The girl's body was a mess. That was the first thing Morgan noticed as he emerged from the entrance hall of the penthouse apartment. Senior Detective Alfie Soren directed Morgan to the left of the room, towards the enormous floor to ceiling picture windows looking out over the beige pockmarked planet, above which Vonarburg Terminal hovered.
The girl lay there, bedraggled, a medic standing over her on the edge of the small splash pool that had obviously been the focus point of the party. A dozen wine glasses still stood around the edge of the pool, an occasional plate of food accompanying them.
Morgan navigated around an expensive pair of leather corner sofas arranged in a sociable square, careful not to kick over any of the six pairs of wine glasses encountered near them. Real leather, Morgan noticed with approval as he trailed his fingers along the back of one, the satisfying scent not lost on his senses.
The drowned body was for him, while Soren took a step to the right to join party host and friend by a low-lying black marble coffee table. Morgan eavesdropped on the questions posed to them.
The obvious wealth on show would intimidate many a detective. Certainly not possible on Soren's salary, nor the chief's for that matter. Some would be offended by the social difference, allowing their questioning to become aggressive to compensate; others would be awed and become subdued. For Morgan he simply found the decor in good taste and the apartment strangely familiar.
Sans dead girl, of course.
Oh, and lacking a sheet metal sculpture of a horse. That made him chuckle.
Soren's line of questioning was heading down the second route, Morgan could tell from the far end of the room. He had questions of his own to ask but speaking was no longer the forte of his witness.
"Classic drowning," the medic told him while packing away his kit. "Fell in the pool, looks like."
"No shit," thought Morgan. "Any bumps or bruises?"
"Nothing that can't be explained away by the aggressive CPR," the medic pointed back at the man who'd shown them in. Not the nervous host, the other one, Morgan realised. That one looked far more composed. Smartly dressed, sitting on a creme leather couch facing the host across the coffee table. "He was busy working on her when I arrived. Did a good job too, but," he shook his head in disappointment, "it wasn't to be."
"who ripped her blouse?"
"Oh that was me," he pointed at the defibrillator pads by way of explanation.
"So blouse, bra, skirt, and tights," Morgan did a quick inventory. "Not pool-ready, interesting. And no shoes?"
The paramedic looked around: "Err, no shoes I've seen."
"Cyanosis in effect on your arrival?" Morgan pointed at the cold blue lips and received a nod. All consistent with drowning, Morgan quickly corrected his train of thought: consistent with oxygen deprivation. Likely drowning.
He knelt beside her and ran his fingers down her thighs and along her legs ever so lightly. The paramedic's frown betrayed his concern, Morgan didn't care. Her hosiery was smooth, not as silky as some, but not bad he thought. He took her foot in his hands and ran his fingers along the sole in the same way. He glanced at her face, half expecting a ticklish giggle, but those days were behind her.
"Hmm, I see," was all he muttered to himself.
"What are you doing, you can't be feeling her up like that."
Morgan ignored him.
He switched his attention to her thighs, placing his hands under her skirt and sliding it up to expose the stocking tops.
"Hey man, what the hell." the paramedic looked ready to attack him.
"Does this not look odd to you?"
"Damn right it does ..."
Morgan cut him off: "No no, these stockings, the brand. This blouse," he found the label and held it up for the medic. He pointed at the two men being questioned by his senior partner, "Look at those two guys, those are expensive togs. Look at this apartment: penthouse, pool, white marble everywhere, cream leather - real leather." He pointed out the bargain basement label on the blouse and the budget brand of stockings. "She doesn't belong here. Who is she? Why is she here?"
"Hey man, all I know is I arrived, he was giving CPR, and the other guy let me in the apartment."
"She isn't family," Morgan went on, "the clothes are off the peg. Unlikely to be a neighbour or friend then, she doesn't hang out with this crowd."
He stood up for a better look at her.
"She's pretty, decent body, but not special enough to catch the eye of a playboy heir to this much wealth."
"She's a hooker, man," Morgan's eyes snapped up to meet the medic's. "They'll have ordered a bunch of girls, and this was the unfortunate one who ended the party."
