Foolproof (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 4)

by Dianne Emley

  “What’s your point—censorship? Freedom of expression is our constitutional right, at least it was the last time I checked.”

  “There are people out there who don’t think it’s enough for the entertainment industry to monitor itself or to provide tools to block materials they deem objectionable. To them, the mere existence of these materials indicates a level of societal decline that can’t be tolerated. Pandora’s name frequently comes up in these discussions—as does yours.”

  Pratt finally stopped pacing and sat on a stone bench facing Iris. He rubbed his chin. “I see where you’re going, but it doesn’t follow. Why Alexa and Bridget and not me and Kip, or all four of us?”

  “Don’t forget that Kip is convinced he was framed. If the murder charge had stuck, Pandora would have been sunk for sure. In your case, perhaps the thinking was you’d likely tone down your work after suffering the effects of violence in your own family.”

  “Shouldn’t Alexa’s and Bridget’s murders have been preceded by some sort of threat?”

  Iris shook her head. “Too overt. Wouldn’t it be more effective to infiltrate the offending organizations and exert pressure from the inside? Or better yet, take them over and dismantle them?”

  “Go on.”

  “You’ve had people invest in your movies.”

  “Of course. Even low-budget films can cost a couple of million.”

  “You ever take any money from T. Duke Sawyer or an outfit called USA Assets?”

  “T. Duke Sawyer… I’ll have to get back to you on that. He invested in Pandora?”

  “Yes. And in another computer-games company, 3-D Dimensions. It was owned by a guy named Harry Hagopian—a computer programmer and game geek. He designed this game called Fate—”

  “Sure, I’ve heard of it.”

  “—that took off like wildfire. It was an ultraviolent action game that had a major influence on Kip Cross when he designed the first Slade Slayer game. Anyway, Harry became rich. T. Duke came knocking. My research assistant contacted a programmer who worked on Fate. He said that Harry was basically jerking T. Duke around, that he didn’t have any interest in selling the company. Lo and behold, poor Harry dies in a solo spinout one dark night on the Fifteen in the Mojave Desert just outside Baker, California.”

  Pratt finished the story. “And the heirs sell the company to T. Duke.”

  “You got it.”

  “Next, you’re going to tell me that T. Duke made an offer on Pandora which the Crosses turned down. But anyone who knows anything about Kip Cross knows that he would never sell. He couldn’t work for anybody else.”

  “But he might have to sell, if he were defending a murder rap.”

  Pratt grinned. “The plot thickens. Wouldn’t it have been easier to just kill both Crosses?”

  “Too hard to explain. It was well-known that Kip and Bridget were having problems.”

  “Alexa told me something about that.”

  Iris crossed her legs. “Disgruntled husbands kill their wives all the time, no news there. T. Duke figured it was enough to get Bridget out of the way. She was the one who built Pandora and was its guiding force. He knew without her, Kip would falter, as he has. But whoever murdered Bridget and set up Kip didn’t expect that the police wouldn’t press charges against him.”

  “The murder frame-up was imperfect.”

  “They also didn’t realize that Bridget wasn’t leaving her sixty percent ownership of Pandora to her husband. She left it in trust to her daughter and named me the administrator of the trust.”

  “You?” Pratt said with amusement. “Are you afraid?”

  “I was born and raised in L.A. I’m always afraid.”

  He chuckled. “What’s the connection between T. Duke and the antiviolence mongers?”

  “I think he’s a member of the Trust Makers, but I haven’t confirmed it.”

  Pratt nodded. “Heard about them.”

  “In any of your movies, was anyone bludgeoned to death with a rock, the same way that Alexa was murdered?”

  “Actually, yeah. I did that in my second film. Gave me the creeps when I realized it. But I’ve had characters shot, beheaded, stabbed, garroted, run over by cars…” He searched his mind for more. “Thrown from a window.” He frowned. “I haven’t had anybody drowned or hanged.” He scratched his chin as if making a mental note, then looked again at Iris. “In Bridget’s murder, there was the slingshot, which directly tied in with Kip’s work.”

