Copyright M. Wooge, 2002.

===

Friday

The season was turning cold, it was autumn on equatorial Cooke, the planet where I live. The year was 4016. My name is Zedediah Woodman. The name is Biblical. Call me Zed for short. I then had the privilege of working with Braxton B. Benton, in my admittedly biased opinion the greatest criminal detective our planet has ever produced.

As I said, it was autumn and turning cold. Trees that dropped their leaves were half way through the process. The weather reports said we were in for a warm spell, and I intended to take advantage of it. Assuming, of course, a case didn't come up that couldn't wait over the weekend.

So, Friday I come into work, expecting to finish up some paperwork, maybe investigate a murder or accident that would solve itself, bet on the game, and generally avoid any real work. But then Brax and I were called over to the assignment desk, and I knew it would be a working weekend. Sometimes, I hate being on salary.

Our assignment sergeant was H. Hands, middle-aged, overweight, and stuck in a dead-end job. He took considerable pleasure in assigning the two of us work over weekends and holidays. "Good morning," he said, without his usual apathy. "Got a good one for you. Remember your old friend," he looked at the file he was about to hand us, "Michael-Todd Packer?"

How could we forget? Soon after I'd been assigned to Brax, we arrested him for murdering his wife. He'd married into money, and she was a very strong-willed woman. Motive was obvious and there was plenty of circumstantial evidence. Halfway through the trial, it was becoming apparent we had the wrong guy. We found the true murderer, but it was still an embarrassment.

"What about him?" asked Brax. He said it calmly, but I could hear the irritation in his voice. Brax was average height, and about a hundred kilos, none of it muscle. He had dark, thinning hair, combed back to hide the thin spot. He was a baron, which on this planet meant his family owned significant property. It wasn't his, yet, as his father was still alive. So, like most nobility, he worked for a living.

He was also in line for the throne, in the unlikely event ten or twenty people ahead of him suddenly died. That's why I was with him. I'm smart, but don't really have the aptitude to be a detective. I had the aptitude to be a street cop, and I had been. I loved it. Then one day a two-bit burglar got arrested for murder. I knew him, and didn't believe the charge against him. So, I investigated a bit and got him cleared. That put me in line for a promotion, and that turned out to be the partner of Braxton Benton, because someone thought he needed a bodyguard.

At the time of this case I was then, as now, an even hundred kilos, mostly muscle. I was big and knew how to handle a brawl. From the beginning it was obvious I was with Brax to help him do the actual work. He, too, was smart, but nothing remarkable. But he did have a knack for solving criminal cases. What Machiavelli called Virtue.

At the time, I was forty-six years old, Brax forty-two.

But back to the case at hand. Michael-Todd Packer. He'd been found at the bottom of a cliff, near death, and it wasn't an accident. We had been assigned to find out who'd done it.

===

We took my car, as Packer's estate was a couple of hours south of Alliance, Cooke's largest city. I read in out destination then sat back as the car started forward. "What do we have so far?"

Brax was already reading the file. "Packer was at his estate yesterday evening. The staff became worried when he didn't come to supper, so searched for him. He'd been seen headed towards the beach with a rope, so knew where to start." He showed me a map. "His estate has no direct access to the beach, rather the land is flat then ends in a cliff. They found him at the bottom. They thought he'd tied a rope around a tree and tried to climb down and the rope broke, but the officer at the scene found it had been cut."

"Attempted murder, then. What's his condition?"

"Hospital, coma. Doesn't say how he is now."

With luck, I thought, he'd be awake and would remember who'd tried to kill him, and we'd get the weekend off after all. I should be so lucky.

===

I waded through the report twice on the way down. Didn't get much out of the re-read, though, the report was that thin. In time, the car drove through a small seaside town, down a narrow, country road, and up to a large, metal gate. We'd arrived. The steering wheel advanced out of the dash towards me, waiting for instructions. I rolled down the window, wondering if I was supposed to open the gate manually or call out.

A computer voice asked my business. "Police," I said, and that was apparently enough, as the gate opened. I drove along a hundred meters to an immense, um, house. It had a brick foundation, white clapboards, and a green roof. The white-gravel driveway passed along the left of the house and curved around behind. I followed it around and parked in a small lot. Two cars and a van were there, each marked as police.

We got out and started for the entrance. The house, or mansion, maybe, was two and a half stories high, the half story being the roof. A covered porch half-hid the front door, which was soon answered by an older gentleman, formally dressed.

"We were expecting you," he said, after we showed him our badges. "I'm Mister Lydle, butler of the house." He led us into the house. The entry hallway had more floor space than my living room, even without counting the real-wood staircase to the second floor. To our right, as we entered was a dining room. A more open room to the left had a bar at the end I could see into. Behind the bar, watching a small TV on the counter, was a tired-looking police officer. Mr. Lydle introduced him as Officer Daniels. "He made the determination that it was attempted murder. If you need me, I shall be in the kitchen, at the back of the house."

"Uh, one thing before you go," said Brax, as I started towards the officer. "Is there word on Mr. Packer's condition?"

"He has not regained consciousness. I was assured I would be called if there was any change."

The rest of the room might have been called a living room, though on a large scale. A bit more furniture, all of it pushed into a circle near the middle of the room as if someone had realized too late that the room was too large to hold it comfortably. Big windows at the far end, at the front of the building, gave a great view of the lawn and forest outside. A fireplace near the sofas held a TV instead of a fire.

Daniels had turned off the TV when we entered. He remained behind the bar, we sat on the stools in front. We showed each other our badges, and Daniels started talking. "About a quarter before eight last night, the 911 computer alerted me there'd been an accident." He looked at his

pad as he talked. "I drove to the house and walked to the scene from there. I arrived at eight-twenty, the ambulance helicopter had already arrived and the para-meds were at work on Mr. Packer. By the time I got to the bottom of the cliff, Mr. Packer had been placed on a stretcher and about to be loaded in the ambulance. He was comatose, and the parameds had nothing to say, so they left and I started taking testimony. The area had been pretty well trampled but I got everyone away from the immediate crime scene anyway."
"You already knew it was a crime?" asked Brax.

