Con Job

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  “What all is missing?” Detective Martin asked. “Have you gone through it all?’

  “The camera body, two lenses — those are the biggest hit, money-wise — some gels, a Fong, and the zipper case of SD cards.” Laser shook her head. “Which is full of stupid, because SD cards are cheap, and it was underneath the portrait lens, which he left. He had to think they were something else. I hope he’s good and disappointed.”

  “Sometimes thieves dump worthless or less valuable goods,” Detective Martin said. “There’s a chance he’ll toss it when he realizes it’s not going to sell.”

  “That’s a lot of trash cans to check,” Laser said sadly.

  Detective Martin frowned at her notes. “Can you spell Fong and tell me what it is?”

  “F-O-N-G. It’s a sort of diffuser.”

  “Laser!” Jacob came in and squatted beside the bed. “Are you okay? Oh, man, that looks awful.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she joked feebly. “I’ll be okay, though they’re going to take me in and make sure my brain’s not scrambled. He rang my bell a bit.”

  “You need to do something about this,” Sam said, looking at Jacob. “Con security. This kind of thing can’t happen.”

  Jacob gave her a pleading look. “We’re Aid, not security, and you know that’s for a reason. We can’t police an entire building. And it’s not exactly like nothing else has been going on.”

  “Exactly,” Sam said. “Something’s going on. And I know I’m being unreasonable, but people are getting hurt, and it needs to stop.”

  “We’re working on it,” said Detective Martin firmly, “doing as much as we can. Now let’s focus on catching this particular toilet scrub as soon as possible. Can you think of anything else missing from the bag?”

  Laser shook her head. “No. I’ve been going over and over in my mind. I can’t think of anything else missing. He left the flashes, which are worth the most after the camera and lenses, and the beauty dish, and everything else I can think of.”

  “So probably not knowledgeable about photography,” Detective Martin mused, “or else in a big hurry. Is there a chance it was one of the cosplayers? Stealing the cards and trying to get the pictures for free?”

  “Oh, no,” Laser said immediately. “I know pretty much everyone I shot this weekend, and I can’t imagine any of them doing something like that.”

  “People can surprise you. Sad, but true.”

  “I know, but…. I just can’t see it.”

  Detective Martin looked steadily at her. “Who was the last person you photographed?”

  “That was FerretAngel. She was in Belldandy, OVA version. Before that was Rogue and Knight, doing Mara Jade and Boba Fett.”

  “Okay, but who are they really?”

  “What?”

  “I assume Rogue isn’t what’s on her driver’s license.”

  “No. Um, Rogue is Rogue Star online, and Knight is RedKnight. They’re from somewhere in the Chicago area.”

  “Real names?”

  “I don’t know. Rogue’s might be Amelia something; I think I heard someone make a Doctor Who joke once. But I don’t know last names.”

  “So you don’t know these people’s real names or where they’re from, but you feel confident they wouldn’t do anything illegal?”

  Laser’s mouth twisted. “Rogue is an accountant at a tire factory. RedKnight is an elementary school teacher, and he keeps his name on the down-low because he’s worried that administration would give him a hard time if they found out he does costume stuff, which is full of stupid, but at least he’s got a reason for an alias. FerretAngel lives in Missouri, has three cats, is in her second year of med school, likes vegetable pizza but can be talked into pepperoni, is afraid of spiders, used to be afraid of flying but learned some relaxation techniques to help in the air, and she’s been dating this guy on and off for two years and thinks maybe she should end it permanently but is afraid he’ll go a little berserk if she does. So no, it’s not like I don’t know these people. I just don’t know their names and addresses.”

  Detective Martin sighed. “I see what you’re saying, but—”

  Jacob spoke up. “There’s another reason it’s pretty unlikely, and that’s because Laser charges way too little for her pics. Most con photographers do.”

  “You did a one-hour shoot, you said.” Detective Martin turned back to Laser. “You’ve got the shoot itself, plus processing, plus prints or digital copies. Could be hundreds in the end. My daughter got married last spring, and there’s a lot of people who would steal for that kind of money.”

