by Adrian Speed
“How would you describe your working relationship with Mr Sotheby-Arnold?”
“Parasitic,” Billy Ray said. “He lived off my energy and drive. I got him contacts, I got him talent, I got him Capital Pictures. He sat around and meditated on the nature of film, and I turned that into cold, hard cash. He was a leach sucking off my talent.”
“How was Mr Sotheby-Arnold’s health?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“He had a lot of colds, he had depression, he whinged a lot.” Billy Ray swiped over a number of apps and started tapping away again. “He loved to complain to me no matter how much I tried to show him how little I cared.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Saw his whiny emo know-it-all film at Sundance, Twenty-Ways to Waste my Time or something else dumb, but I knew how to sell that kind of crap so I snapped him up when he was still an eighteen-year-old idiot. I dragged him out to Korea, isolated him from everyone he knew for three years, and made him crank out film after film, until I was the only one he could depend on. Normal producer-talent relationship.”
“Delacroix says you once worked him all weekend without sleep while making Holocaust: the Musical,” I said. “He had to give Jonathon heroin tablets to sleep.”
“Once?” Billy Ray snorted. “Sleep is a luxury film makers can’t afford. Typical Delacroix though, he was always the 9/11 of thinking. I had Johnny on uppers and he was flying high.”
“Wait, what?” I tried to pick my jaw off the ground. “You were giving him drugs?”
“Oh yeah, amphetamines, cocaine, adderall, anything to make him focus. Talent like his is only useful for five, ten years, then the wave they’re riding crashes and you have to dump them for someone else. Gotta get them on uppers to maximise performance. This ain’t my first rodeo.”
“The sudden death of youthful talent tends to push them from fad to immortal,” Sir Reginald said. “The so-called Twenty-Seven club, for example.”
“Sure does, but if you think I killed him for money and control of his estate – which I have, by the way, standard contract – I ask you, what kinda moron would I be to axe him before his last film was finished?”
“What kind of moron indeed.” Sir Reginald brought his hands together. “But Mr Sotheby-Arnold did receive his heroin from you, didn’t he? You arranged it?”
“’Course,” Billy Ray said. His finger hesitated for just a second. The tiniest tick. The first moment it suggested he actually had to think about his answers. “What kinda moron doesn’t give his talent what he needs? Heroin wound him down when the work was done. Kept him happy. Kept him productive.” A lie, I thought.
“And yet it was a condition of Mr Sotheby-Arnold’s last contract with capital pictures that he go into rehab–”
“Well you know studios, always afraid of–”
“It was Sam, wasn’t it?” I turned to the assistant. She was hiding at the other end of the table with three slate computers bouncing between them. She froze at the sound of her name. “You were the one giving heroin to Jonathon. When you found him... you were going to check he was alright, weren’t you?”
“I... I–” Sam stuttered.
“What kind of man do you take me for?” Billy Ray thundered, dropping his slate to the table. He was having to invent fast now, and disguise it with outrage. “Everything my assistant does is what I ordered her to do. That’s what an assistant is for. They don’t think for themselves. I ordered Sam to give Johnny a Cobradyne so that he would be functional–”
“You ordered her to give him six Cobradynes?” I interrupted.
“I... I...” the fire in Billy Ray’s eyes turned on his assistant. “Six, Sam? Really?”
“It was the only thing that’d take the edge off,” Sam said. “He felt nothing when we gave him one. But when we tried yesterday with four it was like... like he was only half way there.”
“God... damn it.” Billy Ray sank back into his chair.
“Mr Simon didn’t order me to do it,” Sam said, sinking below the surface of the table so only her eyes were visible. She was only my age, I realised, and who knows how long she’d had to deal with Billy Ray as her boss. “I did.... I’ve always done a lot of... a lot of stuff for Mr Sotheby-Arnold, fetched him meals, filed his scripts, helped him edit and I knew he... he wasn’t coping with the opiate supplements. They kept him functional, but he wasn’t like he used to be. He wasn’t the genius he was on Mueller’s Stand. He needed it to go back to being himself.”