"No, sir, I thought it was an accident and that it should be investigated as such. It wasn't until I'd finished with Craig Thomas, the head groundskeeper, that I decided to examine the rope. He'd mentioned that Packer had been seen going towards the cliff, or rather away from the house, with the rope, and he said Packer must have been trying to rappel down the cliffside and the rope broke.

"You'd noticed the rope?"

"I'd noticed the rope. I made little consideration about it at that time. At this point I went over to the rope, and found the ends had been cut. That's when it became a criminal investigation."

We found Mr. Lydle in the kitchen, towards the back of the house. The kitchen was surprisingly small, given the size of the rest of the house and the number of chairs at the dining room table. With him were two women. One was an older, gray-haired woman he introduced as his wife, Agnes. The other was Micayla, described as temporary help. Micayla had been one of those sent to find Packer.

We started with Mr. Lydle.

"Well, Agnes and Micayla were here in the kitchen all afternoon canning beans. We raise some of our own produce. When extra help is needed, we hire Micayla. Towards evening, it was Master Michael's habit to eat with the staff, despite our different status, but it was not unusual for him to be busy and not show up. Supper is at 6:00. After we'd finished, I went to his office. He wasn't there, so I paged him. When there was no answer, I became concerned. We searched the house and immediate grounds, but failed to find him. Mr. Thomas had mentioned seeing him going down the path to the cliffside with a rope, so I sent him, Mr. Strong, and Miss Micayla to search."

He abruptly stopped then. "Perhaps Micayla should describe her part."

Micayla was a young, athletic, blondish woman, perhaps twenty years of age. Attractive, but not pretty. I remembered from the report that she lived in town and came out as needed.

She'd gone to search with Craig Thomas and Derrick Strong, the grounds-keepers. "We headed towards the cliff, which I'd never been there," she said, ungrammatically. "We got to the cliff and no Mr. Packer, but Derrick looked over the edge and saw him lying there."

"Did you look?"

"Yessir. He was on his back, on top of the rope. Down below. He landed on the sand or else he'd be dead. I think he must have been leaning away from the cliff, you know, hanging from the rope? when it broke and he fell down and hit flat. He wasn't moving so I phoned the house, and Mister Lydle called for help.

"Uh, the cliff has a broken place a couple hundred meters away, and Craig and Derrick went down it to see what they could do, but Craig thought Mr. Packer was dead so we didn't do anything. Don't know what we'd have done if we thought he was alive, though."

===

We found and questioned the two groundskeepers, getting nothing new, then headed for the cliff. It was a good three hundred meters down a forest path, and really great weather for a walk. The temperature was cool but not cold, the ground covered with bright yellow leaves, the trees half bare and the sun shining through.

We arrived cliffside and stopped. I was invigorated by the walk, but Brax was puffing lightly after following my brisk pace. There were a few field techs looking about, but by their attitude they'd found nothing. They'd probably been here since before dawn.

I should describe the site. The cliff and narrow beach below ran north and south. The ground at the top was level and forested. The view east over the ocean was spectacular, this is where they should have built the house. There were few trees at the edge of the cliff. There was also a wooden bench, painted white, and in poor repair, presumably for enjoying the view.

The cliff proper was near vertical, about eight meters high, and bare dirt. Actually, the upper two meters were vertical, and below that it sloped outward slightly. At the bottom, the dirt that had fallen or been washed off the cliffside had piled against the bottom.

The beach below was of sandy dirt, and about three meters wide at high tide, though at other places it was wider or narrower. It was now about low tide, according the one of the techs, and we had another two meters of beach.

South, the cliff was unbroken, but a few hundred meters north the cliffside had collapsed twenty meters in, allowing a place one could clamber down or up.

The head field tech, Gregory Dobson, came up. He was an older man, with the dark skin we describe as "dark" in our reports. We showed our badges and made introductions. We'd had him on other outdoors scenes. A good man, we were glad we had him, and not someone else I could name.

There were three items of note. First was the tree.

He pointed at the trunk. "See this?" 'This' was a vertical cut in the bark, and some rub marks. "The rope had been wrapped around here, then chopped through. We searched for footprints or other evidence but found nothing. Too much grass and leaves. Looks like the rope was chopped through with an ax or hatchet."

Next was the cliff where Packer had started down. Dobson laid down flat and pointed at something on the cliffside below. "See those?" I laved down beside him and looked over. Brax made no attempt whatever, instead looking at the photos and staying well away from the edge. Below were several scuffmarks, very faint, starting at the top and going down a couple of meters. Some of the scuffs were footprints. "Packer started down using the rope. He had the rope around his waist or chest and held with both hands, his feet against the side. Safe enough, if you know what you're doing." And if no one cuts your rope.

"When he got down to there," about five meters from the bottom, "the rope was cut and he fell down backwards. From his clothes and what little was left of the scene below, he fell flat on his back."

Dobson stood up, and pointed towards the collapsed part of the cliff. "Question is, why'd he come down here and not over there? Here, it's hazardous and difficult. And dirtier. Much easier over there."

"Faster?" I suggested. Of course, I'd have gone that way just for the fun of it, but Packer was no athlete.

Brax stared dully towards the cliff's edge. I knew he was thinking, though it looked to others like he was daft. I never did anything to correct this impression.

He suddenly returned to reality and turned to Dobson. "Anything on the rope?"

"Bad surface for fingerprints. No biologicals on it except tree bark and pollen. Maybe the lab will find something." He didn’t' sound hopeful.

===

The walk back was less pleasant than the first, but still nice. We arrived back at the house hungry, and Brax looked winded. There were several more cars in the lot, and another drove up and parked just as we exited the forest.

The woman who got out saw us and waited. She was tall, mid-twenties, and had a good figure. Long auburn hair and bright blue eyes. Perfect complexion, even without makeup. She was dressed in a subdued-red dress that showed off a great pair of legs. Everything about her said class and wealth. I disliked her immediately.

