Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon

by Donna Andrews

  And, turning to a second monitor, I was pretty sure I knew who that author was. The screen was covered with unintelligible code. But if I glanced back and forth between the two monitors, I could see some of the text from the porn site on the second screen, interspersed with lines and lines of unintelligible gibberish pocked with brackets.

  Apparently I'd interrupted Roger in the middle of updating his site. The cursor blinked right after the phrase “completely nekkid and reelly…“ – I restrained my impulse to correct his spelling, and I didn't particularly want to know what adjective he'd been about to type.

  Was this how he normally spent his evenings? I wondered. Or just the evenings when his inept attempts at connecting with real live women fizzled?

  I turned back to the first monitor. Something about the site looked familiar. I grabbed the mouse and scrolled up to the top of the page. Red and yellow words flashed at me, just as they had done on the site I'd seen at home – the site whose address I'd found in Ted's cache. Different words, but same style – which means, unless all porn sites had the same graphic look, it was probably the same site.

  I glanced at a third monitor, which seemed to be tracking the progress of Roger's CD creation. He was copying vast quantities of files onto the CD. File titles flashed briefly across the screen as they were copied, and from the titles, I deduced that he was copying porn files. Backing up his site, perhaps? Adding new material to it?

  I didn't know enough to tell, and didn't really care. Whatever he was doing, it shouldn't be happening on Mutant Wizards property, with Mutant Wizards hardware. Tomorrow, I'd look for someone who could figure out what was happening. I grabbed a slip of paper and wrote down the address of the porn site, in case whoever I enlisted needed that to track it down.

  “Meg?“

  I jumped, and then realized that Roger's voice was coming from my cell phone.

  “I'm in the lobby. The dog's not here. Anything else?“

  “No,“ I said. “Thanks a million, Roger. Sorry to drag you over there at this time of night.“

  If I were Roger, I'd at least have pretended to allow enough time to walk over to the office, I thought, with irritation. Was he too stupid to think of that, or did he think I was? Either way, I needed to leave, now. But I wanted some evidence. I slipped a CD from the middle of Roger's completed stack. And then, in case he was keeping count, I tiptoed across the lab, grabbed a blank CD from the box where they were stored, and slipped it back at approximately the same place.

  The lab itself seemed relatively soundproof – perhaps that explained why Roger had not emerged to check on any of the earlier events of the evening. But as I opened the door to the corridor, I heard the front door open and close. Clutching the contraband CD with my left fingertips, I eased the lab door slowly closed and slipped back down the hall and into a nearby cube.

  Just in time. I saw Roger's shadowy figure pass by, and then I heard the computer lab door open and close.

  I peeked out and peeked through the glass walls again. Roger was settled back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, staring impassively at his monitors.

  Time for me to disappear.

  I tucked the CD into my purse and sneaked the long way back to the reception area. Even though I didn't think Roger could hear it, I made sure to open and close the office door as quietly as possible. And I knew better than to wait for the geriatric elevator; I tiptoed down the stairs and eased the door closed. And breathed a sigh of relief. Unless Roger left the windowless computer lab, I'd be undetected. I was safe.

  Or maybe not, I realized as I turned and stepped out into the parking lot. Which was still almost empty. Aside from Frankie's van, my blue Toyota was the only car in the parking lot. And apart from me, the only person in sight was the huge biker who'd been lurking in our parking lot. At the moment, he was lurking beside my Toyota.

  As I watched, he leaned down and peered under the car.

  His back was to me, so I decided to sneak a little closer to see what he was up to.

  He was at least six feet six inches tall, and remarkably broad. Aside from a slight potbelly, he seemed mostly muscle. He wore enormous canvas boots, greasy jeans, a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out, and a denim vest with a florid painting of a winged ferret on the back. Chains jingled merrily from various parts of his outfit, and his arms sported a remarkable collection of tattoos, though his thick body hair made it hard to appreciate any of their details. Except for one: on a thinly forested patch of bulging bicep, I could decipher the words born TO LOSE. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the skull inserted between the o and the s of “lose.“ Although a miniature work of art in its own right – one eye-hole sported a rose, and the other a writhing worm – the skull was so nearly identical in size and shape to the o that it was clear that the tattoo artist hadn't been the world's best speller, and had originally inscribed “Born to Loose.“ You had to give the arm's owner points, I decided. He was at least literate enough to consider fixing the typo worth additional pain and possibly more money.