“God damn it, Sam,” Billy Ray rested his thick knuckles against his eyes. “I have the connections to make this sort of thing go away, for me. That was why I was taking the blame you unbelievable moron. Ain’t no-one in New York State putting Billy Ray behind bars. But Sam Smith? The DA’ll eat Sam Smith for breakfast and send her bones to be turned into soup for dinner.”
“Well, I mean, I don’t have time to go attend a deposition,” I nudged Sir Reginald conspiratorially. “I am sure you don’t either, and if Delgado didn’t hear anything–”
“All their augs have been arraigned for testimony.” Delgado’s voice was cold as ice. “That confession... will be on record.”
“Ah.”
“Get what you need, detective?” Billy Ray glared at Sir Reginald.
“Indeed.”
“Then kindly get the hell out so I can save the film and this moron,” Billy Ray waved a hand at his assistant.
“I just have one more question,” Sir Reginald said, standing up. “Who decides what props go into the background?”
“What? What kind of retarded limey question is that? What in Sam Hill does that have to do with Johnny’s death?” Billy Ray looked up into Sir Reginald’s unmoved face. “Set designer. The set designer, you know... designs the set. And then the director approves it.”
“Does he make changes?”
“Are you kidding me? Yes. The director is in absolute control of the artistic vision of the film.” He turned back to his slate. “And I’m the one who actually has to make it sell.”
“Thank you, Mr Simon, you have been very helpful.” Sir Reginald tapped his cane to his forehead and begged me to follow him out of the room. Once the door was closed Sir Reginald closed his eyes. “Remind me, Deputy Inspector, what is the sentence for trafficking drugs in that matter in the State of New York?”
“Since the Relaxation? Six to twelve months.”
“Enough to kill a young career,” Sir Reginald winced. “Such a shame. But... not undeserved.”
“So... you think she killed him?” Delgado asked. “You think the drugs she supplied were enough?”
“I think... I have a thirst,” Sir Reginald snapped upright. “Did I see a refreshment stand in the atrium for knotted dough and coffee?”
“Er... yeah there’s a number of–”
“Then l suggest I retire there for a moment.” Sir Reginald looked to me and winked. “Once my thirst is slaked we might have an idea of what is going on.”
*****
The rabble in the atrium hadn’t gone anywhere, but they were no longer harassing the woman at the front desk. They slumped around benches and stared at the elevator as if expecting one of them would bring down Jonathon.
“It’s the PI!” a young woman with blue hair leapt up as the doors opened. “Do you have any news? Have you seen Jonathon?”
“Don’t listen to Courtney Love over there.” The older man, Jonathon’s father, Mr Sotheby, lurched to life and staggered over to us on stiff legs. “She’s the reason he’s dead.”
“How dare you!”
“My Johnny didn’t touch anything stronger than coffee before he went to Korea and married you,” Mr Sotheby snapped back. “And ever since he’s been on everything from A to Z at least once.”
“If you would be so kind,” Sir Reginald held up a hand for silence. “I am actually here just to acquire a glass of coffee.” Sir Reginald tucked his cane between them and followed it as they parted. I follo
wed, eager to be out of their range if they started up again. I followed Sir Reginald to the coffee stand. The worker behind the counter seemed eager to have a customer. I imagined the atrium would normally be thronging with people coming into work.
“Do you have sugar?”
“Not since the twenties, sir, but we’ve got sweetener in the jar.” Irritated, Sir Reginald dropped a doughnut into his coffee and headed away from the stand to a quiet part of the atrium.
It always seemed weird to me how many businesses would set up in skyscrapers. Capital Pictures might be using the whole building, but they still let a posh restaurant set up on the ground floor, along with a doughnut stand, a pharmacy and a convenience store. Sir Reginald sat down next to the drug store on a quiet bench and sipped his doughnut-coffee.
“So what are you thinking?” I asked, sitting down opposite.
“I am thinking about a book I saw in Napoleon’s study,” Sir Reginald said.
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Most of the books were what I would expect of Fontainebleau and for the time, but one in particular caught my eye. The personal diary of Heinrich Versteckt.”