  Jacob shook his head. “Totally different market. Laser charges — what, fifty bucks a shoot, depending on the con?”

  She nodded.

  “And that includes processing and all the pics she deems good enough to release.”

  Detective Martin’s jaw dropped. “But — they said you were pro. I mean, really good.”

  “She’s crazy good,” Sam said. “She shoots weddings and portraits and art shots when she’s not at cons.”

  Laser blushed.

  “But con rates are usually lower, because a lot of photographers use them to get started and a lot of attendees, especially the younger ones, don’t have extra money. It’s just the market. Anyway, nobody’s going to steal her camera and keep her from doing the processing and from putting up photos for everyone to admire and re-post all over Facebook and Tumblr. People do this to show off their work; stealing her camera would do the exact opposite.”

  Detective Martin nodded and looked at Laser. “Okay, first, I need a business card. Second, we need all the details of the missing equipment, so we can distribute lists to pawn shops and the like. I presume you know all the makes and models?”

  Laser slid a few screens on her phone and held up a view of Evernote. “I have all the serial numbers logged here.”

  “Fantastic, that will really speed things along. I wish everyone were half as organized.”

  A niggling sense of something important brushed at Jacob’s mind. Why take the cheap SD cards but leave the valuable off-camera flashes and other equipment?

  “So now I wait?” asked Laser.

  Detective Martin nodded. “Yep. You get medically cleared, but then we wait.”

  Laser sighed. “I guess I’ll wait, then. That’s more than a little frustrating.” She slapped her hands on her thighs.

  “Where were you shooting today?” asked Jacob.

  “Oh, man, all over,” she said. “I did a couple of shoots in the conservatory, and then that beautiful Achenar in the side lobby, by the mosaics and fountain, and then I did a Nightlife shoot in an access corridor and a stairwell, for a bit of urban feel, and then an Alice in Wonderland in the conservatory again.”

  “Was anyone else in the access corridor?”

  “Oh, no. We won’t stay if it looks like we might be in anyone’s way. That’s why we get to do them at all. One guy passed us while we were setting up in the stairwell, but not during shooting. We were pretty high up, to avoid the foot traffic.”

  Detective Martin looked at Jacob. “Why do you ask?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t really explain. Just…. My friend Jessica showed me the pictures she took during the Star Trek shoot with some unintentional photobombs. And I thought just now, maybe something was in the background, or someone, and that’s why the camera was stolen?” He gestured, trying to explain. “Because otherwise why take the time to dig out the extra SD cards? Those are cheap, especially compared to the other stuff left behind. It means somebody wanted the photos — and like Sam said, it wouldn’t be any of the modeling cosplayers, who had already paid and were getting them anyway.”

  Detective Martin nodded. “That makes good sense. Any other potential reasons?”

  Sam frowned. “Maybe someone wanted to pass off Laser’s shots as their own? Except that the cosplayers could shout that down pretty quickly, once the photos were posted. We tend to know a photographer’s style. Or, and this is wa
y out there, someone wanted to Photoshop a cosplayer into something really ugly and damaging — but seriously, I’ve never even heard of anything like that, and again, it’d be easy to deny. Laser’s pretty known in the community, and once it’s out there that her equipment was stolen, everyone would be suspicious of any weird stuff going on.”

  “Even the hallway pics,” Laser said. “Convention center hotels are pretty distinctive — that is, they all have their own flavor of ugly furnishings we have to work around. Lots of times you can pinpoint what con a photo was taken at by the carpet and furniture, it’s practically a game. No one would dare to post any of those photos taken right where they were stolen.”

  “Sounds like a reasonable guess, then, to leave open the possibility that the thief was just stupid — which happens a lot, actually,” Detective Martin said. “But the idea that he was worried about something potentially in the background is a good one.” She looked at Laser. “I don’t suppose there’s a chance you were using those cards that upload while you take pictures?”

  Laser shook her head. “Cost a lot, and not wholly compatible with my equipment.”

