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SINCLAIR
    EDWARD SINCLAIR, SR.
    EDWARD SINCLAIR, III
    HANS DRUCKER
    GEORGE STEEVES
    PAULINE URTHIEL
    BERNATH PETERFI
    LAWRENCE MUHAMMAD ECKS
    BERTHA HALL
    MURIEL SANDUSKY
    Valpredo had been busy. He'd been using the police car and its phone setup as an office while he guarded the roof. “We know who some of these are,” he said. “Edward Sinclair Third, for instance, is Edward Senior's grandson, Janice's brother. He's in the Belt, in Ceres, making something of a name for himself as an industrial designer. Edward Senior is Raymond's brother. He lives in Kansas City. Hans Drucker and Bertha Hall and Muriel Sandusky all live in the Greater Los Angeles area; we don't know what their connection with Sinclair is. Pauline Urthiel and Bernath Peterfi are technicians of sorts. Ecks is Sinclair's patent attorney.”
    “I suppose we can interview Edward Third by phone.” Ordaz made a face. A phone call to the Belt wasn't cheap. “These others—”
    I said, “May I make a suggestion?”
    “Of course.”
    “Send me along with whoever interviews Ecks and Peterfi and Urthiel. They probably knew Sinclair in a business sense, and having an ARM along will give you a little more clout to ask a little more detailed questions.”
    “I could take those assignments,” Valpredo volunteered.
    “Very well.” Ordaz still looked unhappy. “If this list were exhaustive, I would be grateful. What if Doctor Sinclair's visitor simply used the intercom in the lobby and asked to be let in?”
* * * *
    Bernath Peterfi wasn't answering his phone.
    We got Pauline Urthiel via her pocket phone. A brusque contralto voice, no picture. We'd like to talk to her in connection with a murder investigation; would she be at home this afternoon? No. She was lecturing that afternoon but would be home around six.
    Ecks answered dripping wet and not smiling. So sorry to get you out of a shower, Mr. Ecks. We'd like to talk to you in connection with a murder investigation.
    “Sure, come on over. Who's dead?”
    Valpredo told him.
    “Sinclair? Ray Sinclair? You're sure?”
    We were.
    “Oh, lord. Listen, he was working on something important. An interstellar drive, if it works out. If there's any possibility of salvaging the hardware—”
    I reassured him and hung up. If Sinclair's patent attorney thought it was a star drive ... maybe it was.
    “Doesn't sound like he's trying to steal it,” Valpredo said.
    “No. And even if he'd got the thing, he couldn't have claimed it was his. If he's the killer, that's not what he was after.”
    We were moving at high speed, police-car speed. The car was on automatic, of course, but it could need manual override at any instant. Valpredo concentrated on the passing scenery and spoke without looking at me.
    “You know, you and the detective-inspector aren't looking for the same thing.”
    “I know. I'm looking for a hypothetical killer. Julio's looking for a hypothetical visitor. It could be tough to prove there wasn't one, but if Porter and the girl were telling the truth, maybe Julio can prove the visitor didn't do it.”
    “Which would leave the girl,” he said.
    “Whose side are you on?”
    “Nobody's. All I've got is interesting questions.” He looked at me sideways. “But you're pretty sure the girl didn't do it.”
    “Yah.”
    “Why?”
    “I don't know. Maybe because I don't think she's got the brains. It wasn't a simple killing.”
    “She's Sinclair's niece. She can't be a complete idiot.”
    “Heredity doesn't work that way. Maybe I'm kidding myself. Maybe it's her arm. She's lost an arm; she's got enough to worry about.” And I borrowed the car phone to dig into records in the ARM computer.
    PAULINE URTHIEL. Born Paul Urthiel. Ph.D. in plasma physics, University of California at Irvine. Sex change and legal name change, 2111. Six years ago she'd been in competition for a Nobel prize for research into the charge suppression effect in the Slaver disintegrator. Height: 5’ 9". Weight: 135. Married