Con Job

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  “Good,” Daniel said.

  Nicholas rested his forehead in his hand. “So stupid. No one can afford one of those, they shouldn’t cost so much. Stupid.”

  “Those Hardy Daytonas are really nice,” Daniel said. “Very pretty. I’d like one, too, if I had the spare change.”

  “Shuddup.” Nicholas glared at him. “Quit pretending to be a fan. I dunno why you’re even dressed up. Cosplay is gay. And you’re too old to pretend like you belong at a con.”

  Daniel crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Son, I was a Star Wars fan before you were an itch in your daddy’s crotch. If you want something to feel possessive about, go on down to the My Little Ponies gathering at the — wait, no, that’s a throwback to the eighties show. I guess you’ll have to stick with Doctor Who. Oops, no, that started in the sixties. Hmm, let’s see here.” He glanced at the photoshoot gathering schedule on the wall. “Batman and DC villains? Nope. The Marvel Universe? Nope. Evangelion? Also before your time.”

  “Shaddup,” growled the kid.

  “Ooh, here you go. Your generation has—”

  A shriek came from the hall, and Jacob lunged to the door. People were clearing a little space around the girl in the CLUTCH multi-layered garb, who stood frozen, arms half-raised, staring down at herself. Her gorgeous white costume was smeared across the chest and torso with blue-green streaks.

  A few feet in front of her, a girl of perhaps fifteen gaped, easing backward. She wore only a narrow plaid tube top and short denim cutoffs over a body covered liberally with grey-green makeup, inexpertly swirled and now smeared in several places. Her multi-colored antennae were crooked.

  The spell of shock broke as the scream’s echoes faded, and the stained cosplayer’s eyes rose from her ruined silks to the grey-green Daisy Duke-like Mole in front of her. Her jaw worked, unable to form words.

  “Um — I’m sorry,” squeaked the blue-green girl.

  “Sorry?” The silken cosplayer looked down at herself again.

  The Mole girl bolted. Some of the bystanders shouted after her angrily, but no one stopped her, and she dashed up the escalator, pushing past two more people who recoiled and cried in outrage at fresh grey-green smears, and disappeared down one of the corridors.

  Jacob looked back as cosplayers began to gather around the multi-layered silks, two of them carefully folding and protecting her trailing robes as others knelt to look at the makeup stains without touching. “Hydrogen peroxide?” someone asked.

  “I’ve got a bleach pen,” called someone from the crowd.

  “That’ll eat right through the silk,” a girl answered. “We need to get it off.”

  Jacob phoned Sam. “We’ve got a cosplay emergency,” he said. “Who do I call?”

  “Fish Face. They’ve got a whole kit of everything here, since they’re doing workshops. What happened?”

  “One of the Moles ran right into the CLUTCH costume. Left blue body makeup all over the white.”

  Sam’s horror was palpable even through the phone. “What? Oh, I’ll kill him. Unless someone already has.”

  “Not funny today, Sam. She’s by Ops, if you want to come help.”

  “I’ll call Fish Face and meet you there with whatever I can borrow.”

  A man in an elegant Victorian suit pushed gently through to kneel beside the stricken cosplayer. “Don’t rub it, or it’ll set worse,” he warned. “Is this oil-based?” He scowled at it. “What the heck is this stuff? Anybody have a clue?”

  “Some sort of Halloween kit, I’ll bet,” said someone else. “What a nightmare.”

  The cosplayer had begun to cry. “We’ll never get it out!” She started to rub away tears and then caught herself before she touched her elaborate makeup.

  “Excuse me,” Jacob said. “I just called someone, and she’s coming here with an emergency kit. She might have something to blot it out.”

  She nodded, sniffing. “I was on my way to judging. Guess there’s no point now.”

  “No, no, you can do it!” said the man in the suit. “Just tell the judges what happened. It’s not like nothing like this has ever happened before — though this is pretty bad. But they’ll understand. And this is beautiful; it deserves to be judged.”