Someone that perfect should at least have a snooty personality, but unfortunately she was nice.

"Hello," she said a bit formally. "Are you the police?" We showed her our badges, then headed for the house.

"I'm Marrs Lahn," she said. Great. She even had a classy name. "I'm Michael’s niece. I just came from the hospital, no change, I'm afraid. Doctors seem hopeful, though they would. They always do." She sounded genuinely concerned.

"Are you aware this is now a criminal investigation?" asked Brax.

"Yes. Someone cut the rope."

"I wasn't aware that was public knowledge." It was, of course, but if she knew more then she might reveal something. A standard ploy, especially in a situation like this where we had no real leads.

"Lydle told me." She opened the door for us, and we walked in. Lydle was just coming up and offered us some dinner. We accepted, not having eaten for a good five hours. His wife had made sandwiches, using the softest bread I could remember. The sandwiches were great, and so was the coffee served after.

Lydle asked of "Master Packer" and Marrs repeated, in more detail, what she'd already told us. Also mentioned her mother was staying bedside.

After Lydle left, Brax started again with Marrs. "Just routine, but I must ask you a few questions."

"Of course."

"How did you hear of the, uh, incident? Were you here or in the area last night?" He was actually asking about an alibi.

"Agnes called Mom, and she left a message on my machine. I got home about eleven, and came down immediately. Mom and I have a motel room in town, near the hospital."

"You weren't at home, then, last night?"

"I was out, with friends." She gave us their names and numbers, three of them. A married couple and a friend out for dinner and a movie.

"Did you get along with your uncle?"

"Yes. I like him. We aren't close, though. He's not a 'close' person."

"Yet you and your mother dropped everything to see him?"

"Yes." She did not elaborate.

Brax tried another tack. "Did Packer have any enemies? Is there anyone who would want him dead?"
"His stepson, Jon. Do you know about that?"

"Uh, no."

Marrs leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, somehow still maintaining perfect poise. "About a year ago, Ron, my cousin, Michael's other stepson, died of a drug overdose. Coroner ruled it an accident. Tanikon is a popular anti-depressant, and a lot of people overdose to get high. But take too much, or like Ron take it with alcohol, and it can kill you.

"Coroner ruled it an accident, but Michael immediately thought Jon did it. Jon was here at the time, but Ron died at the Miller place, so he couldn't have. But Michael's been trying to prove Jon did it ever since." Pause. "So, Jon has a motive. And they never did like each other. Jon disliked Michael even before he married Aunt Margaret, Jon's mother, and it got worse after."

There was a space of silence as Brax and I wrote down some notes. Our pads recorded all the audio, but our thoughts and questions at the time needed to be recorded while they were still fresh.

"Anyone else?"

"No. No one I know of, anyway."

"Would anyone have some other motive for wanting Mr. Packer dead? He's wealthy, is there a will?"

"Well, Jon, of course. Michael wanted his inheritance changed to an annuity, so he wouldn't spend it all at once. I'm in it, and his brother-in-law, my Uncle Cole, and my mom." She stopped, but resumed before Brax asked the next question. "The four of us receive an allowance, but when Michael dies I think we each get a big lump sum. I don't know the details. Uncle Cole might know."

"Where would we find this 'Cole'?" asked Brax, looking at his pad. "Cole Cruce, I assume?"

"He's in the living room. You probably noticed him as we came in." We hadn't, but he was indeed there. We talked to him next.

===

"Coffee?" asked Cole Cruce, already pouring us a cup. He was behind the bar as we entered the room.

"Thanks," said Brax. I declined, having just had a cup.

"How's the investigation going?" He was average height, and nearly as heavy as Brax. Firmly middle aged. He wore a middle-class business suit and tie, though the jacket was currently draped over the back of a chair.

"We've just started," said Brax, avoiding the question. "Lydle tell you what happened?"

"Yeah. Most of it, anyway. Janah, my sister, told me there'd been an accident last night, so I came down this morning. Stopped by the hospital, but Michael's still not awake yet. Marrs said it's now considered a murder case?"

We looked at each other. "Mr. Packer has died, then?" I asked.

"Uh, no. Attempted murder, I meant."

"Uh, okay, then." Brax didn't look like he was about to ask anything, so I did.

"For the record, where were you at seven yesterday evening?"

"We... my wife, Sandra, and I had just got home. We have a small insurance company, and sometimes work late."

"Any witnesses?"

"Probably. I'll ask around, if you like."

"Please do." Brax usually asks the questions, so I was out of practice. I looked at my pad, as if consulting my notes. Brax asked the next question.

"Miss Marrs mentioned a will."

"Yes," said Cruce, and having answered the question stopped talking.

"Could you tell us about it?"

"Well, it's a bit involved." He looked at us. "Say, weren't you the guys who thought Michael had murdered Maggie?"

"Uh, yes, but we got the right guy in the end."

"Yes. Anyway." He paused again. "Maggie was married before, and that's where she got her money, and she inherited it all when he died in a plane accident. That's when she had Ron and Jon. A few years later, couple of decades, actually, she met Michael, and then married him. Joke is she didn't give him any choice in the matter." He chuckled at the old joke. "She was always a strong-willed woman. Anyway, there was a prenuptial contract. In it, if she died, Michael was not to inherit anything, and her sons were to receive a generous allowance. What this meant was that Michael would continue to head her charity foundation until his death, then the Foundation would continue as a trust and her wealth would be split between the sons and the Foundation.

"The marriage was okay with Ron, but Jon had an instant dislike for Michael. Thought he'd married his mum for her money. The feeling was mutual, and when Jon wanted an increase in his allowance, Michael and the Foundation wouldn't allow it. Michael felt that Jon should be more responsible, that he should work for a living."

"The allowance wasn't large enough to live on?"

"Yes, it's enough to live on, provided he kept expenses down and didn't gamble. That's another point against Jon. He likes to spend money, and at least once Michael had to pay off some of his debts." Cruce looked uncomfortable. "I think his brother Ron loaned him some money, too."