  “And the murderer was wearing a Slade Slayer mask.”

  “Interesting.” He again stared into the fountain. “Supposedly, now I’m going to be so horrified by my wife being a victim of the same type of violence I depict in my films that I’ll turn over a new leaf and start making romantic comedies starring Julia Roberts. And investors will start tightening the purse strings to make sure it happens.”

  “I admit it’s far-fetched.”

  “It’s a lot simpler to accuse Kip Cross.”

  “That’s what the police think, too.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “Kip Cross didn’t murder his wife.”

  “You’re positive?”

  Her faith in Kip’s innocence had wavered, but Pratt didn’t need to know that. “Absolutely. In Pandora’s files there are letters from people protesting the violent and sexual content of the Slade Slayer games. Have you received letters like that?”

  “All the time. I’m always pissing somebody off.” He grinned again. It pleased him to be a bad boy.

  “I’m particularly interested in any letters from the Trust Makers.”

  “I’m going on location for three months in South Dakota. I’ll have someone look through the files. The studio handles all my correspondence.”

  Iris fished a business card from her purse and handed it to him.

  Pratt slipped the card into a back pocket of his jeans.

  Iris stood and draped the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Thanks. Like I said, it’s a long shot.”

  “If it in any way helps to find Alexa’s murderer, I’m happy to do it. It’s a good story, in any event.” Pratt started walking toward the house. Iris followed.

  He opened the front door for her. “Ozzie Levinson told me his wife, Liz, works for you.”

  “Yes, she does. I have to thank Ozzie for arranging this meeting.”

  “My finances are a mess. I’ve got money rolling in, rolling out, who knows where it goes? Is Liz really as good as people say?”

  “The best. You have my business card. Give us a call.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Thanks for seeing me. You have a lovely home.”

  He rapped his knuckles against the faux stone arch. “Fiberglass,” he said proudly. “Molded in a single piece. You’d be nuts to install real stone in L.A. Besides, why bother with real when fake looks as good and is more practical? It’s not going to crush you in a quake.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Kip Cross attracted scant attention when he parked his Ferrari in the small lot beside a venerable Mid-City hot dog stand, established in the 1930s. The patrons and employees were used to seeing just about everything and everyone. Expensive automobiles were of minor interest.

  Kip walked up to the counter. Behind it were vats of boiling hot dogs, steaming sauerkraut, and lumpy, brownish red chili that was swirled with grease. French fries and onion rings churned as they boiled in oil. Dozens of soft hot dog buns were piled in a steamer. Two televisions were suspended above each side of the L-shaped counter.

  The women who worked the counter had a well-known and even beloved reputation for abrasiveness. Three were working today. One was a stout blonde; the other two were thin brunettes. All of them appeared to be in their twenties, and they were all chewing gum. They wore blue, button-front dresses splattered with grease, and little folded hats attached to their pinned-up hair. One of them nudged her partner in the ribs as Kip approached.

  A man standing at the counter shovin
g a chili dog into his mouth initially ignored Kip until he noticed Kip’s flip-flops. He then took a step away as if by reflex.

  “One chili kraut dog with cheese and extra onions, onion rings, and a large Coke,” Kip said to the blonde.

  She didn’t move to fill his order and gave him a long up-and-down look as she snapped her gum. The other two women looked apprehensively from the blonde to Kip and back.

  “What’s going on?” Kip asked.

  “Onion rings!” the woman shouted over her shoulder. She grabbed a bun, piled the ingredients Kip requested into it, wrapped it in a piece of wax paper, and shoved it toward him across the counter. It would have slipped off the other side if Kip hadn’t caught it.

  One of the brunettes carelessly plopped a greasy wax paper sack of onion rings next to the dog, spilling several rings onto the dirty counter. The third set the Coke down.

  Kip angrily eyed them.

  They returned his stare, snapping their gum and ignoring the other customers who had queued up behind him.

