they reached it, except for the hum of the lift and the buzz of a carpet cleaner, somewhere. The two security guards stood silently before the door of Wanda's office. Alan ignored the half of a ham sandwich in a wrapper on one of the chairs near the door, and the fact that one man was trying to chew without being too obvious about it in front of General Westover. He turned to the others.
"I want to talk to him, alone. Lyn, would you and Wanda check out Colonels Finnar and Tang Fu's rooms while you're waiting?"
"Sure," Lyn said. The two women turned away down the corridor. Alan glanced at Mark. "You stick around out here, will you, Mark? I might want you in a hurry."
He opened the door to Wanda's office and went in.
**********
Chapter Nine
Brian O'Hara was seated on a straight-backed chair by Wanda's desk, a sullen expression on his face that disappeared when he saw Alan. He jumped to his feet and saluted. Alan saw him swallow convulsively, and knew that his reputation had again preceded him. Well, all to the good.
"Sit down, Brian," he said, mildly. "I really have no intention of interrogating you."
Brian settled stiffly into his chair once more, managing to sit bolt upright on the extreme edge. Alan sat on the corner of Wanda's desk and surveyed him with a faint smile. "How old are you?" he asked, suddenly.
"Twenty tomorrow, sir."
"Happy birthday."
"Thank you, sir." The tense face didn't relax. Alan looked him over, thoughtfully. With his power pack less than three meters away on the other side of the door, he could undoubtedly go through the boy's shields, but he thought he could manage to do without a mind scan this time. The boy's girlfriend had been uppermost in his mind on Alan's first contact with him, and he'd be willing to lay odds that the girl was somehow mixed up in this.
"Brian, tell me about Brittany."
The bellhop's eyes widened. "What about her, sir?"
"Is she pretty?"
"She's beautiful, sir." His face quivered.
"Where is she, now?"
Apprehension flickered on Brian's face. "Why do you want to know that? She hasn't got anything to do with this."
"I don't believe you." Alan sat back, watching him. "I think she has everything to do with it. Where is she?"
"In my apartment, sir." Empathic waves of distress, even from behind closed shields. Alan frowned, suddenly.
"Is she all right?"
The boy gulped and his gaze went to the floor. Alan stood up. "What did he do to her, Brian? He hurt her, didn't he? That's why you hit him."
Round, blue eyes came up to meet Alan's, wide with astonishment. "I had my shields up! How did you know?"
"Private O'Hara, how badly is she hurt? Does she need to see a doctor?"
The boy's eyes filled with tears. "Yes, but she won't. She's too ashamed of what happened, and too scared of the guy for what he might do!"
"What happened, Brian?"
He gulped. "She showed up at my apartment last night. She'd been out with him. She said they'd gone to a movie and then back to her place. He started getting ... fresh with her, then, when she objected, he beat her up. He told her if she went to the police that he'd find her and kill her and her sister. Her sister, Kelly, lives with her, but she was working last night." The boy's voice broke. "I didn't know what to do, sir. I promised her I wouldn't tell, and now she'll think I broke my promise."
Alan sighed. "Brian, there's more at stake here that you haven't thought about. We have someone running around here who tried to kill two of our people, and one man is missing. We also have someone who works in this hotel who is capable of senseless violence -- perhaps even murder."
"Fink*?" Brian's eyes had gone wider than ever. "You think *he* might have tried to kill Colonel Francois?"
"Maybe."
"But, how? He doesn't have access to Sixth."
Alan shrugged. "As I said to Colonel Blake, Brian, that wouldn't be impossible. Difficult, maybe, but not impossible. I could do it, if I had to, and I'm sure I'm not unique. We'll have to check this out -- and Brittany needs to see a doctor. Is anyone with her, now?" He paused abruptly, a faint, cold chill suddenly running up his spine, making the short hairs on his neck prickle with apprehension. Something was wrong.
The bellhop was shaking his head. "No, sir. She cried herself to sleep and I left her on the couch. I phoned about an hour ago, and she answered. She hardly sounded like herself." Brian's voice broke. "She's only eighteen!"
In spite of the precognitive shivers running over his scalp, Alan hid a smile, suddenly feeling almost grandfatherly. "All right, Brian. Now, I want you to do exactly as I tell you. Go home. Get Brittany. Bring her in and we'll have the doctor look at her, here. I'm going to the hospital to see Mr. Fink. Then ..."
He was interrupted. From without sounded a horrified scream. Alan spun toward the door and O'Hara jumped to his feet as Mark flung it open from the outside. From down the hall, another shriek echoed. Wanda and Lyn appeared from an intersecting hallway and ran toward the sound.