  Jacob held up a finger to interrupt. “Laser, you let people shoot over you, right? With their phones?”

  “What? Oh, definitely. Everybody likes the costumes, and I’m not worried about competing with a cell phone camera. Why?”

  “I’ll bet a hundred or more photos were taken over your shoulder of that CLUTCH costume alone. That’s a hundred pics which might have that same something, whatever it is, in the background. What if we ask everyone to share their photos?”

  “Kind of like the FBI did with the Boston Marathon suspects?”

  “It wasn’t quite like that, but the same idea. And then we look for anything weird in the pics.” He shrugged. “It’s not great, but you never know, it might turn up something.”

  Detective Martin considered. “Let me run it by someone above me, but yeah, maybe. How would you put the word out?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. Con’s mobile app, the Twitter feed. Specify one upload bin. We’ll get some spam and joke submissions, sure, but we’ll get more legit ones.”

  “Work it out,” said Detective Martin, “and get me the details.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jacob finished typing and half-turned in the chair. “Paul? This is ready, if you approve.”

  Paul glanced at the screen. “This is the cops’ wording?”

  “Yeah, exactly. We’re just helping them spread the word.”

  “Then we’re probably covered, liability-wise, and I can’t see any issues with it. You’ve got a photo drop already set up?”

  Jacob alt-tabbed to display a Flickr page. “Not fancy, but efficient. Anyone with a Flickr account can upload straight to the ‘Con Job Photo Request’ group. People who aren’t Flickr users can email them or use the Twitter hashtag.”

  “Looks good.” Paul leaned over the keyboard and signed into the mobile scheduling software. “Paste it all in here, and hit Update.”

  The request for photos would appear on every smartphone and tablet using the mobile app. Jacob set up a new column to track the #ConJobPhotoReq hashtag in Twitter. The police would be collecting and analyzing everything, of course, but it would be interesting to track what kind of response they received.

  He pulled a sheet of paper from the printer beside him and wrote, why kill Tasha/Dead-Laura? A couple of inches over, he wrote, why kill Valerie K? Ringing the two questions, he began to write short lines about the con and incidents. Laser assaulted, robbed. CoCO in viewing rooms. Photobombs. Powder in kitchen.

  He drew a dotted line between Laser assaulted, robbed and Photobombs. There were no lines connecting any of the other items yet, just a scattering of isolated thoughts.

  The door opened, and Jacob looked up as Daniel escorted, politely but firmly, someone new into Con Ops. The teen jerked away from Daniel’s hand and flung himself into a folding chair, slouching with arms crossed and scowl fixed firmly. Behind them came a short woman in a Final Fantasy VII shirt, also with crossed arms and a furious expression. She remained standing.

  “So,” Daniel said, “this is probably the last chance to resolve this peaceably. Are you willing to pay for the item?”

  “I already told you, I don’t have it,” the teen snapped. “Nobody’s got two hundred bucks for a stupid statue. That’s stupid.”

  Daniel turned to the woman, who spoke before he could. “I want to press charges.”

  “All right, then.” He took out his phone and began dialing.

  “You can’t arrest me!” the boy said. “I’m an American citizen. I have rights. You’re not police.”

  “You can be held by building security until police arrive,” Daniel said evenly, the phone to his ear, “and in fact I am police. Sergeant Daniel Ratherman.” He pulled the badge from his Imperial uniform jacket to display.

  The kid swore.

  Jacob put his eyes back on the Twitter feed — two comments and three photos already — but he could hear clearly Daniel’s report of a theft from a vendor who wanted to press charges. The woman spoke again. “What will you need from me?”

  “You can go on back to your booth, and we’ll send someone to take a statement when they get here. Thanks, and I’m sorry about all of this.”

  “Some people are entitled little brats,” she said, an edge to her voice. “I’m just glad you’re doing something about it.”

  The angry teen flipped her off as she left, but she didn’t see it. Daniel did. “Nicholas, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You under eighteen, Nicholas?”