  But literate or not, he wasn't the sort of person one wants to find hovering over one's car in a deserted parking lot at – good grief! – 1:05 A.M. Perhaps if it had been earlier, I would have gone back inside to wait him out or call the police. But 1 was tired, cranky, and, I suppose, a little reckless.

  Assailants aren't looking for opponents, I said to myself, recalling the words my karate instructor had always used. They're looking for victims. Don't look like a victim.

  I slid my purse down to where I could use it for a purse fu block if needed, made sure my weight was balanced evenly, took a deep breath, stood up as straight as I could, and prepared to project fierceness and self-confidence as I strode forward.

  Apparently I wasn't projecting anything with sufficient force for the biker to notice. I stopped a few feet short of the car and wondered what to do next. My supposed assailant was still peering under the car. What could he possibly be doing? Was there some kind of nefarious sabotage he could do to the undercarriage of my car? And he was holding a ratty old towel on one hand – soaked in ether, perhaps, the better to subdue his unwary victims? Or did thugs use some more modern anesthetic these days? And how long was I supposed to stand around waiting for him to notice my fierce, alert, threatening presence, anyway? Should I clear my throat or something to get his attention?

  “Hey!“ I shouted. “What do you think you're doing? Get away from my car!“

  He stood up, bumping his head on the door handle on the way. “Shh!“ he said, putting his finger to his lips and whispering. “You'll scare her.“

  Fingers massaging where he'd hit his head, he bent down again and looked back under the car, leaving me standing there, purse in hand, feeling ridiculous.

  “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty!“ he called in a falsetto.

  “You're looking for a cat?“ I asked.

  “A pregnant cat,“ he said.

  “Ah,“ I said. “I was wondering where she went.“

  “She's under your car,“ he said, standing up and puffing a little, as if prolonged bending over tired him. “She won't come out.“

  Sensible cat.

  “Perhaps the noise is scaring her,“ I said.

  “Noise?“ he repeated.

  “You know – the chains and stuff,“ I said, gesturing to his outfit. “All that jingling.“

  “I should have realized!“ he exclaimed, and began divesting himself of chains. “The poor little pussycat! I never realized how terrified she must be.“

  He'd shed the bracelet chains and belt chains, and was just discovering that he'd have to shed his jacket and jeans to rid himself of the ones permanently attached to them. I was about to protest – although I was mildly curious to see if his striptease act would reveal any other amusing tattoos – when the cat, evidently alarmed by the noise of his chains hitting the asphalt, made a break for freedom. Luckily she was so focused on the biker that she failed to notice my arrival. I dropped my purse and managed to sna
g her, though she was struggling so hard I wasn't sure I could hold her.

  “Here, let me take her,“ the biker said. With a few deft moves, he swaddled the cat in the towel so that only her head showed. She mewed faintly in protest, then gave up and closed her eyes.

  I sucked a few of the worst scratches on my right hand and was grateful, for almost the first time in two weeks, for the bandage that had shielded my left hand.

  “Poor widdle thing,“ the biker cooed, scratching the cat behind the ear. “I've got a box all ready for you.“

  “A box?“ For a moment I visualized a perfect feline-size coffin, topped with a wreath of catnip; then I told myself to stop being so morbid.

  “It's behind the car,“ he said. “Would you mind getting it?“

  He'd have had to drop the cat to attack me, and I was beginning to get the feeling he was harmless. Either the cat felt the same way or she had given up all hope. While I didn't think she was enjoying having her head scratched, she'd stopped fighting.