"So, Jon disliked Packer, and stood to inherit if he died?"

"Yeah, but I don't think he'd murder for it."

"Anything else?"

"Well, Michael thinks Jon killed Ron."

"And you?"

"Nope. Jon would never kill anyone, let alone his own brother. They loved each other. Best friends." He was certain on this.

===

I paused on our way to Packer's office to look at my notes. We had three suspects at this stage. Jon Westwood, Cole Cruce, and Marrs Lahn all stood to inherit, and Jon hated Packer. A hypothetical fourth suspect could not be ruled out. Our only real suspect was Jon Westwood, and despite what had been said about him it wasn't much. On the whole, we had learned something of the case but made little real progress. It was early, though, and our main witness, Packer himself, might answer all once he woke up. If he woke up.

Michael-Todd Packer's office was immense, taking up the entire south side of the second floor. It was more like three rooms without walls between them. The east end, towards the ocean, was like a living room with a large, red-leather couch and matching over-stuffed armchairs on either side, all facing the large windows. The other end had a long, wide table, perhaps for meetings with the Foundation board members. Also with large windows. The office area was in the middle, also large, but no windows.

"This place," I said, "is twice the size of my apartment. Bigger. " I started towards the living-room end.

"No secretary," said Brax.

"What?" I said, looking out the windows. Not much of a view unless one was standing at them. Otherwise, just treetops and sky. It wasn't unless one was looking down that one could see the grounds below.

"This office area. A single desk, a couple of chairs, but no desk for a secretary."

Sure enough, there wasn't much in the office area. Not much furniture in the entire room, for that matter. Lots of rich-looking open space.

"Guess the Foundation doesn't take much attention," I said, coming back to the center.

"Or the Foundation work is done elsewhere."

Brax sat down behind the desk. The desk was immense, of course. He looked at the desktop, drawers and the computer, then started on the desktop. "Try the computer," he said. He wasn't good with computers. I wouldn't be, either, as it was placed for an operator sitting where Brax now sat. Nevertheless, I turned everything around where I could get to it, turned it on, and started exploring. Hardly groused at all.

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the desk. I did the usual stuff with the computer, which wasn't much without a court order or permission, and only Packer could give permission. If there was anything interesting on the computer it was either password protected or hidden.

The papers proved more interesting. In particular, a map.

Brax held up a paper and looked at it. "What's this?"

I looked over his shoulder. It had several lines on it, a few dots, circles, and squares where some of them intersected, and some labels. All in hand-drawn ink. One of the squares was labeled WH. The name of this place was Westwood House. "It's a node map."

"What's a node map?"

"A node is a place, like where a line ends or two lines meet. A line is how the nodes connect."

"So, a road map would be a node map?"

"Yes. The towns and cities are the nodes, and the roads connect them."

He set the map down flat and we examined it.

"Well, it's a map of the area," I said.

"This dot," said Brax, pointing, "is the tree at the cliff edge, we're at this square, and the line connecting them the path from here to there." The line continued down to the beach, going south along the beach to a square marked MH near the bottom edge. Another square, between WH and MH was marked JH. The map as a whole showed the ocean to the east, the beach and cliff, three estates, and a road along the west edge. "Three small squares... three estates? The bottom one is MH. Ron Westwood died at the Miller House."

"The lines and road have numbers," I said. "Distances in meters?"

"And what are the squares, really?" wondered Brax out loud, tapping a number on his pad.

"Hello?" came a thin voice from his pad.

"Cole Cruce? This is Detective Benton. We're up in Packer's office. We've come across a hand-drawn map. On it are what we think are homes, marked 'WH', 'MH', and 'JH'. Do these mean anything to you?"

"Uh, yeah. 'WH' is Westwood House, that's here, 'JH' would be the Johnson estate, and 'MH' is Miller house. That's where Ron died. Would you like me to come up for a look? I'm just downstairs."

"No, we have what we need, thank you."

I stated the obvious. "This has to do with how Jon might have murdered Ron."

Brax was looking at his pad without seeing it, thinking. I remained silent, waiting for him to come up with something. He'd think of something, he always does.

I looked at the map while waiting, then after a while went over to the "living room" area, took out my bigger pad, and opened it up. Ron's death had some bearing on the matter, and I intended to get something on it.

About this time, Brax wakes up. "Look up Ron Westwood's death while you're at it," he said, then started through his notes.

"Uh, good idea," I said, a little miffed.

Ronald Westwood had died the summer of the year before, of an overdose of Tanikon. It was a rumor for a while that a little Tanikon before bed, if one had been drinking, would help one sleep better and reduce the hangover the next morning. There was some truth to the first, but sometimes the sleep went so deep the person stopped breathing. It was the coroner's opinion that this had been the case with Westwood. An investigation had found no evidence of foul play.

The sequence of events had started with him and his brother Jon drinking at Westwood House. Later that night, Ron left for Miller House, alone, where he was staying. The autopsy indicated he'd had something to drink after he'd arrived, and taken the pills just after that. He was found in the lounge where he'd gotten his last drink and taken the pills.

Back at the Westwood estate there'd been Jon Westwood, his uncle Cole Cruce, Lydle, and his wife Agnes. Lydle and his wife had gone to bed, Jon had watched TV with Cole after Ron left. The timing was uncertain, but Cole believed Jon had been with him about the time of Ron's death.

That was the essentials of the report, and Packer believed it wrong. I had to agree with the report, however. If Jon had been with Ron at the time he took the pills, he couldn't have gotten back to the Westwood estate in time for him to watch the local news with his uncle Cole.

There were two potential problems, one of which was addressed in the report.

This first was the timing of Ron's arriving at the Miller estate. A camera at the gate showed the time he'd arrived, but didn't show anyone else in the car with him. Had Jon been with him, he must have been hiding. This same camera did not show a car leaving, so if Jon had killed Ron he would have had to use some other means to get back to the Westwood estate to establish his alibi with Cole. Was it possible that Jon had gone to the Miller estate with Ron, and somehow got back fast enough to establish an alibi? This is what Packer had been investigating, as was evident by the map.