"Come on!" Alan snapped. Mark, O'Hara and the two security men followed him at a run in the direction of the screams.
A third cry reached his ears as he ran past the lifts. They were coming from straight ahead -- down the hall to the gymnasium!
A woman in the uniform of a housekeeper was stumbling toward them, sobbing. Alan ran past her toward the door near the end of the hall from which she had emerged, and flung it wide.
It was the room with the hot tubs. And in the tub nearest the door a body floated, face down, arms and legs moving loosely in the churning water. Alan didn't need to see the face to know who it was.
Mark spat a four-letter word, strode past him and seized one of the slack arms to pull the figure from the tub. The two security men hurried to help him, and together, they dragged the body free of the water.
"It's Osgood," Linley grunted. "Looks like he's had it."
Alan stepped forward to look at the man. In death, the crisply handsome features were barely recognizable. He made a face. "Dead, all right. Has been for at least an hour, I'd say, from appearances." Firmly, he quelled the slight queasiness in his stomach. Osgood was certainly not the first dead man he had ever seen -- far from it. It was the manner of his death that made the difference.
Brian O'Hara stared, speechless. Wanda was already speaking urgently into her wrist communicator. Alan knelt beside the body, examining it as well as he could. Mark was doing the same.
"Kid," he said suddenly, his low voice almost drowned out by the sound of the churning water and the voices of the slowly gathering crowd of guards and hotel employees, "feel his skin. Do you notice anything funny?"
Reluctantly, Alan laid a hand on the naked chest. The skin was cool and wet.
Cool? Alan's eyes went to Linley's.
"The tub water's hot, Mark. If he was in the tub, why isn't he hot, too?"
"That's what I was wonderin'." Clearly, Mark's pronunciation was slipping in the stress of the moment. "Wanda! C'mere!"
Wanda Blake hurried to them and knelt beside the body. "I've called Hotel Security, and they're calling Homicide downtown," she told them. "What do you need?"
Alan explained Linley's discovery and Wanda also extended a hand to confirm their finding. Her brows snapped together. She turned and dipped a hand into the hot tub. "Cool! But, the water's hot!"
"I'd say this isn't likely to have been an accident," Alan said, quietly. "Where do you suppose he was kept?"
Wanda wiped the water from her fingers on one pantleg. "There are big food storage freezers in the basement. I suppose it's possible ..."
"Be kind of hard to get him from there to here without bein' caught, though," Linley said.
"Not necessarily," Wanda contradicted. "There aren't many people working in the basement, and if whoever killed him used the service lift --"
"Still, it seems like a big chance to take. On the other hand ..: Alan again firmly quelled his queasy stomach, "I suppose it could have been done."
"Apparently it *was* done," Wanda said, her dark face grim. "I'll have my people start checking the freezers downstairs for ... signs." She rose to her feet, speaking softly into her communicator.
"I want to talk to the maid who found him," Alan said. He stood up and went to the door. As he did so, several men in civilian clothing entered the room. A short, solidly built man paused beside him.
"You discovered the body?"
"No," Alan said. "The maid did. We heard the scream."
"Your identification?"
Alan reached into his pocket with one hand, at the same time making a small, apparently casual gesture with his left hand. The man's expression didn't change, but his own left hand made the counter signal that confirmed that he was indeed a member of Alan's organization. He examined the ID, then drew Alan to one side. A moment later, Mark, Lyn and Wanda joined them, as two men in white uniforms entered.
"Lieutenant Greene," the man introduced himself. "You *must* be General Westover."
Alan nodded. "My partner, Colonel Linley, and my wife, Lyn -- Colonel Westover."
The lieutenant nodded. "What can you tell me about this situation, sir? I assume it's tied in with the two previous attempted murders?"
"We believe so. That's our missing man -- Thurmond Osgood III." He glanced at Brian O'Hara, who was still standing, watching the proceedings, wide-eyed. "Brian, go and get Brittany, now. Bring her back as quickly as possible." He turned back to Greene. "He's clear. He was with me when we heard the maid's screams."
Brian vanished. Greene signaled to another man, who had just entered. The newcomer was quite tall, his skin a rich ebony color against the white of his open-necked shirt. "This is Ayers -- Lieutenant Ayers. Bob, these are General Westover, Colonel Westover and Colonel Linley."
Ayers nodded. "Glad to meet you. I've sent the maid who found the body and the others who arrived soon afterwards to the conference room, under escort. I'd like a psychic along when I interview them." He glanced sideways and Alan followed his gaze to see two security men herding the maids and maintenance workers before them, toward the hall. For the first time, he noticed Ali al Hassad among the group.