"Without a doubt," Morgan agreed, unhappy at being forced to fast forward his deductions. "But she's too young for this scene." He took a long look at her, head to toes, then asked the medic: "What do reckon, remove the make-up, pay no heed to the trashy clothes, is she 15, 16 maybe?"
"Oh, I dunno man. Probably, yeah."
"Would an escort agency risk its reputation by sending an underage girl to an event like this?"
"If they asked for it," he nodded towards the two men being interviewed.
"Hmm. If they had, they wouldn't invite us in to find her like this. My guess, in their panic they haven't realised her age. That means no one noticed she was here until she died. Was she an escort or just a wild-child gatecrasher?"
His eyes rested on her feet once more. His gut insisted there was something wrong with this scene. He walked around the pool and checked for the missing shoes. He found nothing.
"The soles of her stockings are still smooth, she doesn't make a habit of walking around shoe-less." He took a breath. "And yet here you are ..."
He knelt beside her again and pulled out a penlight. He shone the beam up her nose. Then he opened her mouth and after another careful search lent in and sniffed.
He leant back on his heels and thoughtfully gazed at the men being interviewed.
"Does she have shoes?," he called out across the apartment.
"Errm what?" the apartment owner appeared happy at the irreverent interruption.
"Forgive my colleague," said Detective Soren shaking his head back at Morgan and explaining his training role for the junior detective.
Morgan ignored them both, his attention on the third man, the friend. He noticed, just for an instant, his eyes drift down the entrance hall. The guest bedroom, Morgan knew, the apartment layout being somewhat familiar.
"I guess she must have," the third man offered after a moment. "Maybe one of the other girls took a liking to them."
"Other girls?" Morgan pressed home his advantage, noticing the colour drain from the third man's face at his indiscretion. Details unravel the most carefully crafted story, he knew. "Can you provide a list of their names?"
"Is that necessary? There were some influential people here this evening, you know how quickly rumours spread and it really isn't relevant to the drowning."
Soren waved Morgan off and returned to his questions.
"Can I use your bathroom, sir?" Morgan asked.
"Sure, down there to the left," he pointed down the entrance hall where Morgan knew he would.
He followed the direction, opening the door on the right and entered.
"Hey detective," the third man shouted after him, "the bathroom is on the left." Too late.
Well he'd found the shoes, Morgan saw. Lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. The bed looked rumpled - not unexpected, it was that kind of party. He heard footsteps walking his way and closed the door to earn a few extra precious seconds alone.
Dampness on the pillow where her face had been. White, frothy drool soaking into it, not yet dry. On the bedside table a tiny transparent bag, remnants of some coloured powder inside, instinctively he pocketed it before the door opened.
"It's okay," Morgan told the third man standing in the doorway, "I've found her shoes." He knelt to pick them up. Well worn stilettos. Cheap, thought Morgan. The medic's assessment would be correct.
He marched back out of the room, host and friend following close behind.
"So," he pointed at the friend creating an invisible leash to lead the man back to the body. "So, tell me what happened,"
"Dunno," came the reply. "All happened really quick."
"The medics tell me you performed CPR?"
"Yeah of course. That's what you do."
"How come you stuck around while everyone else left?"
"You don't leave your mates in times of crisis, do you?"
Prepared answers, Morgan knew. This man had used his time to get things straight. Not normally behaviour in this situation, too controlled. The truth would only come after the cribbed responses had run out. He fired more questions his way.
"Good friends, are you?" he pointed at both men in turn, but only waited long enough for a reaction, he didn't care about the answer. "Not an employee?" again, no pause for an answer, Morgan just watched the man's eyes and trusted his instinct. "Who was the girl?"
"I don't know who she was, I've never seen her before." Accurate, but still planned. We're not there yet, Morgan thought.
"Some one's plus one, maybe?"
A shrug.
"What's your name?"
"Eff Rayer." A control question to calibrate Morgan's instinct.
"How many guests were here tonight?"
"Not many," Rayer replied. Lie, at least two dozen half being powerful men, Morgan already knew.
"Can you give me their names?"
That was when the man realised he'd been had.
He focused on the third man, the host would have crumbled in no time, it wouldn't have been fair.
What's your job. Where did you meet your friend Have you ever had dealings with authority before Are you married Did you bring a date Where were you sitting What time did the party start Did you know all the girls