  I found the box and set it on the hood of my car. It was a copier-paper box with a six-inch-square hole cut in the lid and covered with a piece of old window screen.

  I managed to get the top off, and the biker put the cat inside. He deftly unwrapped the towel with one hand and then set the top in place before the cat realized she could move again.

  “Poor kitty,“ he cooed, peering down through the screen. “You had me worried.“

  “Oh, is she your cat?“ I asked. “We thought she was a stray and took her in.“

  “That was nice,“ he said. “No, I think she's a feral cat.“

  He looked up at me.

  “Which means she's essentially a wild animal, you know, and it's no good trying to domesticate her.“

  “Nobody was – ,“ I began.

  “Just like that buzzard you people are keeping,“ he went on. “That's a very bad practice. Wild birds were not meant to be house pets.“

  “Tell me about it,“ I said. “I'm the one who gets to clean up after him.“

  “I haven't been able to find out for sure yet,“ he said. “But there very well may be a Virginia law against keeping buzzards captive.“

  I was getting a little tired of lectures.

  “Listen, I appreciate your dedication to wildlife and all that, but who the hell are you, and what business is it of yours if we're keeping a whole bevy of buzzards in our office?“

  “I'm – ,“ he began, sticking out his hand.

  “Rrrowrrr!“ the cat wailed, an eerie noise that sent a chill up my spine.

  “Oh, I think it's time,“ he said. “It's a good thing we caught her when we did. I'll take care of her now. Yes, you're a very brave cat, aren't you?“

  The last comment was to the cat, of course, who continued to howl disconcertingly as he walked slowly away with her, his nose glued to the square of screen, telling her every second what a good, brave cat she was. He reached the corner, made a left, and continued walking.

  I suppose it would have been nice to offer him a ride, but however relieved I was to find my supposed mugger was actually a feline midwife, I was still shaken. I retrieved my purse, got into my car, and drove off in the other direction.

  I didn't really worry about leaving the cat in his hands. Clearly, whoever he was, he was a softie for animals.

  But if he knew about George, he had obviously been inside the Mutant Wizards office at some time. Not necessarily since we'd moved to our new quarters since I didn't remember seeing him. But then again, I hadn't been there every moment. What if he had thought Ted was responsible for keeping George in captivity? Or had suspected Ted of some other unkindness to animals?

  Which didn't seem that implausible to me. The office dog pack pretty much roamed at will during the day, in and out of all the cubes and offices, begging food and other attention from almost everyone. Except, perhaps Ted. Even genial Katy had always ignored Ted, and I didn't remember ever seeing her or any of the other dogs padding into or out of his cube. I'd never seen him mistreat them – I'd have had his head if I'd seen anything of the sort. But I had seen him teasing them, with perhaps the faintest suggestion of cruelty – enough to make me keep an eye on him.

  What if our animal-loving biker had actually seen Ted mistreating a dog or cat? And had been angry enough to take revenge?

  It sounded a little far-fetched, even to me. The chief would probably laugh at the idea that Ted might have been killed for cruelty to animals. Unless he saw the biker crooning over the pregnant cat, maybe. Then again, if the guy were a little over-enthusiastic on the subject of animal welfare, odds were he'd have already butted heads with the police sooner or later.

  “I'll worry about it tomorrow,“ I muttered as I stumbled down the stairs to the Cave and unlocked the door. “It's way too late for any of this.“

  It was 1:30 A.M. I had to be at work at 8:30 tomorrow – correction, today. I ought to go to bed, get as much sleep as I could, so I would be alert and rested for the busy day that awaited me. Sleeping was the only logical, sensible thing to do.

  I called Michael.

  “You're up late,“ he said. “Insomnia?“

  “Investigating,“ I said, and I poured out everything that had happened since we'd last talked. Dr. Lorelei's love tryst, my discovery of Luis's notorious past, the midnight visit from the obsessed fan, Roger's porn site, and my encounter with the biker in the parking lot.