Another loose end, assuming Jon had murdered Ron, was the obvious one of Jon giving the pills to Ron at Westwood, but Ron not taking them until he got to the Miller estate. Jon could have coated the pills with a time-delay coating and had Ron take them before he left. Possible, but unlikely.

There were five ways to get from the Miller estate to this one. By road, overland through the Johnson estate, by air, by water, or along the beach. The first two would mean somehow getting around the cameras at the gates and the intruder detection systems on the walls and fences. A route by air would mean an aircraft parked at the Miller estate that no one noticed. A watercraft was possible, but the intruder detection system had no record of such, and the security camera at the Miller estate (I had to look this up) showed no unusual activity at the dock or along the beach. The intruder alarm had recorded no activity that night, though such systems can be tampered with from the secured side. He could also simply have run along the beach. Both the water route and the beach route would explain the need for a rope to get up the cliff, which would be faster than the climb up the collapsed part of the cliff.

The research finally done, I examined Packer's map, comparing distances with the known times of Ron's probable ingestion of the pills and the earliest time of Jon's alibi with Cole Cruce. There was maybe enough time for a person in good shape to run from the Miller House to here, and still have time to catch one's breath before entering the house.

"I could do it," I said, expecting Brax to ask "do what?" But the person in the chair I'd taken as Brax was Cole Cruce.

"Do what?" he asked.

"Have you seen Officer Benton?" I asked instead.

I found Brax in the living room, finishing off what must have been one of Mrs. Lydle's great sandwiches and half through a cup of coffee. I realized what time it was, and how long it had been since lunch.

I told him what I'd found. "Interesting," he said.

About that time Mr. Lydle entered and asked if we'd be staying for supper. I thought it a great idea, but Brax said we had a matter to attend to, and that we'd then return to town.

The other matter was back at the cliff. The walk this time was not pleasant. The sky had turned sullen, hiding the sun, and a cold breeze was blowing in our faces as we walked. And I was hungry.

The field techs had uncovered one last bit of evidence. Well back amongst the trees, barely in sight of the tree Packer had tied his rope to, a small, bare spot of earth had been found. Dobson explained the significance. "Someone's been standing here, and for some time."

"How much time?"

"Several hours, at least. Perhaps for days."

"Footprints?" asked Brax eagerly.

"Not a good one." Apparently, the ground had become too hard to retain anything but traces of the shoes that had made them, and Dobson had already traced the pattern of the sole to a generic design. Brax arranged for the shoes of the suspects, such as we had, to be examined for that pattern and for traces of dirt.

The walk back was as bad as earlier. Even the wind conspired against us, having shifted, so it was again in our faces.

By the time we got back, the sun was probably setting, but the clouds were too thick to tell.

Marrs's mother, Janah Lahn, was now at the house. As she was in the will, she was technically a suspect. We interviewed her briefly, but she knew nothing new. We got details on her whereabouts at the time of the incident, then left for Reasoner, a nearby town where we'd be spending the night.

We discussed what we had as we left the estate. It wasn't much, just that Jon and Michael disliked each other.

Later that night, in a motel room, we got in contact with Jon Westwood.

"Hello?" said the voice. We were using my big pad, not a regular telephone.

Brax introduced us, then asked Westwood to turn on his video. He appeared about twenty-five years old, medium build, light brown hair sun-bleached to blond. Brax started the interview after we showed our badges.

"Mr. Westwood, do you know why we're calling?"

"Not really. And call me Jon."

"You weren't aware your step-father was in the hospital, then?"

"Uh, no. It wasn't an accident, then?"

"Why do you assume that, Mr. Westwood?"

"If it was an accident, the police wouldn't be calling me. And if you did anyway you'd be local cops. Not detectives."

"There is the possibility it was not an accident. Can you tell us where you were about seven Thursday evening?"

"Uh, seven." He wasn't volunteering anything. He was either cagey or innocent. "I had a light supper at a diner about six, then did some bar hopping."

"Any witnesses?"

"No, don't think so. Tried picking up this cute blond, but she wasn't interested."

We got what details he remembered, which wasn't much, then continued.

"You don't seem concerned about your stepfather."

"Hate him. Married my mother for her money, and now he wants me disinherited."

"Do you want him dead?"

"I wouldn't murder him, if that's what you mean."

"Do you know who would want to murder him?"

"Didn't know him that well."

"Your name came up."

"So? We hated each other. That's no secret."

Brax stared at his pad. By his attitude, I knew he was unsure how to proceed. I started asking questions.

"Mr. Packer was investigating the possibility that you murdered your brother, Ron."
"Yep." He leaned away from his camera, folding his arms across his chest. The image lost focus momentarily as he moved, indicating a cheap phone.

"Were you concerned he might, um, find something?"

"Sure. He's kinda smart, has money. Search enough and you can create evidence for anything."

"Was there anything of special note you were worried about?"

"Like, I'd tell you," he said sarcastically.

"Why do you think Packer thought you did it?"

"He liked Ron and didn't think he'd kill himself. I'm the one left to inherit so maybe I did it. Ask him why he thinks I did it."

"Do you think Ron committed suicide?"

"I think it was an accident."

I might next have asked why he thought so, trying to get him to elaborate, but that would have been counterproductive. He was already too defensive. "What do you do for a living? I understand you get an allowance?"

"Yeah, but it's not enough to live on. Not if you want to do anything but couch-potatoe in some run-down dump. I organize tours and such for businessmen. Last one was a fishing vacation for four CEOs. Got well paid, and got a couple of stock tips."

"But it doesn't pay well enough to retire on your own? You might, uh, have motive to, uh, get your inheritance early?"

"Well, not enough to attempt murder."

Brax must have been waiting for this. "Neither of us mentioned attempted murder." A statement meant to shock, and perhaps get him to reveal something.

He did hesitate. "Yes, you did. You said he was in the hospital and it wasn't an accident. And you asked me who'd want to murder him, and if I wanted him dead."

