"I certainly have."
"Show photo and results on screen."
Izzy disappeared, replaced by the photo Sam had found in Frank Lyle's apartment. It came as no real surprise that the four men had been in the military and worked alongside Frank Lyle at Hopeworth. Hal White, the oldest of the four, had died a month before Lyle's murder. The other three were listed as retired. Their pensions were generous, even by military standards.
"Any details on Hal White's death?"
Izzy reappeared. "Checking police files."
If Izzy had gone directly to police files, Hal White's death was listed as something other than natural. While she waited for the results, she leaned back in her chair and massaged her temples. If this damn headache didn't go away soon, she might have to visit a doctor herself. Something she normally tried to avoid.
"Hal White's file remains open, sweetie. Cause of death unknown."
Interesting. Maybe it was fate that two of the five friends had been murdered within a month of each other. Then again, maybe it wasn't. "Grab a copy of the case report for me. And send the current addresses of the three remaining men to my viaphone."
"Proceeding. Anything else I can help you with?"
"Yeah, the results for the priority one search."
"Results being displayed."
There wasn't much to see. Of the four men listed on the birth certificate, only one — Mark Allars — was still alive. Interestingly, he lived only one block away from Roy Benson, one the three remaining men in the photograph. None of the women were still alive. All eight had worked at the illusive Hopeworth.
She tapped a finger against her lips. "We have photos of any of these people?"
"Nothing available on file."
"What about their life before they joined the military?"
"Nothing available there, either, sweetie."
She raised her eyebrows. There should have been school and medical records, at the very least. "Why not?"
Izzy gave an exasperated sigh. "I'm a computer, not a mind reader. How would I know?"
"Have you tried requesting Hopeworth for details?"
"No. And I wouldn't back your chances of getting an answer if I did."
Neither would she, but she had nothing to lose by trying. "Put in a formal request for information on these eight, as well as the four men in the photograph."
"I'm requesting."
"Good." She pushed the chair back and rose. "If you happen to get any results back from the other searches, forward them to my viaphone."
"Consider it done, sweetie."
"And check out a car from the pool for me."
Izzy tapped a chicken-like foot for several moments. "Car nineteen on standby."
"Thanks Izzy."
"Have a nice day," Izzy said, before the screen went blank.
She snagged her bag off the back of the chair and headed down to the car pool. An attendant handed her the keys and a pass-out to sign. She scrawled her signature across the bottom, then threw her bag into the back of the car and climbed in.
After joining the late morning traffic, she cruised through the city streets, headed for Kensington. Roy Benson, like his three friends, lived in a suburb befitting the image of an independently wealthy retiree. Only Frank Lyle had made an attempt to hide his wealth — though not very successfully, given he had million dollar paintings all over his walls.