  “I’m seventeen.”

  “You might want to take this opportunity to make a call, before you’re officially down to just one. You’ll need a parent or guardian to meet you at the station.”

  He went still. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a minor, so you’ll have to be released into custody of a parent or guardian.”

  Nicholas sat up slightly. “But — I don’t even live here. I came with friends. My dad’s at home, and it’s a seven-hour-drive.”

  Daniel whistled. “You’d better call sooner rather than later, then.”

  “But — he’ll have to take off work!”

  “Sorry, son. I was just giving you the heads-up. But you can wait if you want, or let an officer make the call.”

  He paled. “He’s gonna kill me.”

  “If he does, we’ll arrest him. But until he does, you’ll need him to get out of holding, so you think about whether you want to call or not.”

  Nicholas slouched further into the chair, dropping his head, and swore again. After a moment he drew out his phone. “Do I have to do it here?”

  Daniel pointed. “There’s a corner. We’ll try not to eavesdrop.”

  Nicholas retreated, sitting sideways in the corner and cradling his phone. Daniel turned to Jacob. “So, Cougars and Cold Ones.”

  Jacob’s stomach dropped.

  “That’s the name of the show that’s been popping up here. It’s all over the con, showing up in video rooms, on panel screens any time there’s a gap in the programming. Even had a bunch of old merchandise appear in the dealer room, scattered across booths who didn’t recognize it. Somebody seeded it. And man, is that some ugly merch, too. Who ever thought that would sell, even fifteen years ago?”

  Jacob risked a breath. “So, you’ve just been seeing it around?”

  “Everyone has. It’s all over. Did I miss some internet meme? Is Cougars and Cold Ones the new Rick-roll?” He frowned. “Because frankly, I think that’s doing Rick Astley a disservice.”

  Jacob took another breath, more easily now. “Not that I’d heard of. I hope not.”

  “Cougars and Cold Ones?” repeated Paul. “Oh, I remember that! That was years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” agreed a volunteer Jacob didn’t recognize. “Some awful reality show about this family from hell. All these dysfunctional crazy peopl
e.”

  “Man, I’d forgotten about that. Yeah, they were nuts.”

  “I named my dog after that show,” said the volunteer. “When we got him, he kept scooting around on the carpet, smearing his butt on everything, so we called him Little Jakey.” He laughed. “Turned out he had worms or infected anal glands or something, the vet fixed it. Too bad nobody fixed them. Some people shouldn’t breed.”

  Nicholas’ voice rose in the corner. “Dad, I’m sorry! I didn’t — no, I’m sorry! I know you have to work. I know. But the guy says you have to pick me up.”

  Daniel blew out his breath. “Seven hours. That’s not going to be pretty. This will be about the longest seven hours he’s ever had to wait.”

  “Won’t be as long as the seven hours home, I’m betting.”

  “Boom.” Daniel gave a jaunty little point in Jacob’s direction. “You’re right on that one.” He glanced at the desk. “What are you working on?”

  “Um, just some organizing,” he said, his ears growing warm. “Thought I’d get in some practice.”

  Daniel looked down at the page, eyes running over the mind map and its single dotted line. “Think you’re going to solve it before the guys in Homicide?” He softened the joke with a grin.

  “That would probably be a ticket straight into the Academy, right?”

  “Sure wouldn’t hurt anything, I guess.”

  Jacob swallowed and said casually, “The Academy application — how hard is it?”

  “Are you worrying about it? I don’t think you have any red flags. Your grades are good, you’re taking the right classes, and no issues with the physical, right? Just the psychological profile and background, you should be fine.”

  “But, the psychological… I mean, that’s a pretty big gap, and they can look at anything, and….”

  Daniel shrugged. “I guess it does sound kind of scary. But it’s not really that bad. They want to be sure that you’re coming in for the right reasons, and that there’s nothing in your background to make you a risk to yourself or the department.”

  Jacob looked back at the tablet. “Yeah.”

  Behind them, Nicholas was off the phone. “He’s coming.”