"Well, you are the most obvious suspect."

"Yeah, I suppose I am."

===

Saturday

No change with Packer, but the doctors thought he would pull through. We spent much of the day tracking down alibis. Jon's and Cole's failed to check out. Didn't look good for Jon, but still no real evidence.

That afternoon found Brax, Marrs, and myself walking along the beach. We'd started from the Miller estate and were walking north towards the scene of the attempted murder.

Mars was now dressed casual, in slacks, blouse, sneakers, and a long-sleeved jacket against the chill wind blowing in from the ocean, her shoulder-length hair tied tightly back. She may have been dressed casually, but she was still too elegant. Marrs was a pleasant conversationalist, which did nothing to make me like her.

We were examining the cliff as we went, looking for low spots that one could climb, comparing the reality against Packer's hand-drawn map.

At one point, by the Johnson estate, we found the remains of stairs going up. It had been white-painted wood, built into a place where the cliff had collapsed or been dug out. Now, the bottom was missing, and only the upper part remained precariously stuck to the cliff top. The cliff was about fifteen meters high at this part, and the stairs ended about ten meters above us. Marrs told what she knew of it.

"I remember this when it was in repair. There was a party at the Johnson's, and part of it was a picnic dinner over there." She pointed away from the cliff. The beach here had been extended an extra dozen meters. "There was a dock out there, with a large patio at the end. It was a fun party, very romantic. A storm must have taken it and the stairs away. I heard there was a bad one a few years ago." There was nothing left of the dock and patio.

Brax, stood there, hands in pockets to keep them warm. He was not an outdoors person and was suffering from the stiff, cold wind. He looked out to sea, then up to the stairs, then back at the water. He then braved one warm hand against the cold, pointing out to the point where the beach met the water.

"Zed, take a look over there, would you? See if there's enough left to tie a boat to. Perhaps Jon could have used a boat."

I knew damn well no boat could have tied up there, but started over anyway.

"Do you think Jon murdered Ron?" Marrs asked Brax.

"Possibly. Certainly Michael Packer did." He looked up towards the stairs. "And he might have climbed up the cliff from here to the stairs. See? The cliff slopes, here."

"Yes, but it's too loose to climb."

Brax looked out to where I was. I was looking into water, looking for any remains of the dock. I could see wooden pilings in the troughs of the waves, so I supposed they might stick out of the water at low tide. But why tie up to a piling? Be as easy to drag an anchor up on the beach.

Meanwhile, Brax was still with Marrs. "Could you do me a favor? See if you could climb up as far as the steps. I'd ask Zed but he's not back yet."
"Well, sure," she said, not expecting such a request.

She started over, then up the cliff side. This part I witnessed directly, coming back from the ocean's edge with a shoe full of cold water. At first she just walked up the slope, but then it got steep and less secure, and she started pulling with her hands. A few meters below the stairs it became unclimbeable. She gave it a good try, but then the earth gave way and she slid halfway down towards the beach. She turned, then and walked back down. "Sorry, just can't be done. The dirt might have been harder last year, though."

"I think we found what we need, thanks."

I have to admit I enjoyed watching her climb. She had a nice butt.

We continued our walk, Marrs brushing the dirt and mud from her hands and knees.

"Break a nail?" asked Brax.

"No problem. I need to redo them before I go to work, anyway."

Especially after that climb, she needed to replace them, I thought.

We finally came to the spot where Packer had fallen. By previous arrangement, a rope had been tied to the tree above and dropped down. A town cop was there, waiting for us.

He touched his cap in greeting. "'Morning," he called down to us.

"'Morning," called Brax back at him. "Rope secure?"

"Yessir. Tested it myself."

The next part was mine. I grabbed the rope, gave it a hard tug, and started up. Took about thirty seconds.

Marrs and Brax then walked over to the collapsed part of the cliff, climbed it, and came over to me.

I looked at my watch. "Forty minutes, maybe twenty if you were in a hurry."

By now Brax had recovered his breath. "Not much of a time savings, but maybe enough." He was thinking of Packer's map, and the times of Jon's alibi.

The real test would come Monday.

===

Monday

Sunday had been spent in Alliance tracking down evidence. We didn't find any, but that in itself is evidence, of a sort.

I should mention that I write these things as if I'd been present for all of it. Actually, I use records and recordings as well as my own memories. This was especially true Monday morning, when I was waiting in the Miller's mansion and Brax was at Westwood House.

Brax was in the living room, near the bar. The furniture from the far end had been moved nearby, facing him, and more chairs brought in.

Cole Cruce was behind the bar serving coffee, his wife, Cindy, on a stool in front. Marrs was in the chair nearest the door, the next chair had Packer Clemson, a board member from the Foundation. Then was the couch with Janah Lahn, Marrs's mother, at one end, pressed against the side as if wanting to stay away from Jon Westwood seated at the other. Two more chairs held Mrs. Lydle and Scott Shaphor, another board member. Seated behind were Micayla, the gardeners Craig Thomas and Derrick Strong, and Mary Thomas, a part-time worker who hadn't been present at the time of the incident. Mister Lydle stood behind his wife's chair. Two Alliance PD officers, one a woman, stood inside the door. Investigator Dobson came in and took a stool at the bar.

Brax got everyone's attention, then spoke into his pad. "Zed, can you hear me?" he asked, more than loud enough, the way people do when they can't see who they're talking to.

"Yes," I said. "How's the picture?"

Cole turned on a TV on the bar. A mid-sized one, not the small one Officer Daniels had been watching last Friday. It showed the lawn outside the Miller mansion, where I was.

"This picture is from a camera on Officer Woodman's cap. He is currently outside the Miller house. I will tell you of our investigation as he jogs from there to here. Zed? You may start."

I took off towards the beach in a rapid jog. Not too fast, I had twenty minutes of soft beach ahead of me and didn't want to start it winded.

As the others watched, Brax took up time by explaining the case so far.

Then he got to the interesting part.