  He was about to comment on their rudeness, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He recalled other visits to this joint before Bridget’s murder when the help was surly. They’d treated him this way millions of times before. Their attitude today had nothing to do with their thinking he was a murderer, he reassured himself.

  Out of a corner of his eye, Kip spotted people waiting behind him, talking quietly among themselves. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he heard them murmuring. What else could they be talking about except him? What else could be keeping them so entertained? He quickly spun around. He’d confront them. If they had anything to say, they could say it to his face. A woman who had been discussing menu selections with her husband reared back, startled, when Kip abruptly turned. Two guys didn’t pay any attention to Kip and continued pointing at the menu and talking. A man directly behind Kip gave him a fatigued look and hitched his head in the direction of the counter, indicating Kip had business there.

  “What?” Kip said, returning his attention to the big blonde.

  “Four eighty-nine,” she said, scowling. “You deaf or something?”

  “Oh.” He retrieved his nylon wallet from a back pocket of his worn Levi’s, pulled open the Velcro-lined flap, and handed the woman some bills. He gathered his food and walked with it to the picnic tables and benches beneath an aluminum awning at the side of the establishment.

  “Wife-killer.”

  Kip twisted his neck and glared at the blonde. “What did you say?”

  “Your change!” she shouted.

  “Keep it.”

  “Big spender.”

  There were no empty tables. He headed toward a spot at the end of a table where two men were already sitting, dumped his food on top, and slid onto the bench. He saw the two men looking at him and he stared back until they looked away. He unwrapped his chili kraut dog and took a big bite. A glop of chili dripped from his mouth onto the table. The two men began gathering their remaining food. Kip figured they were finished but saw them move to another table a few feet away. One of the men said something to the others sitting there. Slowly, everyone turned to peer at him like one might stare at a traffic accident.

  Kip knew he was not imagining this. “I didn’t do it,” he tried to explain. “I loved my wife.”

  They seemed stunned that he had spoken to them. They began whispering among themselves. People at other tables were now shooting glances at Kip.

  Kip resolutely ate his food, mopping up every last glob of chili and sauerkraut with his onion rings. When he had finished, he gathered the soiled wax paper, napkins, and empty drink container, dropped them into a garbage bin, and walked out. In the parking lot, a man was admiring his Ferrari.

  “Nice steel,” the man commented.

  “Thanks.” Kip smiled, grateful for the small kindness.

  The man went on. “It’s true what they say about the golden rule. He who has the gold makes the rules.”

  Kip climbed into the Ferrari. The top was down and he turned and squinted at the man, not getting his point.

  “Rich man’s justice.”

  Kip cranked the Ferrari’s engine and burned rubber as he tore from the lot.

  Kip pulled, then banged on Pandora’s glass front door. “Why is this freaking door locked?” he yelled. He answered his own question. “Because of the people who want to see me dead.” He fumbled in his pants pocket for his keys, then startled when someone approached him from behind. “What do you want?”

  The man looked to be in his early twenties. He was tall and lanky with limbs that dangled loosely from his joint sockets. His straight, dark brown hair reached the middle of his back. The sun had bleached the top layer a reddish hue. His skin was a warm, dark color, deeply tanned on top of already dark skin. His eyes were slightly almond-shaped. “It’s really you, man!” He shook his head as if to dislodge something. “It’s the Kipmeister!”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The young man wore a tie-dyed T-shirt, printed with an image of the Grateful Dead’s top-hatted skeleton holding a long-stemmed rose, over baggy, rumpled black shorts that reached his knees. On his feet were huge white basketball sneakers and ankle-high white socks. Between the tops of his socks and the hem of his pants, his brown legs, covered with coarse black hair, were visible. One strap of a blue nylon backpack was slung over his shoulder. “Banzai.”

  “Bonsai? Like the miniature tree?”

  “No. Banzai, like the war cry—banzai!” He raised his fist.

  “Are you here to harass me or something?”

  “Harass you? I’m a mega-fan. You’re a god, man. You’re my hero.”

