Roic, a little breathless, returned, "He just dodged into a neighbor's place.  Gone to ground.  There's a woman and two kids staring at me out the glass.  Now she's arguing with Leiber.  Well, she's arguing, he's wheezing."  And, after a moment, "You don't want me to go in there.  Trespassing.  Assault."

Roic's very firm tone of voice discouraged Miles from descanting on diplomatic immunity.  He continued, "Now she's gone off.  To call the police, I'm guessing.  What did you two do to the fellow?"

Nothing was plainly not the right answer.  "I'm not sure," Miles said.  "Well, withdraw for now and rendezvous with Johannes."

"Understood."

Miles turned to Raven.  "All right, we have maybe five minutes to go over the place here.  You take downstairs, I'll take up."

"What are we looking for?"

"Whatever he's hiding."

Upstairs held a bedroom, a bedroom-turned-office, and a bathroom.  An endearingly tame, by galactic standards, porn collection in the bedroom was out in plain sight, suggesting Leiber did not have a girlfriend at present.  The closets held clothes and shoes, and a residue of old sporting equipment.  Miles was just eyeing the comconsole in the next room in frustration—he likely didn't have time for a stealth download before the locals arrived, and besides the ImpSec devices that made such tasks a snap were back at the consulate—when Raven's voice came from his wristcom.

"Miles?"

"We've got to fly, Raven—I expect the police are on their way by now."

"I don't think he'll have called them, actually."  An arresting remark, for all that it was delivered in an amused drawl.

"What have you found down there?"

"Come look."

Miles made his way down the stairs with rather more care than he'd pelted up them, collecting his cane on the way.

The lowest level—it was not quite a basement—of Leiber's townhouse was much as one might expect: a laundry area, the mechanical and electrical guts of the dwelling, a larger room left half-finished for dirty projects or whatever were the owner's needs.  Leiber's need seemed to be for a great deal of junk stowage.  Raven stood between a dusty exercise machine and a long shape covered with an old bedspread.

"Tah-dah!" he cried, and whisked off the bedspread.  Revealing a portable cryochamber.  Plugged into the house power.  Running, and apparently occupied.

"Do we know what we're both thinking?" asked Raven.

"Yeah," said Miles, with proper admiration.  "Although . . . could it be it normal to keep frozen people in your basement?  Around here, I mean?"

"Don't know," said Raven, running his hands over the machine in a search for identifying marks.  "You'd have to ask Johannes, or Vorlynkin.  Or Jin.  What I wonder is how he ever got it in here."

"Dark of night, at a guess."