by John Farris
“Deliberately going off-line is just that. But if Mallory’s Snitcher has been removed without her knowledge or consent, then someone else has committed a felony.”
“Without her knowledge?” Ida said, surprised and alarmed. “But how could that be?”
“Maybe she’s fallen in with a bad crowd. Like some of the people Elena is running around with. Kidnappers. Bloodleggers. Murderers for fun and profit.” A grisly image of Sunny Chagrin hit my mind and I couldn’t chase it away. I didn’t as yet understand what the profit motive was in her death. But there would be one. Diamondbackers, like a lot of businessmen, were rigorous in their fidelity to greed.
Ida said, “It was Elena who told me—”
“Yeah, to try to get information from Car Brenta about Mallory. Implying two things: that Elena had reason to believe Carlotta might know something useful, and that Mal is in real jeopardy. But Lenie might not realize just how off in the head Carlotta is. I wonder—”
Beatrice had to give me a hard nudge; I had been staring holes in Ida while a far-fetched notion pinballed around my brain trying to find another, cockeyed notion it wanted to mate with.
“Wonder what?” Bea said.
“What other kinds of parties Miles Brenta likes to throw to keep his wife entertained.”
That prompted a small gasp from Ida.
“When Carlotta spoke of pretty young people she also said, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice while she drooled into her towel and looked at me with such lifeless, haunted eyes, ‘But as I said to Francesca, so many of them deserve to die, don’t you think?’“
I couldn’t sell it to Booth Havergal.
“If Mal Scarlett partied recently at Miles Brenta’s house, there is no reason to assume it has anything to do with her disappearance. Hearsay and speculation by no means justifies trying to get through Miles’s phalanx of lawyers to question him.”
“There’s a likely tie-in between the mal de lune shoot at Max Thursday’s place a few months ago and Brenta himself,” I argued.
“If you’re talking about Francesca Obregon—” Booth shook his head.
“The Bleat blogs have linked them. And we know from a genealogy Website that Francesca and Carlotta are first cousins.”
I composited the virutal reality images of Francesca and Car Brenta, before the werewolf attack on Car. Two beauties who easily could have been mistaken for each other. “And it wouldn’t surprise me to know Francesca was quick to assume Carlotta’s wifely duties in her husband’s big brass bed.”
“I wouldn’t begrudge Miles whatever happiness he was able to find following such a tragedy,” Booth said with a hint of cynicism. He iso’d Fran in the display. “She is a marvelous-looking woman. And very important to him in the business as well. WEIR just received a very large shipment of the LUMOs her firm designed and manufactures. Three million units initially.”
Limo, Sunny had whispered to me as she was dying. Or was it more like LUMO? I hadn’t thought about it again until now.
“As for Miles being involved in something like a mal de lune, however comfortably removed from liability he might be, well, he always has been a sharpshooter. Business or pleasure.”
“You know him better than I do,” I said. The Lunarium in Booth’s office was reading fifty-seven hours and a couple of minutes to the next Observance. Mentally I felt hog-tied; physically I wanted to grab a couple of people and shake some truth out of them.
I had turned off my wristpac voicecom for the meeting with Booth, but I had a text message.
“Bucky Spartacus showed up for the sound check for tonight’s big bash, and is currently sacked out in a borrowed starbus,” I told Booth.
“So he’s planning to go on tonight.”
“Yeah. I’ll be talking to him after his gig. Cleared it with Joe Cronin.”
Booth was staring out a window, hands clasped behind his back. In the space between us, the VR heads of the women revolved slowly.
“Somewhere in all of this, werewolves amok, the murders, the disappearances, a motive must lie.” When Booth was stressed he could sound like Hercule Poirot in an old Agatha Christie novel. “None of it is as random as it might seem. Let’s crack on, then. Bring me evidence, R.”
“Lew’s trying to find out who Sunny was in touch with yesterday. But we don’t know where her ride is and her wristpac’s missing, so—Booth, about Sunny. The arrangements.”