  “I’ll go and tell them you’ve been delayed, and why,” Jacob offered. “Then it’s official and everything. And Sam will be here any minute with Fish Face’s kit, and they’ll get you taken care of. Okay?”

  She sniffed and nodded.

  “What’s your entry info?”

  “I’m FallingStar, entry M-18, dressed as Achenar from Crooked Running Water by CLUTCH, the Heavenly Wedding arc, artbook version.”

  Cosplayers. Couldn’t give a simple answer when an enthusiastic one would do. Jacob nodded. “I’ll tell them.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The mobile app guided Jacob to the rear of the hotel’s convention center, where he found a couple of groups of people in stunning costumes chatting in the hallway outside a closed room with a sign taped to the door, Please Knock.

  An assistant sat outside the room with a clipboard, and Jacob approached her. “Your entry M-18 is going to be late. She had an accident coming here.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “She’s okay, the costume is not. They’re working on it.”

  The assistant looked down at the board. “She’s our last one, but we can wait a bit. You said she’s still coming?”

  “I think they’re going to talk her into it.” Sam could be very persuasive, and she’d wanted all day to gush over the costume. The Achenar wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “Okay, thanks for letting us know.”

  He nodded toward the closed door. “Can I just talk to them for a second? I told her I’d explain to the judges what happened. It’s going to be a little stained.”

  The assistant’s eyes widened. “Oh, no!” She considered. “Normally I’d just have you leave a message with me, but this entry will be done in about thirty seconds —” she indicated the stopwatch feature on her phone and rapped on the door behind her — “and since there’s only one entry waiting, you can go in then. Just don’t take too long.”

  “I’ll be quick, promise.”

  She watched the timer count down and then stood to open the door. Inside, a panel of four costumed judges thanked a fifth person, a young man in a brightly-colored video game costume Jacob couldn’t quite place. He left, and Jacob slipped in behind him.

  “Well, that one’s easy,” said one judge, writing a single line and then making an inky slash down the scoresheet.

  “His seams were pretty neat,” said another. She was dressed as a Twi’lek Jedi. “And I don’t think it was all commercial.”

  “But we don’t know that he did any of it,” said the first. He was Disney’s Aladdin, complete with stuffed monkey on his shoulder. “And he was obviously willing to lie about parts of it. He could have commissioned it all.”

  The fourth judge, a member of the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood, looked perplexed. “Okay, I obviously missed something.”

  “You’re the needlework expert, so it probably didn’t stand out to you. But he said he carved and painted that sword, right?”

  “Sure. I’ve known a lot of people who did their swords.”

  “Yeah, but theirs probably didn’t have a commercial screen-print.”

  The fourth judge’s mouth formed into an outraged little circle. “What? Yeah, I don’t do enough with props. Good catch. And wow, what a jerk. Just be honest and it would have been fine, you know? Yeah, even if he did some of it himself, after that, no.”

  They finished marking their clipboards and one turned to Jacob by the door. “Um, hi. Can we help you?”

  “I’m with Con Aid. There was a costume accident, and I promised I’d tell you what happened so you’d understand.” He explained briefly about the Mole and the white silk. “I think they’re going to talk her into coming anyway, but she’s pretty upset. Obviously.”

  The judges wore v
arious expressions of dismay. “Man, these kids are out of control,” said Aladdin. “If you aren’t going to buy proper makeup and learn to use it, don’t use it at all!”

  “It’s mostly the younger ones, at least. They don’t know any better.” The Twi’lek glanced down at her own body makeup.

  “Destroying the hotel and someone else’s work is not the way to learn.”

  “Tell her that of course we won’t worry about the makeup stains,” said a woman in brassy steampunk. “Just get here whenever she can, and we’ll fit her in before the masquerade.”

  “Thanks, I’ll tell her.”

  “Hey, it just means we get a chance to eat something,” said the Bene Gesserit with a grin. “I’m starving. Unless the rumors of no food are true?”

  “The hotel restaurants and food court are shut down,” Jacob said, “but there are energy bars and microwavable foods and stuff for sale in the lobby.”

