by Lyle, Dixie
I studied him, and saw someone different than I had a few minutes ago. Underneath the foppish hair and the boyish smile and the party-like-there’s-no-tomorrow facade, there was something else—something deeper and wiser. Something that understood pain.
“Yes,” I said. “Sad but inspiring. I don’t know if anyone’s ever written a love song about pets before.”
He laughed. “Every song’s been written before, Foxtrot, just like every story’s been told. The secret to success is to write it or sing it or tell it in your own way. That’s why cover versions of songs become hits.”
“Or remakes of movies.”
“Yeah, exactly. Everything’s unique but nothing’s original, as someone said once.”
“Who?”
“No idea—but he was probably quoting someone else.”
“Well, even if it wasn’t original, I thought it was great.”
“Well, thank you.”
I looked at him. He looked at me.
“Okay—I’ll see you later—bye,” I said, and then I was in another room wondering what the hell just happened and why was the damn air-conditioning suddenly not working?
And thinking about what might happen next.
* * *
I went back upstairs and hid in my office. Tango wasn’t there, so I used the time to catch up on some paperwork. Funny how my obsessive-compulsive side tends to show up when there’s something I don’t want to think about.
When Avery called I was hip-deep in invoices, trying to figure out if we should get another quote on resurfacing the driveway. “Using me for your one phone call? I’m flattered.”
“Police are gone. I’m still here.”
“They give you much grief?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Which, for Avery, meant they tried to chew him out and discovered their jaws just weren’t strong enough. Avery’s skin wasn’t just thick, it was impenetrable. “Good to hear. You have something for me on my other problem?”
“Yes. Your guest has been spending all of her time on a South Korean MMORPG.”
“M and M what now?”
“M-M-O-R-P-G. Massively multiple online role-playing game. A shared-universe video game on the net.”
“Oh. Like World of Warcraft? Even I’ve heard of that one.”
“Like that, yes. But your guest—who goes by the online handle of Starhammer—is more into science fiction than fantasy. She seems to exclusively play a game called Galactic Lance Battalion, which has a dedicated following of professional gamers.”
“Wait. Did you say professional gamers?”
Now he sounded amused. “Yes. It’s a huge industry, complete with corporate sponsorship and international tournaments. Big names, big prizes. In South Korea they fill stadiums with fans who watch important battles on Jumbotrons.”
“I think I’m getting the picture. It’s the Olympics of video games.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“So how good is she?”
“I’d put her in the semi-pros. Plenty of potential, good eye for strategy, but she takes a lot of criticism online for her lack of dedication. She only manages a few hours every day—sometimes she even takes a day off.”
I thought about all the hours Hana Kim put into gymnastics training; I was amazed she found any time to go online at all. “Sounds pretty dedicated to me.”
“Not to this community. Gamers on this level practically live online; there’s been more than one recorded fatality.”
I frowned. “Fatalities? How do you die from playing a video game?”
“You really have to work at it. In 2005 a South Korean man died of organ failure after playing for fifty hours straight. In another case a guy in Taiwan died of cardiac arrest after playing for forty hours in a row.”
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see it. Sometimes the need to deny something required more than just words. “That’s crazy.”
“So is putting on a helmet and shoulder pads before letting a bunch of three-hundred-pound linebackers slam into you. But people do that for a living, too.”
He had a point. Becoming an Olympic athlete probably required just as many hours as it did to become a professional gamer, and wasn’t exactly without physical hazards of its own. “I don’t think my guest is in any danger of organ failure—she’s got this whole other career thing that sort of eats up her time. But obviously, she’s looking to branch out.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Can you tell me if she was playing between the hours of ten PM and five AM two nights ago?”
“Give me a second.” No more than three went by before he said, “Yes. Definitely active that whole time.”
“Could it have been faked?”
“If someone logged on as her and played as her, sure. But they’d need to be as good as her, too—which greatly narrows the field.”
