by Declan Finn
Cryomancer then blinked and realized that they were intruders, not cops or house guests. “Not again!”
The intruders fired. The bullets were deflected by the frying pan. The pan then crashed into the forehead of one invader. She reached down for the knife labeled “Turkey carver,” which was actually a katana. The next intruder was taken out with a bottle of Carolina Reapers in olive oil—basically like being hit with pepper spray that never comes off. Two hairpins through the kneecaps took him out the rest of the way.
“So there!” she called.
The next wave of attackers rushed in, saw the sword in her hand, and the sharp objects that lined every last square inch of the kitchen walls. “Oh. Crap.”
Cryomancer smiled.
Then the screaming began.
Sounds of violence and grunts of pain came from the kitchen. The cries of despair were all male. There were distinct female screams of rage and male screams of terror.
“Why”—grunt—“won't”—grunt—“you”—grunt—“just”—grunt—“die,”—grunt—“you miserable”—grunt—
“Allahu ak—”
“Allahu chocolate bar!”
Slice.
“Yaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
Cryomancer's husband strolled calmly into kitchen. The bodies on the floor were crumpled in various stages of “oh Allah, don't put that there!” and “it doesn't bend that way!” She stood in the middle of the chaos, katana in one hand, bloody chopsticks in the other. Her hair dangled around her face like a curtain. Fresh blood still dripped from the katana. The door burst in behind her again. More men with guns were at the ready. She looked over her shoulder at them, tightening her grip on the sword.
The leader of the SWAT team said, “Stand down, boys. The shots fired are all over now. We missed all the fun.” He sighed. “Again.”
“Again?” said the second. “Aw man! This house has all the fun...”
Cryomancer panted a little, took a deep breath, and looked around. “Are you men going to make yourselves useful, or do I have to clean all of this up myself?”
The SWAT guys put away their guns, grabbed the nearest mops, started cleaning up the mess, while and army truck moved in to remove the cadavers.
* * * *
Sean smiled at the entry, and thought the idea of the tiny slip of a thing he just met, engaging in combat, was entertaining.
“Mister Ryan,” came a voice in his ear again. “This is Moses Lambert. We've found Kendall Adler.”
Sean frowned thoughtfully for a split second. “Okay. Good. Glad to hear it. Tell her to get her ass over here.”
“No. I mean we found her.”
Sean eyed Fred Moshevsky, and wondered if the hunchbacked minion had an alibi after showing up an hour later.
Sean shook his head. Step one, find out if the method of murder could have been done by someone before you suspect them of murder. “Okay,” he told Lambert, “secure the room. Do not go into the scene any more than you have.”
“Nope,” Lambert said. “We saw her feet from the door of the room, and used a passerby's selfie stick so we could take pics and confirm she was dead. I heard what happened with the Friedman crime scene. I'm not doing that.”
“Good man. I'll be there promptly.”
Sean turned to leave, and stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing at the door to the room was a tall man, short dark hair that ended in a widow's peak, dark bushy eyebrows, and a goatee. The man who had nearly killed him that afternoon.
Oh, just wonderful.
* * * *
Michael DeValera smiled at Sean Ryan. He didn't usually like this level of theatrics.
But for this, one of his more obstinate kills, he would make the exception.
He raised his cell phone, then clicked the app dedicated to setting off all of the explosives he had planted throughout the ballroom three hours earlier. Right after he discovered that Sean Ryan had not been killed in the hotel room explosion.
DeValera grinned.
Sean Ryan merely stood there, smiled, and crossed his arms. He shook his head, amused disappointment on his face.
DeValera blinked, and clicked the cell phone again.
And again.
“Oh, nuts.”
“Looking for something?” came a deep voice from behind him.
DeValera slowly looked over his shoulder, staring up at one of Ryan's “Associates,” Brian Levine, born “Edward Murphy,” but changed his name after joining Ryan's band of mercenaries.
And the large black fellow simply stood there, several of his detonators dangling from a meaty fist.
“This,” DeValera stated, “is so going to suck.”