“I spoke to both of her parents this morning. Unfortunately they’re too infirm to travel to SoCal for the departmental service; I’ve arranged for them to see it on a satellite feed. Then we’ll send her body home.”
Beatrice had spent a couple of afternoon hours shopping for an outfit to wear to the concert in Pasadena. When I picked her up at the Radcliffe she was wearing a cream-colored Capone with twenty-inch-wide cuffs and brown striping, a white shirt with a high collar that flattered her long neck, a plain black tie, and a high-crowned cream fedora with about four inches of black band. The brim of the fedora riding rakishly low, covering the tops of her ears.
She struck a pose, hands in her pants pockets, for me to admire.
“Priority hunk,” I said. “But I thought we were going bowling.”
“I really splurged,” she said a bit ruefully. “Don’t know what I’ll do for a job now that Artie—” Her ebullient mood palled somewhat. “By the way, I made funeral arrangements. Cremation, once his body is released. His lawyer confirmed; it’s in his will. He has no survivors that we know of.”
“Where’s his cash going?”
“Hospitals, orphanages, nursing homes. All of them listed as ‘Pay on Death.’“
“You could run de Sade’s,” I said. “If and when it reopens.”
She shrugged.
“Might as well. I was mostly running things anyway while Artie took his litle trips and holed up making mysterious phone calls.”
“What kind of mood was he in after he talked to Pym last week?”
“Lous-y. He was, in fact, being a mean little prick. He’d get that way, out of frustration, I guess. More and more often during the last three months.”
“Did he make any references you might not have paid attention to at the time?”
She was still thinking about that when we boarded the chopper at ILC along with Lew Rolling and two more agents, Ben Waxman and Harry Stiles. Lew had the controls. Bea and I sat together in the back.
“I did hear Artie mutter something like ‘motherfuckers.’ Then, a little later he looked at me, or through me is more accurate, and said, ‘The only language greed knows is money. So okay, no eight-count. Go for the knockout.’ “
“Knock out who? Or what?”
“How would I know? I sort of edged out of his line of sight and left him sitting behind his desk, staring at a blowup of himself in the ring, with a mouse eye but with his gloves above his head, doing a little victory prance. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five in that photo.”
“Dreams of glory,” I said. “Whatever he may have been planning this time, the opposition got wise and had him whiffed.”
“Yes,” Bea said with a stony expression. “I remember.”
During our ten-minute flight I outfitted Bea with a pair of digicam glasses and an earbud the brim of her hat concealed. Then I handed her a backstage pass to wear. She was more impressed by the pass than by the junior-detective rigging.
“Where did you get this?”
“We’re ILC,” I said. “Ask, and if ye do not receive, counterfeit something. But that pass is the real deal.”
“Why do we have so much company tonight?”
“To help me keep an eye on our boy. This gig was too important to his career for him to pass up, but afterward he might take a notion to dust. I don’t feel like being stood up again.”
“What do you want me to do, R?”
“Hang out with the rockers. Make friends, have a good time, and take a good look at anyone who comes within a few feet of our Bucky. Don’t fiddle with the gla
sses; it’s a giveaway. We’ll be receiving everything you look at.”
“How?”
“We have a tech van at the venue.”
“Oh. You really want to talk to him bad.”
“What I want is to nail Bucky’s skinny ass and as many others as he’ll cop to for conspiracy to commit murder.”
Her lips pursed for a whistle, but because of the whine of the turbine overhead I didn’t hear it. I did see a racing shadow of anxiety in her eyes.
“Where will you be, R?”
“Around,” I said, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
An earthquake snaking through Arroyo Seco a few years ago had heavily damaged the venerable Rose Bowl, particularly the stands on the Linda Vista Avenue side. That area was now a long grassy knoll. The part that had been salvageable was a thirty-five-thousand-seat arc preserving all of what had been the south end zone of the stadium. The stands had been refurbished as an amphitheater. The stage was an elaborate three-tier affair. Behind the stage there was parking for support groups, limousines, tour buses, satellite uplink trucks, and a warren of hospitality tents. There were also five helo pads, most of them for the use of law enforcement agencies.