Another suspect down. Hana Kim might yearn to be a video game champion instead of a world-famous gymnast, but she wasn’t my killer. I was starting to feel better; the day hadn’t begun that well, but things were definitely looking up.
Where had the morning gone? Both my stomach and the clock were telling me it was time for lunch. I wanted something hearty, stew or pasta or maybe a side of beef. My hunter-gatherer genes were talking to me, and they wanted something they could sink their chromosomal teeth into.
Or, you know, maybe a nice salad.
It was only eleven thirty or so, but I knew Ben would be in the kitchen preparing lunch—I could breeze in there, grab something, and be back at my desk before my monitor got cold.
That was the plan. It was a good plan—simple, straightforward, with a clear, obtainable objective. It should have worked. But I didn’t have all the facts …
The breezing part went reasonably well. I was through the door and saying, “Hey, Ben, what’s—” when the breeze abruptly died.
Ben Montain looked a little like an opossum frozen in the beam of a flashlight. An opossum with his arms wrapped around a tall, gorgeous blonde in a very short skirt and very high heels.
“—cooking?” I finished.
She didn’t look happy to see me, either.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Blonde? Did I say blonde? More like snow white, if Snow White was trying to pick up a few extra dwarfs. The look on her face was about the same temperature, and she had the kind of cheekbones that were made for disdain. That, and maybe cutting diamonds—like the ones that glinted in her ears.
“Hi,” I said. “Foxtrot. Nice to meet you.” This was a blatant lie, but I have an automatic routine I drop into when I’m shocked and it always starts with me introducing myself. If an ax-wielding maniac ever jumps out at me in a dark alley, I’m sure my last words will be, “Hi! My name is AAAAAHHH!” followed by the bleeding and the screaming and the dying.
The look on Ben’s face was a combination of surprise, guilt, and fear. He dropped his arms and took a quick step away from her, an act that didn’t seem to bother her at all.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Anna. Are you an employee, as well?” She said employee as if it were a breed of small, unpleasant dog.
“Foxtrot is Ms. Zoransky’s executive assistant,” Ben said quickly. “She more or less runs this place.”
“I see.” I could practically see her file me away as inconsequential. “Well, I was just on my way out. I’ll talk to you later, Benjamin.” And with that she strode past me and out the door I’d just come in.
Ben smiled at me. “She’s … an old friend of mine.”
“I see,” I said, though I really didn’t. “Well, you know what they say—you can’t make new old friends.” It was an absurd comment to make, but I didn’t know quite what to say.
“Yeah.” There was an uncomfortable silence.
“She came to tell me some news,” Ben finally blurted. “About my family.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? Nothing bad, I hope.”
“No, just weird. Sh
e’s been digging through genealogy websites, and found out we—my family, that is—are connected to an American Indian tribe. It’s a whole branch of relatives I never knew existed.”
I studied his face. I could definitely see Amerindian traces there: not the color of his hair, of course, but it was present in his bone structure, the tone of his skin, and his dark eyes. “That’s interesting. Which tribe?”
“The Cowichan. They’re from Vancouver Island, in Canada. Famous for their totem poles and sweaters.”
“What’s the connection, exactly?”
“That’s the weird part. An ancestor of mine married a Cowichan woman sometime back in the 1800s, but the local tribal records don’t seem to list her. She’s something of a mystery, but she had a bunch of children and they scattered to the four winds.”
“And here you are.”
Now he looked a little more at ease. “Yeah. A few generations later and in another country entirely. Funny how things turn out.”
“Yes. You never know what’s going to pop up when you don’t expect it, do you?”
Okay, that was a little mean—but I knew he wasn’t telling me the whole truth about Anna. Nobody looked that guilty unless they had something to hide, and I was starting to get a little sick of being surrounded by deception. “Anyway, I just came in to see how lunch was progressing. What are you serving?” I kept my voice brisk, and both of us shifted into our professional roles. Neither of us actually sighed in relief, but some of the tension went away.
