Rara Avis Read online

  Rara Avis

  Megan Sybil Baker

  They had removed the body before I got there, which was unfortunate, but then I was late. I’d been delayed at Chi’aniir with another case and didn’t arrive at police headquarters in Primus Five until almost two full daily cycles after the murder. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was murder they were dealing with. Obviously, or they wouldn’t have telecommed me.

  The Desk Sergeant, an affable 7-J-3 security ‘droid, informed me that Chief Inspector Dagland was out and that Sergeant Corson would be handling the case. I found B.J. waiting for me in the brightly lit sterility of the detective division squad room, an unusual tension in his eyes. He and I had worked together for almost six years, ever since my first assignment as an intern in the OutBack Colonies—a godsforsaken sector with a plethora of ungainly and ill-equipped deep-space stations occupied by equally ungainly and ill-mannered asteroid miners. At the time he had speculated I was there because I was not a very good P.I..

  Our first case together changed his opinion immediately: I’m one of the best, and he soon knew it. But it took three more cases before I told him that I’d asked to be sent to the OutBack Colonies; ten before he began to understand why.

  B.J. led me to his office, punched up the official file on the murder, then left; but not because he had any of the squeamishness most cops have about working with a P.I.. He just understood what I needed: all the information he had on Lady Vandora Mar-Risardas. And solitude.

  There’s always the apprehension at first. What if I can’t do it? What if I fail? What if the persona is so far diminished that even my finely tuned psychic skills can’t reach and assimilate it? Though in my ten years as a Psychic Investigator that, truthfully, has never happened. But still, there’s always the fear.

  Being a psychic does have its drawbacks—you’re more attuned to the feelings of the cops around you; you’ve got their curiosity—after all, Psychic Investigators are as rare as a sober Sinderian miner. And apprehension, because you exist at all. I know cops who’d rather wrestle a quill-furred herhon in heat than shake my hand, afraid of what might be revealed by the contact.

  But then there is Benjamin Jeremiah Corson the Second. A muscular bachelor in his late thirties, B.J. had decided rather early on in our professional acquaintanceship that the disadvantages of my being a psychic were overshadowed by the advantages of my being one ‘damn fine good-looking woman’. His description, not mine.

  So at times the personal aspects of our acquaintanceship mingled with the business aspects. But as it was, he’d recently become enamored with a Naldian female (you can’t lie to a psychic, you know) and I’d not been in touch with him for almost three months. Or else I would’ve known first hand how important the Mar-Risardas murder was and wouldn’t have spent so much time on the double kidnapping on Chi’annir.

  “You should’ve called.” I sipped at the thin synjav provided by OutBack H.Q. and waited for B.J.’s answer.

  “I didn’t think it would’ve helped, Jynx. When he found her, she’d already been dead for four days. You once told me…”

  I knew what I once told him, that impressions were more difficult to absorb the more time involved.

  He shrugged. “I didn’t think another cycle would matter.”

  Truthfully, it didn’t. After one daily cycle, the E.I.I.s, the Emotionally Intensified Images, were fading. A P.I. who could come upon a scene in the first cycle had a wealth of information to draw upon. Those cases were always the easy ones. This one was not.

  I shoved the cup into the disposal and stood. “Then let’s not waste any more time.”

  He nodded, his expression a bit chastised and I felt obliged to offer him a smile. “Your report was excellent, B.J.”

  The dark eyes brightened and I remembered something he evidently found hard to forget: even though I was five years his junior, I was still, in status, his senior.

  —

  The Estates of Lord Kieran Risardas were located on Tas Elyr, a small world with a predominance of lush landscapes and rich residents. The Risardas estates, called Nidus Point, included several hundred acres of prime forest lands, hunting preserves, two lakes and a rapidly flowing river. All this had been acquired over the past three and a half centuries by the Risardas family, once known solely for their expertise in intergalactic piracy. But their infamous endeavors had long since fallen by the wayside in favor of more legitimate ways of investing their billions.