We flew in with a sunset spilling into low clouds behind us like lava from a volcano.
The stands appeared to be filled already. The highly desirable infield was packed, probably another three thousand fans who wanted to mosh. More of them were spread across the grassy knoll in the last red glow of daylight, picnicking, getting high. They paid much less than those within the amphitheater and could watch the acts on a jumbotron screen mounted on massive steel scaffolding at the southwest corner of the stage.
The band opening for Bucky and the trash goddess Chimera was already into its set. As Lew descended to a helicopter pad marked ILC we had a look at a scale model of the church for which they were raising money that was displayed on one side of the stage. The church was architecturally impressive and—I remembered Artie’s description of the fusion of Christianity with Lycanthropy—more entrepreneurial than religious.
There was a cable-suspended backdrop the width of the stage on which a tanned, athletic Jesus, wearing a white singlet with a gold cord at the waist and with His beard neatly trimmed, was surrounded by birds, both hawks and doves, and creatures of the wild—including, prominently, a wolf at His sandaled feet. Domestic variety. The right hand of Jesus was raised over the wolf’s head in a gesture of peace and friendship.
“It’s going to be a fun evening,” Beatrice said. But not as if she were entirely sure of that, or herself.
10
posted myself in the tech van where I could observe, on feeds from amphitheater security, everything that went on at the sprawling venue and keep in touch with Beatrice as she prowled backstage and tried not to trip over anything.
A line of stretch limos, each about half a city block long and escorted by motorcycle cops, arrived. High-level EiE talent agents and clients unloaded, mingled, drifted into the white vinyl hospitality hives. Johnny Padre, wearing casual chic tonight, dressed like a comedy sailor from the chorus of Pirates of Penzance, was there with his twenty-one-year-old actress-wife, who made the description “stunning” sound like faint praise. The Padres and a few others of similar rank or god-quality stardom formed ranks and trooped around to the starbuses to stick their heads inside for the obligatory good wishes.
Backstage Beatrice encountered the Reverend A. A. Kingworthy, pastor of the First Church of Lycanthropy, and his entourage. He was waiting to say a few words of welcome and offer the invocation before the evening’s stellar attractions took stage. He smiled at Bea, liking what he saw, bowed slightly and called her “sister.”
When she moved away Bea whispered in my ear, “Is the Rev a Lycan?”
“No. He’s just a humble preacher with a love for all of God’s creatures and what they can contribute to his personal well-being.”
“You’re such a cynic.”
“Roger that. Over and out.”
I had a look at another limo arriving. Three beefers got out, then the Man himself—Bucky Spartacus’ mentor and, I presumed, confidant—Miles Brenta. Who turned to offer a helping hand to his female companion as she emerged.
I thought it was past time that I had a heart-to-heart with Brenta. And I didn’t mind the prospect of seeing Francesca Obregon again.
Two of the beefers converged when I approached within twenty feet of Miles Brenta, who had his back to me and his head down as he said something to Francesca. She saw me over his shoulder and her eyes got bigger, her full mouth twisting a little in irritation. Which prompted Brenta to look around.
I had to stop in my tracks or start kicking beefer butt, but because they undoubtedly carried Tasers my choice was clear enough. So all I did was wave cheerily to Francesca.
“Hey there, Fran! We seem to be running into each other all over the place!”
Miles Brenta glanced curiously at Francesca, who shrugged. I included him in my greeting.
“Rawson,” he acknowledged. He nodded to his beefers. “No problem. Let him come.”
They stepped aside and I made it a threesome alongside their limousine. Fran was dressed Mexican-peasant style, the Zapata era: a blouse with full sleeves that was laced, not tightly, at her breasts; a clingy midcalf cotton skirt made for twirling and whirling; and rope sandals. Brenta, a man some distance into his fifties who obviously took great care of his body, wore a black T-shirt and black jeans and a Greek fisherman’s cap. He was hard-boiled handsome with a somewhat liverish complexion and he didn’t trim his graying eyebrows. He was one of those men who belong to money the way talons belong to a bird of prey.