  “I am?” Kip brightened.

  “You’re the Kipmeister!” He playfully punched Kip in the arm.

  Kip looked the kid over and decided he probably was just a game geek and not an assassin. “Hey, I’m sorry, man. It’s just that people are looking at me like I have blood on my hands or something.”

  Banzai swatted at his hair. “I can’t believe I’m here. This is so hot. I sent you E-mail, man, when you were in jail. Did you get it?”

  Kip smiled tentatively. “Ah, yeah.” He started to unlock the door. “You want to come inside?”

  “That would be sooo great, man! I would love it.”

  “You have a last name?”

  “Jefferson.”

  “Banzai Jefferson. Sounds like a character in one of my games.” Kip pulled open the door.

  “Yeah, I know. My mom’s Japanese-American and she’s into the culture thing. She thought Banzai was a powerful name. My dad’s African-American. People are always looking at me and going, ‘What are you, anyway?’ I say I’m the multicultural man. I’m the future.” He laughed and followed Kip into the hangar, slowly walking across the floor as if he were in a daze. “Dude, this place is greater even than on TV. It’s…majestic.” He shook his head with his mouth gaping as if speech eluded him.

  Kip surveyed his empire and nodded. “I like it.”

  Banzai pointed at Kip, his mouth still gaping. “I want to work for you, man. I want to soak in your brilliance.”

  “Do you do any coding?”

  “Yeah.” Banzai blinked at him as if the answer were obvious. “Heck, yeah.”

  Kip nodded. “Come up.”

  They walked across the floor and up the wooden stairs to the catwalk. On the catwalk traversing the loft on the opposite side of the hangar, Banzai spotted Today going into his office carrying a Styrofoam container of one of his many daily cups of coffee. “Today Rhea!” he cried. “You the man!”

  Today squinted across the hangar, then ducked into his office and returned with a megaphone. “Do I know you?”

  “He’s a fan,” Kip shouted. “I’m showing him around.”

  “Name’s Banzai!”

  “Banzai?” Today repeated. “Look, Kip, when are we going to meet on the new game?”

  “I’m working on the engine now.”


  Today’s amplified voice carried throughout the hangar. “Why don’t you show me what you have? I can at least start sketching out some ideas.”

  “Give me a few days, man. I’ve got a lot of things on my mind.”

  Today didn’t respond but went into his office, closing the door behind him.

  Kip scowled across the expanse at the closed door.

  “All this genius.” Banzai wove his head as he surveyed the hangar. “It’s good. It’s all good.”

  “This is my office.”

  On one side of the large room were four long tables lined end to end, cluttered with computer equipment. The floor beneath the tables was covered with thick plastic on top of which were two rolling chairs. Two more chairs were in the middle of the room, apparently resting where they had rolled after having been shoved. A wood desk, piled high with books, magazines, and a single framed photograph of Bridget and Brianna occupied the opposite side of the room. Along that wall a string of large white boards was hung. Many of the boards bore scribblings in different colors of dry-erase ink.

  Kip nervously stepped toward the door when he saw that Banzai had slipped his backpack off his shoulder and was digging inside it.

  Banzai pulled out his hand, holding a stack of diskettes bound with rubber bands. He was beaming, his broad smile white against his dark skin as he clutched the diskettes between both hands. “It’s a game, man.” He humbly held the diskettes toward Kip.

  Kip, feeling foolish at his thought that the kid might be pulling a gun on him, took the diskettes. “What do you call it?”

  Banzai took two steps back as if preparing to make a jump. “Accelerator.”

  Kip looked at the diskettes.

  “I know the name’s hokey, but—”

  “No, not at all. I think it’s good. Let’s see it.”

  Banzai exhaled fiercely, moaning slightly as he did so, as if in ecstasy. “I’ve been living for this moment. The Slade Slayer games were my inspiration. You broke so many barriers. You took computer gaming into the next dimension. Suckers Finish Last is just…” He exhaled hard again.