“That name... the... Professor Sotheby’s grandfather?”
“Precisely.”
“So... so Jonathon had the personal diary of Heinrich Versteckt? Maybe there’s a digital copy we can find!”
“Perhaps, or perhaps it is what they call a Christmas present.” Sir Reginald mused. “Ah, sorry, no, an Easter egg. A surprise for someone to find.”
“So... maybe Jonathon knew something about his ancestor Heinrich Versteckt... and the treaty of Fontainebleau... maybe he knew there was some kind of connection? Something that would make Heinrich convince Professor Sotheby to sabotage the treaty.”
“Either way, I shall hope to speak to the set designer before we depart.” He sipped his coffee. “To see if there is more detail to this detail.” Sir Reginald smiled. “It’s a fascinating coincidence that Jonathon would make a film of Napoleon without knowing his family history is bound to it. But life is full of such coincidences.”
“So I guess if you are thinking about all that... you are already pretty sure you know what killed Jonathon?”
“Are you not?”
“Well... there doesn’t seem to be any sign except heroin, and while Sam was the person with the greatest opportunity to poison him with more heroin, she already confessed to giving him the heroin dosage we know about.”
“Quite the mystery,” Sir Reginald sipped his coffee. I glared. He knew. Or was nearly sure he knew. But he wanted to see me work it out for myself. I hated when he did that. Or at least... I slumped back in my chair, I hated when I realised he was doing that. The possibility he did it more often than I realised was a constant niggle in the back of my mind. Sir Reginald just sipped his coffee slowly and watched the world go by. I thought through the evidence as hard as I could.
It wasn’t Delacroix; his guilt would have made him confess if it was. It wasn’t Billy Ray. Jonathon was a cash cow; Billy Ray wouldn’t cut loose until Jonathon stopped making money, and this latest film was meant to be his big break. It wasn’t Sam, she just wanted to help Jonathon relax. If she had killed him it would have just been an accident. Maybe if the six Cobradyne had all given their maximum dose it would get close to Jonathon’s tolerance, but surely it wouldn’t push him over the limit? A hardcore addict like that? Yet relapsing addicts were the most likely to overdose.
I drained my coffee and stood up to pace. It was a bad habit I had picked up from Sir Reginald, but there was something about getting the blood pumping that made it easier to think. I strode into the empty drug store to try and get away from the feeling of being watched and paced up and down the aisles.
Jonathon had spent a day recording film and working late into the night in the editing room; he had a fight with Delacroix, and then had gone to watch old movies. Was it inspiration, or was he trying to sleep? Or was this sleep substitute? Could sleep deprivation make drug tolerance worse? Or better?
Maybe I was thinking about it all wrong. Maybe it was something to do with the film. Was that possible? Could he have some unknown allergic reaction to celluloid that Sir Reginald noticed and I didn’t? But surely it wasn’t the first time he’d done this sort of thing. He’d have had to get the projector from somewhere. That projector... I’d seen that before, in Marlin Arnold’s inherited wealth. I finally remembered why it looked familiar. So it must have belonged to Jonathon and not the film studio. Then there’s no way he’d have an allergy to celluloid and not know.
I came to a stop in front of a stack of cold medicines and put my head in my hands and tried to remember every detail of Jonathon’s body. He had been untouched, unblemished, as if he’d been asleep. The medical scanner hadn’t picked up anything unusual except opium. There was nothing out of the ordinary at all... except that he’d had a cold.
My eyes snapped open. I grabbed at the display and started running my fingers down the list of ingredients. After a few minutes I found what I was looking for.
“Ah,” Sir Reginald smiled as I dangled a bottle of nasal spray over his head in front of his eyes. The bottle had a picture of a sneezing man, a woman taking the spray, and a smiling man. “How much opium is in it?”
“Not much... a few milligrams, but I think it would be enough to push a high dose into an overdose.” Sir Reginald took the bottle out of my hands and looked down the ingredients. “Enough to slow someone’s heart beat, slow their breathing, just enough to cause hypoxia.”