Francesca was still annoyed. Brenta smiled thinly and said, “Where do you two know each other from?”
She drew a long breath but before she could speak I said, “I was visiting with her abuelo yesterday when she came cruising up to the home place on her Kraut Klipper.”
“Max Thursday’s house? More bother about that mal de luner? Old business, isn’t it?”
“Not as long as we may be looking at the prospect of another one soon.”
“Those things go on,” Brenta said quietly. “But you’ve met Max. He couldn’t have had anything to do with any of it.”
“I’ve told him as much already,” Fran said, a fist on her hip. One of these days she was going to take a swing at me. It was something to look forward to.
Although the windows of the stretch limo they’d stepped out of were tinted nearly full black, I noticed the flare of a cigarette lighter inside and had a glimpse of a long face, pale as a seed buried in a jar of jam. The window had been let down about an inch, as if someone were interested in hearing what we were talking about.
“Great turnout for Bucky’s big night,” I said, looking at the starry sky as I changed the subject. “For a while I was afraid he’d be a no-show.”
Brenta looked at me with fading patience but not as if I had touched a nerve. Fran was a lot more uneasy. The woman just did not have a knack for keeping her thoughts, or worries, to herself.
“Just what do you mean by that?” Brenta asked.
“Oh—I thought he might have told you.”
“No. I haven’t spoken to Bucky for a couple of days. So many business matters taking up far too much of my time.” He waited for me to explain. I wasn’t in a hurry.
“Congratulations, by the way. On the success of your LUMO. WEIRs received about three million of them so far, I’m told.”
Brenta nodded. “The honors belong to Francesca and her development team. I merely provide the financing. About Bucky—”
“He called me late last night. Sounded really broken up about his girlfriend. Another of your protégés, I believe.”
“Do you mean Chiclyn? Yes, they’ve been keeping steady company, as all the world must know. What about Chickie?” He stared at me without blinking.
“Seems to be missing. When did you see her last?”
Bre
nta turned to Francesca. “Friday night, wasn’t it? The party after we saw the rough cut of Ghost Galleon?”
“Umm,” Fran murmured, looking at me as if I had brought up a family curse.
“Why do you believe she’s missing?” Brenta said. “And what reason would Bucky have for contacting—”
“A Wolfer? I plan to ask him just that in a little while. I agreed to meet with him at Valdemar last night to find out what had him crying on the phone, who he was afraid of.”
“Afraid?” Brenta said, looking more wary then puzzled. Francesca started a turn of her hand toward the limo, then checked herself.
“But he didn’t show,” I said. “There was no one at Valdemar but my partner Sunny Chagrin. She was wrapped naked in razor wire and bleeding out on the terrace. I’ll be asking Bucky about that too.”
“Dios mio!” Francesca said. I’d upset her; it was either Bucky or the razor wire. Or both.
“Take it easy, Cesca,” Miles Brenta said, without sounding particularly annoyed. But the ice of his eyes seemed to have deepened as he studied me. “Are you alleging that Bucky had something to do with the murder of an ILC agent?”
“He asked me to meet him at the Valdemar estate. Then he dusted, leaving a body behind. That’s topic A for an intensive interrogation, wouldn’t you think?”
“I assume that you recorded this conversation you say you had with Bucky.”
“No, sir.”
“Then I advise you, and Bucky’s legal counsel also would advise, that you not pursue this.”
“I wouldn’t have grounds,” I admitted, “if I couldn’t prove that Bucky met Chickie at de Sade’s early Monday morning. Surveillance cams showed them arguing heatedly. Shortly thereafter Chickie paid a visit to the ladies’ lounge, haired-up in a bathroom stall, climbed to the roof of the building, jumped through a skylight, and beheaded Artie Excalibur with one good chomp of her girlish jaws.”
I gave their reaction a three-count, then added: “I think Bucky knew it was going to happen, and why. Tonight he’s going to tell me about it.”
I made a fist below my belt buckle to indicate just where I had Bucky’s nutmuffins, and how tight, and walked away.