Cold Dark Matter. Alex Brett
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In the parking lot I sat for a minute, preparing a strategy for the next few hours. When I'd called Dr. Edwin Eales, the observatory's director, from the airport he'd flatly refused to see me and I'd had to pull rank, telling him he was an employee of the Crown, this was a government investigation, and he didn't have a choice.
Of course, he did have a choice. I had absolutely no jurisdiction in Hawaii, but if he wasn't aware of that I wasn't about to let him in on the secret. When I was ready to go I turned, rooted around in my suitcase, and pulled out my leather jacket. So much for a Hawaiian vacation. When it was all zipped up, I hopped down from the truck and ran for the building.
The receptionist behind the counter wasn't pleased to see me. "Can I help you?" she said, making an effort to avoid my eyes.
"I'm here to see Dr. Eales. We have a meeting."
Her hands skittered across the desk as if she was trying to locate a paper that had suddenly gone missing. She kept her eyes lowered. "I'm sorry, but Dr. Eales is …" She hesitated but kept the hands moving. "Dr. Eales has been called away. If you'd care to leave your number …"
I checked my watch. I was already five minutes late for our meeting. "No thanks," I said, and I pushed through the swinging door beside her, past the astonished faces of the clerical staff, and continued on down the hall until I arrived at the door labelled "Director." I gave two sharp knocks then let myself in.
The two men in the room turned in surprise.
"Dr. Eales, I presume." I headed for the one behind the desk with hand outstretched.
Eales was compact and wiry — a runner by physique — with bristly fair hair and an alpha personality. It took him a moment to connect, to figure out who I was. When he did he shot from his chair. His face went from tan to deep pink in a timeframe that couldn't be healthy. "Who the hell are you? Get out of my office. You can't just walk in here without, without …" He was quick enough to realize that he'd moved onto slippery ground, so I finished the sentence for him.
"An appointment." I looked at my watch. "Yes, I am sorry. It took me a little longer to get here than I thought it would. That's quite a drive." I slipped into the chair next to the slightly rumpled, older man.
Still standing, Eales banged his open palm hard on the desk's surface, a good display behaviour if you happen to be simian, but it didn't have much effect on me. "You can't just —"
The man next to me raised his hand slightly from where it lay on the arm of his chair. "Edwin." Although it was said gently there was no mistaking the warning.
Eales glanced at him, and the older man gave a slight tip of his head toward Eales's chair. The director glared at him for a moment, then reluctantly sat back. The guest turned to me.
"I'm Anthony St. James. You must be the investigator." His voice carried a distinct note of disapproval.
For my part, I had to hide my surprise. Even I knew the name Anthony St. James, and astronomy wasn't my usual beat. St. James was one of Canada's most renowned astronomers, although I couldn't for the life of me remember why. Something big, I vaguely recalled, that he discovered in the late 1950s or early ‘60s near the beginning of his career. I'd have to ask Duncan about that. What I did recall, though, was that instead of fleeing south to bigger salaries, more prestige, and access to high-end telescopes, St. James had resolutely stayed in Canada. He was now credited with helping to build an astronomy community in a country that, at that time, had no history and little appreciation for cosmic gazing. Suddenly the exchange between him and Eales became clear. Eales might be the director of the observatory, but St. James was a founding father.
I took his hand. At the first physical contact his demeanor changed, as if he'd resigned himself to my presence and was determined to be a gentleman, despite my profession. "A terrible tragedy, Ms. O'Brien. You must forgive us. We are all still reeling from the shock, and …," here he slowed and chose his words carefully, "it is difficult for us to understand what possible benefit could be derived from an investigation. Surely the police will handle that."
Then he withdrew his hand and sat back to wait for an answer.
"Are you here because of Dr. Grenier?"
He showed a moment of surprise — he was a man used to being answered, not questioned — then recovered. "A most unfortunate coincidence, I'm afraid. I'm observing the next few days." He must have seen my eyebrows raise and looked amused. "Oh yes, Ms. O'Brien, I still carry out an active research program, much of it on this telescope. Without the observing, why live?"
"So you knew Dr. Grenier then."
He made a display of shifting to face me, giving himself just enough time to frame an answer. "I did, yes, rather well. Dr. Grenier's death is a tragedy, not just for his family and friends, but for Canadian astronomy as well. He was a gifted researcher, and you can't just replace someone of that calibre. In Yves's case I don't think he can be replaced at all."
"I wouldn't go that far, Tony. We're all replaceable." Eales's voice was cool.
St. James, who seemed to have momentarily forgotten Eales, let his gaze drift back to his face and rest there, but before he could respond I did.
"You didn't get along with Dr. Grenier?"
"Don't put words in my mouth," Eales snapped. "I simply said we are all replaceable, a principle I'm sure Tony will support, in practice if not in theory. Now what do you want?"
"Edwin." This time the warning had more force, but so did Eales's response. He leaned forward, his hands flat on the desk, and glared at St. James. "This is still my office and still my observatory. And it is still my responsibility to run it as I see fit, regardless of your opinion." Then he switched his gaze to me. "I, for one, am overwhelmed with work since Yves managed to do considerable damage to the prime focus in his final asinine act. And every night of observing we lose represents thousands of dollars, a figure I'm sure Dr. St. James would be happy to confirm. So what the hell do you want?"
I let a beat pass, and when I was good and ready I said, "Dr. Grenier's research diaries."
Eales pulled back, and out of the corner of my eye I saw St. James's hand drop limply to the side of his chair. Eales, however, a pugnacious alpha male, hopped right back in the ring. "By what authority?"
Again I let a moment pass, just to let him know I wouldn't be bullied. "The Government of Canada, who, after all, owns them."
At this point I heard the door to the office open. "I'll take it from here."
I turned to see a cross between a leprechaun and Leif the Red standing, arms crossed, in the doorway. With his balding head of red hair and close-cropped auburn beard, he held himself like a Celtic chieftain, albeit in pinstripe grey. The only flaw was the bow tie. It's hard to take a man seriously who sports a bow tie. Although, I thought as he stepped in the room and shut the door behind him, I might have to revise that opinion.
He locked eyes briefly with Eales, then with St. James, before moving to me. He thrust out his hand. "Gunnar McNabb, Public Relations."
I didn't take it. "I'm not the public." I turned back to Eales. "I want the diaries, Dr. Eales. If you —"
Gunnar leaned over and gripped my arm. "This meeting is over."
I turned, looked at his hand on my arm, then looked up at him. "This meeting is over when I say it is." I snapped my arm out of his grip and turned back to the director. "Dr. Eales?"
St. James had bent his head and was now massaging his temples as if to ward off a major migraine.
"Don't say anything," said Gunnar.
I stood and turned on Gunnar. He wasn't any taller than me, but he was built like a brick wall: broad shoulders, big chest, all muscle. If he knew how to use that muscle, and it looked like he did, he could flatten me in seconds, but it wouldn't come to that. I poked him hard on the chest.
"You're obstructing an investigation. If you want to keep your job and your hefty government pension, back off."
He