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I-Five, standing just behind the low couch Jax and Dejah were seated on, made a raspy mechanical chirp that was the protocol droid’s version of clearing its throat.

Rhinann ignored the subtle warning. “I suppose you think it’s pure coincidence that Rado ended up dead within a day of that message having been sent and coincidence as well that his loyal smuggler friend received a significant sum of credits to his private account in that same time frame?”

“I didn’t say that,” Den objected. “I merely noted that we don’t have titanium-clad proof that Wabbin’s windfall had anything to do with Rado’s demise. Though it does seem, you know, too much of a coincidence to be coincidental.”

“Too much of a coincidence to be coincidental?” repeated Rhinann disparagingly. He snapped his long fingers several times by way of applause. “Brilliant assessment.” He turned to address the prefect. “The fact is—”

“The fact is,” growled Pol Haus, straightening to his full height, “that I didn’t come here to listen to internecine squabbling over who knew what how. I came here to find out what you knew about the flow of spice in my jurisdiction. You said you had pertinent information.”

“We do,” said Jax Pavan quickly, including both squabblers in a quelling look.

“That’s good,” said Haus, “because what I have is a dead Toydarian ‘businessman’—and I use the term loosely—and a sudden glut of pure spice in the Zi-Kree Sector. A sector my research indicates is controlled by our multi-aliased buddy the Hutt. If you can’t provide me with good intel …”

Rhinann opened his mouth to reply and was incensed to see that Dhur’s pendulous lips were also opening. Then I-Five made that grating sound again, which was really just too much—to be censured by a droid …

“We have provided you with only the most worthwhile intelligence, Prefect, I assure you,” insisted Rhinann, far more forcefully than he meant to.

“You’ve also provided me with a surfeit of complaints from local merchants about harassment, more ‘unknowns’ than should exist in any citizen’s files, and a trail of dead bodies. Perhaps I should be investigating you, not Sol Proofrock—or whatever our Hutt spice trader is calling himself these days.”

Before any of the open mouths in the room could utter a sound, Dejah Duare rose from the couch and raised a graceful, placating hand.

All eyes turned to her, all ears tingled in anticipation of her voice, all senses stretched toward her, involuntarily desiring to lap up every effusion of her softly gleaming carmine skin—with the exception of Rhinann and Dhur, whose physiologies, though humanoid, were too alien to respond to Duare’s endocrine advantage. A good thing, too, judging by the besotted looks that came over Pavan and Haus. Rhinann even imagined for a moment that the droid’s photoreceptors brightened a bit, though he knew that was nonsense.

Like all Zeltrons, Dejah Duare exuded a rich potion of pheromones that she could guide willfully to affect the mood of her target audience. Right now she had brought all her resources to bear on Pol Haus.

“Prefect,” she said in a voice like sun-washed synthsilk, “surely my citizen file is an open book. Can you imagine that I’d associate myself with beings whose scruples I distrusted in the least?”

If Rhinann didn’t know better, he’d swear the Zabrak was blushing to the roots of his unkempt, thinning fringe of hair.

“With all due respect,” the prefect said, “this lot did ingratiate themselves with you during the investigation of your partner’s death.”

Dejah uttered a cascade of warm sultry laughter that, if visible, would have been the same dark crimson as her hair. “Ingratiated themselves! Now, Prefect, isn’t that understating the case? Jax and his team,” she added, turning a smiling gaze to the Jedi, “solved Ves Volette’s murder. And that is why I’ve chosen to ally myself with them. Each one of them is highly skilled at what he does. If Haninum Tyk Rhinann provides you with information, you can be certain it is both accurate and worthwhile.”

The prefect looked bemused and