Eros at Zenith: Book 2 of Tales of the Velvet Comet by Mike Resnick

beep that indicated that a channel had been opened, spent just a little too much time pretending to be oblivious to it while immersed in his work, and then looked up in feigned surprise.
    “Mr. Crane,” he said with a smile of greeting. “I was just about to page you, sir.”
    “What's up?” asked Crane.
    “We have a positive identification on the fabric. It was definitely Infante's.”
    “Any prints on it?”
    “We're still checking, sir, but it doesn't appear to be the type of material that would retain them. We'll know for sure in another hour or two.”
    “All right,” said Crane. “I've got a question for you, one that the computer doesn't seem able to answer.”
    “I'll do my best, sir,” Oglevie replied smoothly.
    “Why didn't anyone notice Infante was missing when he didn't show up in his room or at any of the restaurants?”
    “He had told the girl he spent his first night with that he might be leaving the next day. When he didn't show up in any of the public rooms, we ran a quick scan of the suites, found that he wasn't there, discovered that his luggage was gone, and assumed that he had gone home. It's uncommon to leave early, since our minimum billing is for a three-day visit, but it's not totally unheard of.”
    “Don't you run an exit check at the airlock?”
    “There's never been a need to, sir,” explained Oglevie. “Anyone aboard the Comet has the credentials to be here, so we don't check them again on the way out.” He paused. “I might add that that has changed, as of 0600 hours this morning.”
    “How long could his continued absence have gone unnoticed?”
    “It depends on the other end. If no one on Deluros VIII asked after his whereabouts, we might very well not have known until his next scheduled trip up here: if he hadn't cancelled his reservation and he then failed to show up, we'd have made a routine inquiry.”
    “Okay,” said Crane. “I'll be in touch with you later.”
    “Sir...” said Oglevie quickly.
    “Yes?”
    “I don't mean to seem forward, sir, but before you break communication I just want you to know that if there is any way I can be of service, I'd be happy to donate my free time to assisting you in pursuit of the killer.”
    “I'll keep your offer in mind.”
    “I am not totally without experience in such matters, sir,” Oglevie persisted. “I worked for the Belmath Agency before coming to Vainmill, and assisted in two murder investigations during my tenure there.”
    “That's one of the bigger detective agencies, isn't it!?”
    “They have offices on 27 worlds, sir.”
    “Why did you leave?” asked Crane.
    “Personal reasons, sir.”
    “Oh.”
    There was an awkward silence for a moment.
    “Anyway, sir,” said Oglevie, “thank you for listening to me.”
    “Any time,” said Crane, breaking the connection.
    He noticed that his glass was empty, and set it down on the thick white carpet.
    “Computer,” he said at last, “when was Infante's next scheduled visit?”
    FIVE WEEKS.
    “Well; at least we've got an outside limit on the time frame,” he mused aloud. “Whatever the reason for the murder, the killer couldn't wait five weeks for it to be discovered. Computer, how many employees are leaving the Comet in the next five weeks?”
    IN WHAT CAPACITY?
    He shrugged. “Quitting, vacationing, making business trips, whatever.”
    38 names flashed on the screen.
    “Well, that's a start. What's the name of the girl who spent the night with Infante?”
    THAT INFORMATION IS SEALED UNDER THE BLACK PEARL'S PRIVATE CODE.
    “Just that one name, or all information concerning liaisons?”
    ALL INFORMATION.
    Crane frowned, then picked up his empty glass and walked to the wet bar. As he was pouring himself another iced coffee, the screen flickered once more, and four names appeared on it.
    “What's this all about?” he demanded.
    THE ANSWER TO YOUR EARLIER QUESTION.
    ESTEBAN MORALES SPENT 6 YEARS ON NEW RHODESIA, SCARLET RIBBON WAS RAISED ON BOWMAN 23,