  “Better than nothing,” said the Twi’lek. “Are there any good energy bars, or are they all that crumbly granola crap that tastes like cardboard?”

  “Granola can be good,” said the Bene Gesserit.

  “When there’s chocolate and fruit on top of it, yeah. Not by itself.”

  “I’m with her,” said Aladdin. “Give me some flavor with my fiber.”

  “I think there are a variety of brands and flavors,” Jacob said with a facetiously placating tone. “So I have to ask, do people freak out, getting judged by a Bene Gesserit?”

  She smiled. “Hey, you recognized it! When I was getting breakfast this morning a guy wanted a picture with me and then said he was going to tweet everyone that he’d found Professor McGonagall.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Let’s get some bars, at least, while we wait,” said the woman in steampunk. She shifted a tool apron on her hip. “Don’t look a gift break in the mouth, yo.”

  “I’ll go get some after this next entry,” said the Twi’lek. “Anyone opposed to chocolate and fruit? No?”

  “Thanks for telling us about the accident.”

  Jacob excused himself and left. He hadn’t gotten far down the hall when Sergio’s voice called to him.

  He turned, and Sergio came hurrying toward him, his face strained. “Jacob, man, you’ve got to help me. You understand this police stuff. They think I did it — someone told them I’d made death threats against the MEGAN!ME executives in my panel yesterday. I said it was a metaphor, an exaggeration, but they think I’m a suspect.”

  Sergio dropped into one of the lobby couches. “Oh, man, what am I gonna do? Yeah, I said a MEGAN!ME exec should get hit by a bus — but that’s not the same thing as killing someone! It’s sarcasm, it’s exaggeration, it’s a lame joke. Probably I shouldn’t have said it, I get that. But now I’m a suspect.”

  “They’re not really suspicious, or you wouldn’t be having this conversation with me right now,” Jacob said, hoping he sounded reassuring. “If they were convinced, or even fairly suspicious, they’d detain you. What’d they say? How did they know?”

  “I’m guessing someone told them from the panel yesterday. They knew the topic, knew what I said — knew it better than I did, really. I didn’t remember. But good grief, I didn’t mean it to sound like some sort of call to rise and murder the evil distribution overlords! It was just a figure of speech.”

  “They know that,” Jacob said. “Again, if they really thought you were the murderer, you’d be at the station right now and waiting to meet your state-appointed lawyer. They’re just being thorough.” He hoped he was right.

  “They told me not to leave without talking to them, even after the con tomorrow.”

  “That’s pretty standard. They have to tell everyone that.” That was a bit of a fudge, but Sergio was visibly relaxing, so it was likely worth it.

  “You sure? Okay. But — man, it’s terrifying, you know?”

  Jacob nodded. “Oh yeah. I’m sure it is. I can’t imagine.”

  Sergio blew out his breath. “I was trying to think if there’s anything else that would get me in trouble…. I wrote a couple of angry Facebook posts, about Mr. Doobles and stuff. Not about illegally downloading or anything, just about MEGAN!ME being a jerk by C-and-D’ing everyone even while not releasing anything from the past decade. Do you think I should take those down? Delete them?”

  Jacob shook his head. “I’m pretty sure they can get archives if they want them, and deleting stuff looks more suspicious, I think. If all you said was that the company was jumping on fans and that they haven’t released anything, that’s true, and you’re entitled to your opinion about it. People get mad at companies all the time without going as far as killing anyone.”

  Sergio nodded. Now he looked almost normal again. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, man. I didn’t mean to freak out, it’s just — that was pretty freaky.” He looked at the couch. “What’s all this blue stuff smeared on here?”

  Jacob sighed. “Probably more Mole makeup. Some of the cosplayers used bad makeup and didn’t seal themselves, and they’re making a mess everywhere. Even trashed a really nice masquerade costume when a girl ran into it.”

  Sergio’s eyebrows rose. “Ouch. Did that end in another murder? Because I know a few people who would call it justifiable.”

  “Not really funny right now.”

  “Sorry.”

  Jacob’s phone buzzed with an incoming text. Where are you? Really need you.