"Earlier today, I talked to Dr. Terhardt. He said Mr. Packer was doing well, but a complication with brain swelling had developed. The Doctor will keep Mr. Packer in an artificial coma until tomorrow morning, at which time we hope he will tell us who was at the cliff top as he fell." Brax paused for the drama. "We have reason to believe he saw his assailant before he lost consciousness.

"This leads to a problem, as said assailant will know Mr. Packer is to be awoken, and might attempt to flee." He looked at the monitor. I'd reached the rope and was climbing up.

He patted the TV, than continued. "For this reason, we are conducting this test, and if successful, will arrest our suspect shortly."

Brax clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward a bit, looking at the floor before continuing. "It was clear from the beginning that the death of Ron Westwood, Packer's step-son, was a central feature of the events leading up to Packer's fall. He suspected Ron's brother, Jon, of having murdered him, and was trying to discover how Jon could be at the Miller estate when Ron ingested the Tanikon, and yet be back here with his uncle Cole Cruce very shortly after.

"A thorough check of recorded times from Cole Cruce's testimony establishes that Jon could not have traveled from the Miller estate to here in under thirty minutes, and still be with Cole, breathing normally, and dry, not sweaty."

I arrived several minutes later, breathless and sweaty. Brax looked at his watch. "Thirty-six minutes." Cole tossed me a towel from behind the bar.

"Officer Woodman is an experienced jogger and in excellent shape. Yet to get from there to here, adding a few minutes to catch his breath and change his clothes, would have taken at least forty minutes, plus more time at the start waiting with Ron at the Miller estate to ensure the pills were taking effect.

Brax gave Jon a hard look. "We conclude, therefore, that Jon is in the clear."

Everyone looked uncomfortably at Jon, then at each other. Jon looked both relieved, and yet tense. As if it wasn't over yet. And, of course, it wasn't.

Brax continued. "So. Was Ron's overdose an accident or murder? It might have remained a mystery except that someone tried to murder Michael-Todd Packer." He stopped, lending some drama to his words, as if he needed too. He had everyone's full attention. He continued.

"Obviously, someone was worried Packer was getting close to solving the murder of Ron Westwood, and decided on pre-emptive, uh, prevention."

"But who would benefit from Ron's death? And for that matter, who would gain from Packer's will?

Brax held up five fingers. "We can discount the Foundation. I refuse to consider corporate murder without evidence." He lowered his thumb. "Cole and Jon? We've already ruled out Jon, and Cole was here with Jon." Two more fingers dropped. "We are now left with Marrs Lahn and her mother, Janah."

He looked at Janah. "Your alibi for last Thursday checks out," he said, then turned to Marrs, who was turning pale. The two Alliance PD officers, on their cue, stepped up silently behind her. "Yours, however, does not. You claim you were with William and Leslie Hagerman at the..." he looked at his pad, with considerable theater, "the White Hall restaurant, where they said they paid by credit card. We checked, however, and the restaurant has no record of a charge from anyone with that name.

"Miss Marrs Lahn, you are under arrest for the murder of Ronald Westwood, and the attempted murder of Michael-Todd Packer."

"NO!" cried out both Marrs and her mother. Mr. Lydle looked about to faint, and was helped to a chair by Micayla and Thomas. Marrs started to stand, but was pushed firmly back down by the officer behind her. I read her rights, then Brax started again.

"The murder of Ron Westwood did indeed involve a jog along the beach and the climb up the cliff. But not to get back to watch TV with Cole Cruce. Here's what our investigations indicate. Much of our evidence is circumstantial, but we're confident we'll find substantiation when Michael Packer wakes up tomorrow.

"Ron and Jon were indeed drinking, and Ron then left for the Miller estate. Jon drank some more, then watched TV with his uncle Cole. Miss Marrs was waiting for Ron along the road and flagged him down, perhaps claiming her car had broken down and the tow truck hadn't arrived yet. She asks him to take her with him, which he does, and in the lounge of the Miller house gets him to take the pills that killed him.

"She must now get back to her car and then back to Alliance, without tripping any intruder alarms or being recorded on any security cameras. She goes along the beach, up the cliff, through the forest around the manor and garage, to the gates. I determined at the cliff that she was athletic enough. She has been here any number of times, and could easily have defeated the cameras and alarms of this estate. Indeed, a glitch was detected in the computer record about this time. She then exits the gate, returns to her car, and returns home.

"She can now claim, if foul play is suspected, to have been home all night. Perhaps a false alibi was arranged. Jon would be the obvious suspect.

"Packer trusts her. He likes her. It is a simple matter to suggest that Jon did it, and to monitor his progress. More significant to last Thursday, she would be in a position to know that Packer was going to test the rope climb at the cliff, and to know when. It is possible she went with him or met him there. After the rope was cut and Packer apparently dead, she left for Alliance and her alibi."

He looked at Marrs for the first time since I'd read her her rights. "Have you anything to say?" Braxton looked tense.

Marrs sat stiff, deathly pale, and stiffly angry. Not looking at anyone, her lips pressed tight together. "Why?" she asked, anger in tight control.

"The will. You presently receive a small allowance, but the inheritance would be immense. Especially if Jon and Ron were no longer part of it."

"That's not...." Reasonable. She might have been going to say reasonable.

"You were not included in Packer's will until several years after his wife's death. She did not specify that any of her money go to you. Can you explain, Miss Lahn, why Mr. Packer gave you an allowance and convinced the Foundation board to include you in his will?"

"I... had financial problems."

"Credit cards. Packer paid off your large credit card debt, then started a monthly allowance for you. Why, Miss Lahn? Why did a lonely, middle-aged, widower decide to give you, a gorgeous young woman, that much money?"

I thought Brax had gone too far with that comment, and so did others. Cole yelled, "How dare you!" at Brax, his face a furious red. Janah was crying, Mr. Lydle was sitting with his face in his hands, saying "No... no..." over and over.

Marrs stood up. As the officers cuffed her, she glared at Brax. "You're wrong," she said. "Wrong."

After she'd been led out, Brax said, towards the empty doorway. "Well, I guess we'll find out tomorrow."