  Well, not everything that had happened. I decided he didn't need to know about Roger's failed attempt to enlist me into his social life.

  “You need to do something about the porn site right away,“ Michael said. “And if you ask me, this Roger creep is the most likely suspect for the murder, too.“

  “He's up there, yes. Ted could have been blackmailing him about using Mutant Wizards servers for his porn operation.“

  “You don't know that for sure. What if he was only using the CD burners?“

  I thought back. He could be right. I didn't actually know for sure that his pornography was stored on Mutant Wizards hardware. I'd only assumed it.

  “Good point,“ I said. “It's going to take someone a lot more tech-sawy than I am to figure that out.“

  “And even if he is using the Mutant Wizards servers,“ Michael went on, “you want to make sure he's not doing it legitimately before you cause a stink.“

  “Michael, Mutant Wizards is not in the pornography business,“ I protested.

  “Not exactly, but how do you know what business deals Rob and the rest of them might have made to keep the company afloat during the first few months?“

  That floored me.

  “You think they might be running a porn site to make money?“ I demanded.

  “No, but what if they sublet part of their hardware, or even just space in the computer lab, to someone who is running a porn site? It's not actually illegal, you know – and I hear it's highly profitable.“

  I considered this. Mutant Wizards had gone through a few lean months in the early days. That was one reason I had become a major stockholder – I'd come up with the money to get Rob through one cash flow crisis. What if he'd had another financial pinch and didn't want to hit up the family again? What if he'd made a deal with the devil, so to speak?

  “It might be legal, but it isn't respectable,“ I said. “And it would be a major PR disaster if it were true and the press found it out.“

  “Exactly.“

  “Thanks,“ I said. “I hadn't thought of that possibility. I'll have to get a little more information before I decide what to do about Roger.“

  “Any idea how you're going to get the information?“

  “I have a couple of possibilities,“ I said. “Luis, for example. He's got the skills, and now that I know his secret, I can probably motivate him to use them.“

  “Of course, there is the fact that he's a suspect,“ Michael pointed out.

  “Everyone I know who could possibly figure this out is a suspect,“ I said. “I'll ask someone else to l
ook into the same thing, and compare what they come up with.“

  “Who?“

  “I don't know; I'll have to think about it when I'm more awake. Maybe I can figure out someone else that I have a hold over, like Luis. Or someone Ted hasn't yet tried to blackmail.“

  Or maybe Jack, who would probably do it just because I was the one asking. Not that I was going to mention that to Michael.

  “I need to spend more time with the printout first,“ I said. “If you ask me, it all comes down to the printout. It adds up – the blackmail note to Rob, the file on Luis, his having the address of Roger's site. He was trying to blackmail everyone on the list. So the murderer is almost certainly someone on this list.“

  “Yes, but since no one on the list is identified by his or her real name, I'm not sure that gets you anywhere,“ Michael said.

  “Yes, but I've already identified a couple of them. Luis as the Hacker, for example.“

  “You're really sure about that?“ Michael asked.

  “Let me get the file and look at the photo,“ I said, shuffling through the papers scattered across the sofa. “Yes, it's Luis – and my God, I should have noticed this before! The Robin Hood Hacker's name is Mike Crews – that's C-R-E-W-S.“

  “So?“

  “Luis's last name is Cruz – C-R-U-Z. Different spelling, but pronounced about the same.“

  “I get it.“

  “And I bet Dr. Lorelei is the Valkyrie. She's perfect for it.“

  “Of course, that only leaves – what? – nine more names on the list?“

  “Spoilsport,“ I said.

  “Sorry,“ he said. “Listen, read the list, from the top; let's see if any of the other code names suggest anything.“

  “Okay. The Emperor. The Space Cadet.“

  “A lot of people call Rob a space cadet,“ Michael suggested.

  “Yes, but he's not the only candidate at Mutant Wizards. Maybe not even the most logical.“

  “Sad, but true.“

  “And the way everyone at Mutant Wizards feels about Rob, they're just as apt to call him the Emperor.“