  “Hey, Con Ops needs me. Gotta go. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Daniel looked harried and weary, as if his Imperial officer persona had just heard the Emperor was coming to personally supervise the con. “Can you cover the office for a while? I’ve got to take a statement from the vendor who had the statue stolen, and someone’s got to hold the fort here.”

  “Sure,” Jacob said. He dropped into the chair beside the computer. “I can check on what’s going with the photo submissions, anyway.”

  They had several hundred pictures in Flickr, and another hundred or so in the Twitter column. A few were obvious fakes — one of a staged strangulation behind a love seat, and two with llamas edited into the background. What was wrong with people? Humor was one thing, but not during a homicide investigation.

  Another fake looked nearly normal but for a Deadpool cosplayer added in the background. Jacob smiled a little at that one. Still unhelpful, but at least thematic.

  Mickey came into the conference room. “Hey, is it okay if I just crash in here for a minute? Green room’s been turned into a food booth, to try to cut the lines going through the lobby, and the staff suite is like a mobile police station right now.”

  Jacob gestured to a chair. “Feel free.”

  “Thanks.” Mickey sighed. “Kind of a roller coaster weekend, right?”

  “For the con? Yeah, you could say that.”

  Mickey looked at him. “You’re the guy who’s doing the police internship or something, right?”

  “I’m studying to go into law enforcement, and I’m applying to the Police Academy soon.”

  “Yeah, that’s close enough.” Mickey pressed his lips together and seemed to make a decision. “I’ve got a question for you, then. If something is going to come out, that maybe makes someone look more connected to a murder than he should be — if it’s something that he’s got good reason to keep hidden, previously — should he bring it up himself or wait until he’s asked about it?” One corner of his mouth rose. “I’m asking for a friend.”

  Jacob gave the joke a half-smile in acknowledgment. “You know, I’m not really qualified to answer for your friend.”

  “My friend doesn’t expect an answer worthy of legal counsel. Just a, you know, suggestion or something. It’s a tough call.”

  “If it’s going to come out anyway,” Jacob said, “it might be good to bring it up first, explain it if there’s a good reason. But you certainly don’t have to. Legally, there’s no obligation. And if you — your friend does want lega
l counsel, my aunt’s an attorney, and she’s here at the con.”

  “Really?” Mickey brightened, and then he sagged again. “Nah. Attorneys cost money, and you’re probably right already.” He sighed. “You know how they say that you ask for advice when you already know what you should do and you’re just hoping to hear something different? Yeah, that.”

  Jacob wasn’t sure how to respond. “What are you going to tell them?”

  “Not that I killed anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just that there’s some stuff that’s going to make me look bad.”

  “Hello?” Detective Martin leaned into the pass-through. “Hey, are there any candy bars or anything in there? The lines are a mile long out here.”

  “Well, shoot fire and save the matches,” Mickey drawled in a ridiculous accent. “Can’t argue with that kind of timing. You got a minute, officer?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Detective, and yes, but I’m fresh out of matches.”

  “I was just wondering if I should tell you something, and here you are. Can I give you some info?”

  She raised a finger, and then she left the pass-through and came through the door, closing it behind her. “Always available to hear something helpful, Mr. — Groene?”

  “Yes, Mickey Groene.” He pulled a chair nearer.

  Jacob fished under the table and found a couple of candy bars. Vince hadn’t sent everything to the vending tables. He tossed one to each of them.

  “This has to be on the record, Mr. Groene.”

  “Oh, I know. That’s why I’m talking to you. I figure it’s better if you hear it from me.”

  Detective Martin nodded toward Jacob. “Would you like to go somewhere else to talk?”

  “Thanks, but I don’t know how much it’s going to matter now that she’s dead.” He took a breath. “I’m connected to Valerie Kimberton, but nobody knows it. I didn’t kill her, but you always hear that police look for family and friends first.”

  “And which are you?”

  “I’m dating her sister.”

  Sister. Jacob thought for a moment. Yes, Christopher had mentioned a sister, an artist who would design the chibi mascot to replace him.