  It was said that the present heir, Lord Kieran, in spite of the fact that he shared the same name as his infamous ancestor, wouldn’t know the stern from the bow of a hyperspace huntership. He was, however, known for his adeptness in choosing lucrative investments and beautiful women, as evidenced by the late Lady Vandora Mar-Risardsas. The daughter of a mining magnate in the Sinderian System, Vandora had never had a lack of male companions. Still, Lord Kieran had been considered quite a catch.

  Most of this I knew from watching the gossips on the vid; the details of the Mar-Risardas syndicate, however, had been provided by B.J.’s painstaking investigative work.

  The marriage had been a profitable alliance for both of them. Risardas had more than most could hope to achieve in a single lifetime. But the Sinderian System was expanding and their mines just now beginning to show the possibilities of tremendous profits. Risardas could withstand the losses of the next few years, writing them off as the Conclave allowed him to do, in hopes of later profits. And Nelsam Mar gained something for his daughter that he himself could never have provided: a place in society, a name, a connection with the privileged and wealthy. For a man who, only fifteen years prior, had been a nameless spacer haunting dark and musty mining-port bars, it was like a dream come true.

  And it was a dream that was shattered by the brutal death of Vandora Mar-Risardas. Why? That was the question B.J. and I shot back and forth in the austere comfort of the police shuttle. He’d rid himself of his regulation brown jacket and leaned back in his seat, his broad face crinkling as his mentally argued over the possibilities.

  I waited until he had his thoughts in line before speaking out. “So you don’t rule out His Lordship’s involvement in this, at all?”

  “Hell, no!” He sat upright. “He’s a prime suspect. Jealous husband and all that, you know.”

  I knew, but didn’t quite agree. “Jealous enough to slit his wife’s throat and dismember her body maybe. But then to leave it in her bedroom for the police to find? Surely a man of Kieran’s prowess could’ve found a more efficient way to arrange her death, if he did at all. From what I’ve read, they were the Perfect Couple. Capital P, capital C.”

  B.J. snorted. “Visually, yeah. I guess they were. Attended all the right parties, had all the right friends. But something always struck me as wrong, right from the beginning. I know a little about the Risardases, you know. My uncle’s head of security at one of the Depots. And it just didn’t match. Risardas is a shrewdie; one smart son-of-a-bitch. I don’t like him, maybe, but I respect him. But Vandora, well, the chair you’re sitting in has a better personality and more of an I.Q., I’d say. My guess is he just got tired of her and…,” he drew his fingers across his throat in a cutting motion.

  “Barbaric,” I commented. “Risardas may have pirate blood in him but he’s not a barbarian. Besides, he could have paid her off and divorced her.”

  “Maybe,” B.J. conceded and crinkled his face into a frown again. I turned my attention back to the printouts, knowing nothing would be solved until we reached Nidus Point.

  —

  My work as a Psychic Investigator had taken me to a variety of places, from the hell-pits of Pan Chegan to the glittering casinos on Taythis. I’ve worked with panderers and presidents, junkies and jewel merchants. But I had ne
ver seen anything as elegant as Nidus Point.

  The rented hovercar skimmed noiselessly over a long, white graveled drive, bordered on both sides by exotic flowering plants and bushes. Brightly plumed birds flitted from tree to tree and through a gap in the shrubbery I caught a glimpse of a pair of rare Keprian Peacocks in jeweled pinks and greens. The vista simulated a jungle effect but no jungle was ever so symmetrical and orderly.

  A breeze rustled the low-hanging fronds and I could make out the glimmer of something white in the distance. As we approached I realized what I’d been staring at was the marble facade of the Risardas mansion.

  Only one story in height, it was simple yet elegant, its tinted windows offset by beveled marble moldings, beneath which grew meticulously trimmed dark green and blue shrubs. Multifaceted carriage lights graced either side of the entranceway; a sparkling fountain filled the center of the drive. B.J. guided the car between the fountain and the doorway and as I stepped out into the warm sunshine the doors before me opened, revealing a pokerfaced ‘droid butler. We were expected and ushered inside.