Unfortunately, so did my appetite. I got a quick rundown on the lunch menu, told him it sounded fine, and left. Time to check on ZZ.
Nothing appreciable had changed, other than the fact that the hallway had suddenly turned into a flower garden: Bouquets of every size and color lined the corridor, some of them with balloons.
The security guard, a beefy, bald man, said, “They’ve been coming all morning. Didn’t want to put them in the room until I got your okay.”
I nodded. “Good thinking. I’ll get Shondra to check them out and then I’ll have a maid move them inside.”
The guard let me into the room. Tiny, in his new rottweiler form, lifted his head from his front paws. [Foxtrot. Any news?]
“Let’s see. I’ve eliminated Keene and Hana Kim from the suspect pool. The controller for the drone turned out to be useless. Oh, and I think an old girlfriend of Ben’s just showed up.”
[Is that relevant?]
I shook my head. “To the case? Probably not. It’s just a little upsetting, is all.”
[I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want to talk about it?]
I frowned. Did I want to discuss the trials of my mostly theoretical love life with a shape-shifting ghost dog? Oddly enough, the answer was yes. “I just caught him in the kitchen with his arms wrapped around a blonde. An extremely attractive blonde wearing diamond earrings. Who wears diamond earrings before noon? Either she’s got way too much money or she’s trying to impress someone. And I think I know who.”
[I’ve never found earrings to be terribly impressive myself. Or diamonds.]
I laughed. “I think Ben was probably focusing more on her legs. High heels and a very short skirt.”
[That’s something I’ve never understood. How does balancing on two tiny little sticks make a woman more attractive?]
“By changing her posture. Chest goes out, butt goes up, muscles in the legs bunch to make them more defined. Strong legs and prominent breasts are desirable from an evolutionary point of view; they mean she can provide lots of milk for her offspring and escape from predators.”
Tiny considered this for a moment. [And the butt?]
“Beats me. Women like a nice firm tush, too, and I still don’t know why. Something to hang on to, I guess.”
[That was a cogent and well-thought-out explanation, Foxtrot. Thank you.]
“Yeah, yeah. I’m a real whiz at explaining the birds and the bees to the dogs. Too bad I can’t apply that knowledge to my own life.”
I sank into a beanbag chair upholstered in deep purple velour. Tiny got up, walked over, and sat beside me on the floor. [Don’t be discouraged, Foxtrot. Sometimes it feels like you’ll never find a mate, but life will surprise you. Romance can blossom under the strangest circumstances.]
“Oh? Give me an example, Mr. Love Expert.”
[I’m no expert—but I do have an example. Would you care to hear it?]
I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. “Sure. Go ahead.”
[Forty or so years ago, a dog-food company decided to hold a contest. They advertised in newspapers and magazines all over the country, as well as on radio and TV. They were looking for dogs; extraordinary dogs, of every kind. The biggest, the smallest, the fastest, the smartest. They organized regional contests at state fairs, and planned to pit the winners against one another in a nationally promoted event held in New York City.
[The results were not always what they expected—or, for that matter, desired. One of the initial winners in the Largest Dog category was a brute named Atlas. He weighed close to three hundred pounds, stood three and a half feet tall at the shoulder, and reached nearly seven feet in height when he stood on his hind legs. He was covered in shaggy gray fur, with floppy ears and a jowly muzzle.
[Atlas’s owner was a rural hermit named Jimmy Joe Burl. Born and raised in the Appalachian Mountains, Mr. Burl had spent the last thirty years crossbreeding Alaskan timber wolves with the largest domesticated breeds he could find: Irish wolfhounds, Great Danes, English mastiffs. Nobody knows exactly what Atlas’s lineage was, but there was no denying the result.