“An excellent find.” Sir Reginald cast aside the remains of his coffee-soaked doughnut and stood up. He strode over to the robot manning the counter of the drug store. “Hello, robot.” The robot woke up and brought its hands together in a traditional Asian greeting. It was etched with a permanent eerie smile.
“Greetings sir, this item costs–”
“Recognise my identity card.” Sir Reginald held out the card.
“Recognising, Sir Reginald Derby III, Private Investigator, authorising record searches category-b, semi-public,” the robot’s voice snapped between pre-recorded sentences.
“Please display photographic records of all individuals who purchased this variety of nasal injection.” The robot obeyed and showed twenty photographs in its view screen.
“There, Jonathon–”
“And there, his girlfriend, Min-Seo.” Sir Reginald pointed to a photograph of a woman with blue hair. “And there. Sam Smith.”
“Good grief, if he had three of them... that could definitely push him over the edge.”
I heard excited whooping. Sir Reginald and I turned to see Min-Seo standing in the entrance of the drug store. “Please... what have you found?”
I looked to Sir Reginald. With a wave of his hand he cleared the screen behind him.
“There is no easy way to put it.” Sir Reginald’s face softened. “Your boyfriend accidentally took a triple dose of medicinal nasal injection. This would be harmless to an ordinary person, but when this combined with the heroin in his system... it sufficiently retarded his heart to cause hypoxia and death.”
“But... but I bought–”
“And so did he, and so did his producer’s assistant.” Sir Reginald rushed to finish her thought for her. “It was a cruel accident of fate. It was no-one’s fault.”
Min-Seo’s face creased as she tried to suppress her tears. I took a step towards her but she fled out of the drug store, out of the skyscraper and out into the rain.
Sir Reginald and I followed sadly.
“What’s going on? What’s up with Courtney Love?” Mr Sotheby lumbered over.
“Her boyfriend is dead.” Sir Reginald said, coldly. He instantly regretted it, I could see it in his face. “I’m sorry, I am sorry about your son.”
“Dead.”
“An accidental overdose,” Sir Reginald said. “An over-the-counter medicine combined with drugs in his system.”
“I knew it.” Mr Sotheby collapsed on
to a bench. “I knew it the moment they said there’d been an incident that the drugs would have caught up with him.”
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” a woman of the same age collapsed over Mr Sotheby’s shoulders. I could only assume she was Mrs Arnold. I had not seen the features of an Arnold woman. There were shades of Elizabeth Arnold in the eyes, and Joan Hyde in the neck. “We’ll finish the film for him. We’ll make it our last present to him. He always said he’d live forever in his films.” She cooed softly into his ear trying to calm him down as the old man’s eyes watered. Sir Reginald averted his gaze and began to walk away.
“Come Hannah, I must report this to Deputy Inspector Delgado. And then we must see that set designer.” We reached the elevator just as the first wail began. “Let them grieve in private.”
Chapter XXIV
Delgado did not appreciate the results of our investigation.
“So it was an overdose.”
“Of a particular kind,” Sir Reginald insisted. Delgado muttered something in Spanish I didn’t catch and dragged her slate towards her.
“At least I can raise the lockdown,” she said. “I’ve had Capital Pictures lawyers threatening me all morning about lost income.”
Sir Reginald and I left Delgado to her ‘paper’work on the slate. I followed Sir Reginald as he headed for a computer terminal built into the elevator controls.
“Ah, here we go,” Sir Reginald said as he flipped through a few menu options. “It’s based on the old AMS-T. I was fortunate enough to meet the designer of this system, legacy all the way through to the 2700s.” Sir Reginald leant in conspiratorially. “The debug mode always comes up if you can manipulate it just...” the screen went blank, a command prompt blinked at the top corner, and an onscreen keyboard sat at the bottom. “…Right. Now there’s a computer I can talk to.” Sir Reginald tapped in some commands and lines of data ran up the screen. “Here’s the young woman we need to talk to, Minenhle Soko, set designer for 100 Days. I’ll just insert an appointment into her calendar, and clear digital compositing studio B for our use... yes, that should work.”