  Like most of my generation, I was station-born and station-bred. Hallways, to me, were something to be filled with a pressed concentration of bodies. Privacy was a luxury that even my substantial salary had not been able to procure for me. So when confronted with not only the vast expanse of hundreds of well-manicured acres, but an entrance hallway that could’ve housed half my neighborhood sector on H-level, I was, understandably, a bit taken aback. It seemed so strange not to have to contain, that is, not to have to martial my thoughts for fear of intruding upon a neighbor. Here there was only B.J., myself, the ‘droid—who registered as a nonentity with me—and the diminished presence further away of an unknown police officer, left on guard and bored with his job.

  There was another presence, one I knew could only be Lord Kieran, but he was physically too far away at the moment for me to be aware of anything other than the immense size of the mansion.

  We were led to a large room, bigger than my whole apartment, with heavily draped windows that looked out onto a formal garden. A second pair of the Keprian birds strutted into view with a calm grace as if their appearance were a common occurrence in every dirtsider’s back yard. Inside genuine Pavala holos hung suspended from the ceiling, shimmering as I moved around them. A single Pavala could cost more than a year’s budget at H.Q.. Risardas had three in this room alone.

  B.J. excused himself to speak with the young officer who was now wondering how much longer he would have to remain in this elegant prison. Unlike myself, he became nervous when given too much space and his thoughts were now centered upon a crowded, dimly-lit pub on Primus that I’d been to many times as well. But I didn’t regard it with a similar affection.

  B.J. returned a few minutes later to find me still luxuriating in my newfound solitude. Then suddenly something very painful shot through my mind. I cried out. B.J. was immediately by my side.

  “Jynx?”

  “I, I don’t know.” I faltered, steadying myself against an elegantly carved desk. “I guess I shouldn’t just let myself go like that. Sometimes you find…”

  But I never did get a chance to complete my sentence because another image thrust into my mind. An image of something very controlled and yet, very weary. I scanned, labeled it as human and male and knew that Lord Kieran Risardas was about to come through the sitting room doors.

  He looked exactly as he did on the vids: a dark-haired man in his mid-forties, yet he was taller that I expected, his height well over six feet. That was something the vids never could accurately portray. Something to do with the positioning of the cameras, I’m told. Whatever the reason, they had misjudged Kieran Risardas’ height but not his classic good looks: the square jaw, high cheekbones and dark-lashed pale gray eyes were just as I’d remembered. His hair, very thick, was worn a little longer than fashionable, yet on him the collar-length looked elegant.

  He entered the room briskly with an air of confidence, and nodded to B.J. and myself.

  “Sergeant Corson,” he said and the voice, I noted mentally, went with the body: deep, well-modulated, controlled. Too bad the emotional energy I was picking up didn’t corroborate that.

  B.J. touched my elbow and nudged me forward. “Lord Kieran. I told you I’d be bringing along our best P.I.. This is Dr. Jynx San’Janeiro.”

  “Doctor San’Janeiro.” He inclined his head. I felt him studying me, analyzing me both as a man analyzes a woman and a hunter analyzes his prey. My physical appearance he found more than adequately pleasing. Though his late wife had been a statuesque blonde, he still was open-minded when it came to a petite auburn-haired female. What bothered him was my age—I was younger than him by some ten years—and my occupation. I knew he was expecting to see a gray-haired old crone, carting a crystal ball. The image had been transmitted clearly the moment B.J. had introduced us. It had taken all my professional training not to burst out laughing.

  It also told me he had evidently spent some time studying ancient Terran myths.

  “Lord Kieran,” I began, moving away from B.J.. “First, let me extend my condolences on the tragic death of your wife, Lady Vandora. And I’m sorry to have to intrude upon you at this most difficult time, but there are several problems with the case and the police would like them brought to a resolution as quickly as possible. As I’m sure you would, too,” I added. He wasted no time in dismissing my offerings of sympathy. “Don’t feel you have to coddle words with me. I am not, and the police know this, your typical grieving husband. Though I suppose I don’t have to tell you that.” He shrugged, his vague acknowledgment of my abilities having now been stated. “Vandora and I were married for a little over five years. It was a marriage of convenience for us both. We each had something to offer the other, neither of which was any form of emotion. I can’t even honestly say I loved my wife. But I didn’t kill her.”