===

Tuesday, about 3 A.M.

Michael-Todd Packer lay in the hospital bed, breathing lightly, several tubes ran from under the sheets to a machine. Still unconscious, and unaware of the doctor who entered and shut and locked the door. Jon Westwood looked at Michael, then took a syringe out of his borrowed lab coat. He inserted it into a tube and injected the contents.

A sound behind him, and he turned around hard.

"You shouldn't have done that," I said, cheerfully. Even in the dim, with the light behind him, I could see the look of panic in his face. It was great.

===

Wednesday Afternoon

A sunny day in an open-air courtyard, sitting at a patio table, the umbrella folded to allow the sun to warm Brax and I. Across the way a door opened. We stood as Michael-Todd Packer came out in a wheelchair, pushed by Marrs Lahn.

"Did you really have to arrest me?" she asked, still angry.

"Yes," answered Brax, "we had to arrest you. I'm sorry, but we had to arrest you, and it had to be real."

I pulled a chair out for Marrs as Brax turned to Packer.

"This visit is to make sure you know what has happened, and why. But I must first ask you, did you see who cut the rope?"

"No. Nothing." His voice was still weak. "I remember starting to fall, then nothing until I woke up here. Marrs told me most of the story, but...."

"Well," said Brax, his eyes unfocused as he considered how to state his case. "Well, we weren't there to solve the mystery of Ron Westwood's death." He looked at Michael. "We were there to find who tried to murder you, and to convict that person.

"From the start and throughout our investigation, we had no real evidence as to who did it, just the opinion that it was Jon. He had no alibi, and he certainly had motive, but neither is proof. We had no case.

"Marrs and her mother had alibis that checked out. Jon and Cole did not. Two of the Foundation people might also, conceivably, have had sufficient motive. The gardeners and a few others had opportunity, but no apparent motive."

Brax paused. "So. We had to arrange an opportunity for the real felon to finish the job, and we had to make him believe he had to. We pulled the guard off your room, found Zed a place to hide, put in some cameras, and waited. With Marrs arrested and you to wake up the next day, the real felon now believed himself temporarily safe, but with you to point the finger the next morning."

Brax looked at Marrs. "It was a cruel thing to do," he said, meaning her arrest, "but it had to look real. Can you please forgive me?"

"Yes," she said, testily. "But not today."

"Well," said Michael, "you can always sue for false arrest."

"Yes," said Brax. "You could get me in a lot of trouble." Marrs brightened considerably at the thought.

Michael continued. "How did Jon know when I would try the rope? Or even that I would?"

"Don't know. My guess is he knew you well enough to know you'd test the idea. Maybe he had an inside source, one of the gardeners, perhaps, paid to report your actions to him."

"It was the patch of dirt," I said. "Packed down as if someone had been standing there for hours, days, even weeks. We found the same dirt and traces of vegetation on Jon's shoes, and in his car and apartment. Maybe enough for a conviction, maybe not."

We enjoyed a hot cup of coffee, as we continued. Michael asked about Ron’s murder. "Any chance to convict Jon?"

"Afraid not. We have no real evidence, and Jon won't confess."

"So that story about Jon not being able to get from the Miller's to Westwood?" This from Marrs.

"Zed's run was for real. What it really proved was that Jon could have run from one place to the other and still be back in time to watch TV with Cole."

"But the times?"

"The times recorded by cameras and alarms were accurate, but Cole's memory was not. He was off by a quarter of an hour."

Michael asked what would happen to Jon.

"Well, he was caught red-handed the second time. We'll have no problem getting a conviction on that, and probably for the first attempted murder. Evidence for the first attempt is speculative, but we've clearly proven intent. He'll get twenty years, minimum, for premeditated attempted murder. Forty or more wouldn't surprise me."

"So, he won't be shot?" asked Marrs.

"Hung," I corrected. "Or gassed. The State outlawed shooting as being too messy." Mustn't upset the public by showing blood on dead people.

I looked at Michael. "I hope that doesn't upset you."

He leaned heavily on the table, shivered a little as a cool breeze blew by. Marrs draped a blanket around him.

"No," he said, but uncertainly. "I am against the death penalty, though I wouldn't mind making an exception in this case. But I will not, uh, compromise my beliefs just because something bad happened to me." He looked at Brax, then me, then back to Brax. "It is estimated that ten percent of the prison population did not commit the crime they were convicted for."

"Well, yes," I said, defending our judicial system, "but most of those are guilty of something else. And the best estimate has it at five percent."

"Would it be justice if only five percent of those hung were innocent?"

I'm always uncomfortable in discussions like this. The fact of the matter is that the judicial system is not foolproof. Juries can be swayed, evidence wrong, lawyers incompetent. But we can't let people go free just because something 'might' be bad. There'd be no justice at all if we always let the crooks go because they 'might' be innocent. The process had to be followed, and the judgment of guilt or innocence considered final.

Michael continued. "I must be content knowing Jon will spend the best years of his life in jail. When I'm in a foul or blue mood, I will think of him and know that he will feel the same thing every day of his sentence. I will feel better the next day, he will not. When I am in a good mood, I will think of Jon, his spirit slowly dieing of boredom. I will go to a movie at a theater, and think of him watching a re-run on TV. Perhaps next to me will be a pretty, young woman. Next to Jon will some big guy he doesn't like but can't be rid of, with a tattoo that says 'killer.' I will see someone helped by the Foundation, who's life was turned around, who can now make something of himself, and I will think of Jon, who has ruined his life. Occasionally, I will meet someone who has retired, or is about to, and know that Jon can never retire. That he lost a good allowance, and a large inheritance." Pause. "Jon's life is ruined, and he has no one to blame but himself. I must be content with that."

There was silence for a bit. I leaned back in my chair so I could better see Michael and Marrs at the same time. He was lifting his coffee cup, she was looking at him. She obviously adored him. I then pictured Jon in a small cell, with a large man in prison dungarees, seeing Jon as an opportunity. I rather liked both views.

END

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