"Al Hassad's here, Mark."
The former patrolman nodded. "Yeah, I saw him."
"Who?" Greene asked.
"Al Hassad. He's one of the employees who didn't have an alibi after the attempt on Francois."
"Hmmph! Well, we'll check him out. Any special instructions General -- since you're the one who's really in charge."
"I've got a couple," Mark said. "The General and I both noticed when we pulled Osgood out of the pool, and we got Colonel Blake to be a witness. It's the body temperature. The water in the hot tub musta -- must have -- been close to 40 degrees C, but the guy's skin felt cool to me when I touched him. The other thing's a couple of bruises."
Greene's brows shot up. "Where?"
"There's two of 'em -- one on each side of his neck -- just about the size of fingertips. Little oval spots. They're not real obvious, but you'll see 'em if you look."
Ayers glanced at Greene. "Interesting. Sounds like anything but a routine drowning to me. What position was he in when you found him?"
"Face down," Alan said. "Floating just under the surface. The whirlpool was on."
"Mmmmph. Well, I suppose if he slipped and fell in -- say, he hit his head -- that would be the position he'd be in. Still ..."
"In that case," Greene said, "some sort of mark will be found at the autopsy. I think we'd better go question the maid who found him."
Alan glanced at his wife. "Would you go with them, Lyn? I have something I want to check."
She nodded vigorously. Greene gestured her ahead of him out the door.
Ayers looked questioningly at him. "Anything I can help you with, sir?"
"Well --" Alan frowned. "There's something you can do for me. There's a man in the local hospital -- Colonel Blake can tell you which one -- whom I want arrested immediately. The name's Lawrence Fink."
"Oh? What did he do?"
"He beat up a young woman by the name of Brittany Bauer around midnight last night. Check up on him for me. There may be records somewhere with his retinal prints. I doubt very much if there are any under the name he's going by. He claims they were lost."
"Oh? Does this have anything to do with what's happened?"
"Maybe, maybe not. But, he works at the hotel, and, from young O'Hara's report, he came close to killing the girl, then threatened her and her sister with death if she reported it."
The man whistled, softly. "I'll have it done immediately."
"Good. And there's one other matter. Osgood's swim trunks."
"Swim trunks?" Ayers said.
"Coming through," a voice announced. Alan moved quickly aside with the others as two men passed, guiding an anti-grav stretcher and a sheet-covered form between them.
"Swim trunks," Alan said. "He was wearing nude pink swim trunks by Adrian of Paris. But, we saw them in his dresser this morning, and he's been missing since at least 0300 last night -- probably longer."
There was a short, pregnant pause.
"Well," Mark said, doubtfully, "I guess he coulda come in while everybody was at lunch, then gone to the hot tub and drowned. Or, he might have two sets."
"I want to check his room again," Alan said.
Ayers nodded. "Our people will have finished with it by now -- but they didn't know about the trunks. "If you find out anything, let Green or me know."
"Wanda will give you the report," Alan said. "Please let *me* know if anything turns up on your end."
"I will."
"Good. We'll see you a little later."
Alan led the way into the hall. A small group of maids was still gathered by the door and Alan heard a fragment of conversation.
"Poor young man," one of them was saying, "to die like that -- drowned in the hot tub. Such a handsome man, too."
"So sad," another remarked.
"Let's let 'em go on thinking that way," Mark said in an undertone. "It's a better explanation than murder for everybody."
Alan nodded. "Why did the maid happen to go in there, anyway? Do you know, Wanda?"
"No, but I'll find out," she said.
"Later will do," Alan said.
They arrived at the lifts in the main corridor and turned right into the nearest hallway, where Osgood's room was located. It was locked, of course, but Wanda's pass key opened it at once.
The room looked exactly as it had earlier. Mark went at once to the dresser and opened the top drawer. Rapidly, he rifled through the contents. "Nope, no trunks." He turned to Alan. "Sense anything?"
Alan was concentrating. "There's been quite a few people here in the last few minutes: police and lab, probably. I don't sense anyone else."
Mark pulled open the bottom drawer and Wanda checked under the bed. "Still no pajamas, robe or slippers. Anything over there?"
"Nope."
Uneasiness was crawling along Alan's skin. He glanced quickly around. A warning -- precognition. What was causing it?
Wanda lifted the pillow to check beneath it, then ran a hand between the mattress and box springs. "Just making sure. My husband always hides his. It's the way of men."
A thrill of alarm shot through Alan, all his previous uneasiness crystallizing in a sudden jolt of fright.
"Mark!" he yelled.
The door opened a crack and a blaster arched through the air to thump softly to the rug at their feet.
**********
(tbc)