  “I’m not saying you did,” I replied softly, but more to keep the tone of the discussion calm than as to any reaction to his admission. In spite of his casual stance, I sensed an anger roiling inside him. After three days of having the O.B.C. detective division living in his back pocket, he was no doubt getting tired of professing his innocence.

  “But somebody did kill Lady Vandora, Lord Kieran, and that’s what I’m here to find out.”

  He considered my words, leaned back against an intricately carved writing desk that looked like it belonged in a museum. “I thought you had to work with a murder right after it happened.”

  “It is easier,” I admitted for the second time that day. “But there are always other methods.”

  “Well, then.” He gestured towards the large, paneled doors. “Sergeant Corson knows the way. Unless you’d prefer—-”

  “I would.” I wanted to walk through the same hallways that Vandora did with the man who had been responsible for her being there in the first place.

  “I’d be happy to oblige. If you’ll come with me, Dr. San’Janeiro?” I followed him out into the long hallway, our footsteps echoing thinly against the cold marble tiles. Vandora Mar-Risardas had her own private suite of rooms in the east wing of the house: one of three that branched out from a central hub. The east wing also contained Lord Kieran’s suite, a well-equipped exercise room, an indoor pool and a small private dining room with large floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a vast expanse of flowering acreage for as far as the eye could see. Vandora’s bedroom had the same view with sliding glass doors leading out onto a wide wooden deck. I stood for a moment staring out at the vista, again aware of the tremendous internal silence despite the presence of the two men behind me. I basked in the sensation like a sun-worshipper on the beaches of Xinaine.

  I turned to find Lord Kieran regarding me strangely.

  “It’s very peaceful here,” I explained.

  “That was my intention when I designed it,” he said. “A sanctuary. A haven. The word ‘nidus’ is old language for nest.”

  “Some of your
guests seem to have taken that literally.” I pointed to a flurry of wings over the flowers.

  “Hummingbirds,” Kieran said with a nod. “They—”

  “They’re extinct. At least, I thought they were.”

  I felt a twinge of discomfort from him that didn’t make sense and looked at him, questioningly. He wiped his palm across his mustache and as his hand pulled away he smiled briefly. “You have caught me in one of my secret projects, Doctor. We’ve a breeding program here at Nidus. Rare birds. It’s something of a hobby.”

  I nodded and pulled myself back to business. “Where was the body of Lady Vandora found?”

  “In here.” Kieran motioned to an adjoining room which turned out to be a small study with silk-draped walls, a long, low reclining couch and an impressive array of vid equipment. The floor, like the one in the bedroom, was covered with a thick, white carpeting. Only here a series of dark stains and a crudely drawn outline of a human figure mottled its lush perfection. As I stepped towards the outline a wave of coldness passed through me. I shivered; a reaction not unnoticed by B.J..

  When my eyes finally met his, I nodded. “Yes, there’s something,” I admitted, wondering how I could be so blasé at describing the intense hatred that still lingered in the room.

  I moved past the outline and gingerly touched the surfaces of the vid player and speakers, then the shiny jackets of Lady Vandora’s entertainment collection. They offered nothing; inanimate objects rarely do unless they were directly involved in the incident. Still, everything would have to be touched, checked, entered. Especially the clothing.

  But first, I wanted to hear the story as Lord Kieran would relate it.

  He was only too willing to comply and he recited the events with a well-schooled efficiency: just enough detail to give credibility but not enough to betray any strong emotions. He was more in control here than during our first short talk in the large sitting room, perhaps because he had now accepted my presence. In any case, I heard his attorney’s prodding behind every word. But behind that there was something, a weariness I’d first hit upon before he had entered the sitting room. Then an odd mixture of fear and excitement. Were these the emotions of a murderer? Or simply the discomfort of a man with several “secret projects”, like his peacocks and hummingbirds. I couldn’t tell without further probing and without being more rude than I already was, only half-listening to the verbal end of his story.