[Mr. Burl wanted the prize money, but the environs of New York proved somewhat overpowering to someone who had never used a flush toilet. The noise, the people, the skyscrapers all intimidated him. Once he’d delivered Atlas to the arena hosting the contest, Jimmy Joe headed straight for the nearest bar for some solitude and the comfort of whiskey.
[Another contestant, this time in the IQ category, was a Border collie named Daisy. Daisy understood eight hundred words and could do a variety of tasks on command, including sorting objects by size or name. Atlas was a giant; Daisy was a genius.
[The executives of the advertising agency congratulated themselves on a successful campaign. But while their expertise in marketing and promotion was considerable, the logistics of housing, feeding, and controlling a building full of animals proved to be their undoing. The pens they had arranged to use as kennels were all of a standard size and strength; they weren’t designed for a behemoth like Atlas. A custom-built unit was hastily cobbled together by the arena’s staff, without any input from Atlas’s owner. Not that it mattered—by that time, Jimmy Joe Burl was unable to form coherent sentences, let alone give practical advice.
[The improvised kennel was placed next to Daisy’s.
[Daisy was in heat.
[Saying that Atlas escaped his enclosure doesn’t really capture the essence of the act. A romantic would say that once he became aware of her, Atlas would let no physical barrier stand between them; that he simply ignored the constraints of the physical world and instead followed the urgings of his heart.
[A pragmatist would put it differently: Atlas methodically destroyed his own cage, and then Daisy’s. It took some time, and was rather loud. Staff gathered to watch, but no one tried to stop him. The ad agency was called, and a junior executive showed up and attempted to drive Atlas away with a hose. This proved to be an unwise decision, for both the executive and the hose.
[Daisy, by all accounts, watched this entire endeavor with rapt eyes. When her suitor had finally ripped enough planks from her pen to allow him entry, she proved more than willing to reward him.
[It was at this point that Jimmy Joe Burl arrived, his anxieties replaced by an alcohol-fueled confidence that turned his stagger into a swagger. He took one befuddled look at what Atlas and Daisy were doing—there was quite the crowd gathered around them by this time—and said, “If’n there’s pups, I get half.” Then he t
hrew up on the ad executive, who had just regained consciousness.]
I grinned. “I’m guessing there were pups.”
[Indeed there were—two of them. I was one. Daisy’s owner raised me, but quickly saw that I would outgrow her abilities and household. After extensive research, she gave me to an organization that trained me.]
“What about your sibling? What happened to him or her?”
He didn’t reply right away, and when he did his voice was sad but firm. [I’d prefer not to discuss that.]
I changed the subject. “So who named you Tiny?”
[My mother’s owner. She was a wonderful woman, but I wish she’d chosen more carefully. As I said, most dogs just don’t understand irony.]
“Well, most humans don’t understand a lot of things. But I think there’s one that I do understand, now. That huge, ferocious form you used in the graveyard—that was how you looked when you were alive, right?”
[Yes. Ergo the irony.] He paused. [So what about your name?]
“My nickname, you mean? My dad gave it to me. He started calling me that when I was really little. Then when we got a cat, my dad said we should call it Tango. I loved to dance, so I thought that was great. I used to dance around with Tango in my arms when she was a kitten.”
[I’m sure she recalls those times fondly.]
“I hope so. I’m kind of afraid to ask her. I mean, sure, I thought it was great, but when you’re a kid, your understanding of how things work and what’s going on isn’t always reliable. For instance, the reason my dad called me Foxtrot was because he didn’t want to swear in front of me; so instead of using one F word, he used another. I didn’t know what it meant, just that he would sometimes blurt it out if he stubbed his toe or something. To me, it was just a funny word I liked to repeat. To him, it was a private joke—though I did eventually figure it out.”
[How?]
“My mom sort of gave it away. If she’s Foxtrot and the cat’s Tango, you get to be Whiskey, she’d say, and then laugh. It confused me for the longest time, because my dad didn’t drink—not even beer. Then one day I put it together.”