Mark Tiedemann - Chimera

The image he had recorded of the older man matched quickly to a name-Ree Wenithal-and the company he owned. The public record contained a brief description and little else: a general import-export firm specializing in textiles, licensed eight years ago, with Ree Wenithal listed as sole owner. No recent police reports, at least not in the last three years.

Coren had nearly paid a second visit to Brun Damik after his cursory check of Wenithal's company-what was their connection? Then he found the one detail that had brought him directly here: Wenithal had been a cop.

Coren pressed his fingers to the nameplate.

"Yes?" a polite voice asked.

"Coren Lanra to see Mr. Wenithal."

"Do you have an appointment, Mr. Lanra?"

"No, but I think he'll want to talk to me. I was given his name by a mutual acquaintance: a man named Damik."

Coren waited.

"Very well, Mr. Lanra. Please come in."

The door opened.

At the end of a short hallway, he passed under an arch into a wide, brightly-lit office area. Coren counted eight people working at desks.

A door at the rear opened and a neatly-dressed man with thin, pearl-white hair came toward him-the same man he had seen meet Brun Damik. He seemed tall from a distance but as he neared, Coren saw that it was an illusion: the man walked and carried himself as if he stood a head taller than anyone else.

"Mr. Lanra?" He extended a hand. "I'm Ree Wenithal. How may I help you?"

"A little of your time, a few questions."

Wenithal smiled and waved Coren in the direction of his door. Coren keyed the little hemisphere in his pocket.

The office was dark, expensively furnished with heavy chairs and sofas and polished woodwork. The desk was cluttered with disks and papers. A suit hung from the handle of a closet door to the right. Another sheaf of papers lay beside a half-full cup of coffee on an end table by an upholstered armchair that still held the imprint of its recent occupant.

Coren turned at the sound of the door clicking shut.

Wenithal's left hand was in his jacket pocket.

"There are easily four other ways to leave this office beside the way you came in," Wenithal said matter-of-factly.

"Do I need to know any of them?"

"I suppose that depends on what you have to say." His eyes narrowed. "You used a name I know to get in here. But I don't know you. "

"But you know my type."

"TBI?"

"Special Service."

"But not anymore. You've gone private. "

"It happens from time to time."

"Who do you work for now?"

"Rega Looms."

Wenithal's face showed a moment of confusion. Then he grunted, took his hand from his pocket, and went to his desk. "Drink?"

"No, thank you."

Wenithal poured a glass for himself and added ice, moving carefully, methodically. "So," he said, turning to Coren, "what does Mr. Looms want with me now?"

"'Now?' Has he wanted anything from you in the past?"

Wenithal frowned. "We've done business before. I admit, he's never sent his security people to negotiate a new contract, but…"

"Nothing. I'm not here at his behest. I'm following up on something else, unrelated to the company."

"What would that be?"

"I'm told that you're the man to see about baleys."

"Who told you that? It wasn't Brun."

"A mutual acquaintance."

Wenithal shrugged. "Suit yourself. I don't know anything about it."

"I could check. "

Wenithal sighed. "I'm assuming you checked me out before you came in here. You know what I used to do. What I know stems from my investigations as a law enforcement officer. Most of that information is several years out of date. I'm really not interested in rehashing old cases with you. "

"Old cases often refuse to go quietly into a file. Especially if they're big enough."

"And are mine big enough?"

Coren shrugged.

"You threatened Brun over this. You are the same man who spoke with him earlier, aren't you? What particularly do you want?"

"Names. Who were you investigating?"

"You don't know what you want, do you?"

"I hoped you might be able to help me narrow it down. I'm looking for a baley runner, the one who makes all the arrangements with the shippers before the runners themselves shunt their cargoes."

"A particular one, I imagine." Wenithal smiled sardonically. "Actually, at one time I was investigating your Mr. Looms. "

"For what?"

"It didn't prove out. His name was on a list. You know how that goes. It was coincidental."

"So why mention it?"

"Just to remind you that we all have files. What would someone find in yours?"

"Less than you might expect. I've had a fairly dull career."

Wenithal looked surprised, then laughed. "My cases are all a matter of public record-you could look for yourself. Why bother me?"

"What I'm looking for won't be in your case logs. For one thing, I doubt very much if the people I'm interested in are part of the public record."

"Why not?"

Coren felt his patience fray. "Is this a test?"

Wenithal shook his head. "You've come into my business, you've asked questions that could be construed as accusatory, you've made requests you have no right to make and no authority to push through. I haven't heard one thing yet to convince me that I shouldn't call the police and have you escorted out."

"Nova Levis."

Wenithal's face hardened. His reaction lasted less than a second, but Coren recognized it and it surprised him. Dropping the name of the colony had been a gamble; Wenithal could easily have feigned ignorance. Instead, Wenithal now took this seriously. Coren wished he knew why.

"This had been slightly amusing till now," Wenithal said. "Leave. I no longer have any involvement in anything that might help you, and I resent the implication that I should. I'm a businessman. A legitimate businessman."

"Yes, well, you're in imports and exports. Coincidence?"

"Not at all. I learned quite a bit about the industry working on certain cases. When I retired it was easy to slip right into it. Now leave. This interview is over."

"That's unfortunate. I felt certain we could help each other."

"Why would you think that?"

"You said it yourself: I scared Brun. He came to you before anyone else. Why was that? Paternal advice?"

"As odd as it may seem, yes."

Coren raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Really. Well, if that is indeed the case, then perhaps we should both be concerned about the same thing. If I compromised him and you have his interests at heart, then-"

"If this is unrelated to Rega Looms, what is it related to? What's your concern in any of this?"

"I didn't say it wasn't related to Looms, I said it wasn't related to his company. "

"Ah. Campaign stuff? You're private security, so part of your job is to clean up embarrassments. Let me guess-his daughter is in trouble. "

"Why would you guess that?"

Wenithal shrugged. "Rumors. I hear things still. Conversations with old friends. She runs baleys, does she?"

"Not anymore. She's dead."

Coren had not planned to tell anyone, but he wanted to see Wenithal's reaction. He was not disappointed. Wenithal looked surprised and, for a moment, vulnerable. The bluster and firmness of the ex-cop vanished, replaced by an expression of informed terror. It metamorphosed slowly into a mask of sympathy and sadness.

"I'm…very sorry to hear that…" He turned away and muttered something more.

"What was that?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing. I was just-my condolences to Mr. Looms. How-?"

"Running baleys. "

"I see…yes, I can see that you would be interested. I'm very sorry, Mr. Lanra." He sat down. "I can't help you. I wish I could, but I'm long out of it. All I could give you are rumors."

"Rumors are often more reliable."

"Pah! Police superstition. You hope rumors are more reliable because usually they're all you get. When I was working I'd have taken a solid fact over rumor any day." Wenithal looked up, the wall back in place. "Now if you don't mind, I have a business to take care of. I'm not a policeman anymore. I did that for twenty-two years. No more. Go away." Coren wanted to return to his private office and begin reviewing Wenithal's career. Instead, he took the tubeway west, to Delfi. From Wenithal's place it was only forty-five kilometers to Looms' hotel.