Levine raised his fist, ready to punch through DeValera's head. The mercenary raised his other hand—one with a flash-bang.
The flash-bang went up into the air, and both Ryan and Levine did their best to brace for it. Ryan threw himself to one side, going at right angles to the door. Levine smashed down a hallway door that led to a side room.
DeValera used the time to run like a bat out of hell.
* * * *
I am starting to hate that guy, Sean thought as he picked himself off the floor.
He turned to the rest of the audience, most of them shaken by the explosion. It was only light and sound, but both were so intense, they were meant to physically hurt and disorient.
Sean dashed to the side room, and found Brian getting to his feet. “You good?”
Brian nodded. “Yup. You want to go get him?”
Sean shook his head. “If he's half as good as he seems to be, he's long gone by now. He can try again later.”
“What made you think to sweep the room for explosives?”
Sean laughed. “After blowing up my hotel room, this place would be easy in comparison. Pardon me, I need to see a man about a body.”
* * * *
As Michael DeValera ran down the stairs, counting as he went along, he was once again grateful for his ability to prepare for everything to go wrong. Repeatedly.
He just wasn't used to using all of those plans.
And in this case, DeValera wasn't worried about Sean Ryan or his two professionals alongside him. No. He was more worried about that freaking Elf.
DeValera took the stairs as fast as he dared. He wasn't worried about falling, but about the tripwires he had planted at random intervals on the stairs.
Let's see the rotten Oliver Queen ripoff foil that.
DeValera turned onto the next landing, and stopped. At the bottom of the next flight of stairs was “Middle Earth's Most Wanted Elven Assassin.” Seriously, who thinks of all these names?
“We meet again, foul creature,” Galadren boomed.
DeValera smiled tightly. “Hello there, you insignificant pile of pus. How are you enjoying your second life?”
“I am still on my first,” Galadren answered, his voice heavy with anger. “Let us see if you are nearly that lucky.”
DeValera braced for the next move. If it was an arrow, or knives, he could easily leap aside before the knife left his hand. Best outcome would be if Galadren drew close. There were two tripwires on the stairs, each tied to a small claymore mine, each concealed by camouflage paint that made them blend in with the walls.
“If you want me,” DeValera taunted, “try and take me. If you dare.”
Galadren took one step back. Then again.
“Can't muster the courage to face me, coward?”
“No,” the Elf said, “I am merely backing away so I do not get caught by the … what is the word?” He smiled slowly. “Oh yes. The shock wave.”
DeValera's smile faded, and he realized in a flash that he was about to have a bad day. DeValera hurled himself up the stairs, dropping to all fours as he climbed.
The moment DeValera's feet left the ground, Galadren's knives left his hands. They soared through the air straight and true, and found their marks easily, striking the tripwires with uncanny accuracy.
The stair
way disappeared into a flare of death and fire. Each claymore mine had done their job, and ripped the stairs apart.
Galadren stared intently at where the assassin had disappeared, and knew he never stood up after he fell. He couldn't even imagine what it would have been like for the would-be killer as he was eaten by fire.
Galadren bounded up the stairs, and leaped over the railing instead of going near the landing.
Galadren grimaced. There was a narrow, man-sized hole in the wall, much like the breach charges that had allowed the villain to escape earlier. He stuck his head through the gap, and saw the open hatch to the elevator below. The man with the explosives had already left the metal box.
With a harsh growl of frustration, Galadren hurled himself through the hole, and fell through the open hatch, and down onto the floor of the elevator. His target was right there, holding his cellular phone. And smiling.
Galadren winced, and jumped.
The explosives on the elevator brakes and cables ripped each to shreds. The elevator fell away, and the Elf never made it out of the elevator shaft.
DeValera sighed relief, and set a brisk pace for the exit.
Meanwhile, hanging from the rafters against the elevator walls, Galadren looked down at the smoking wreckage of the metal box he had been in just a second before. He was halfway out the hatch and grabbing for the rafter, when the elevator slipped around his body, falling straight down.
Galadren leaped for the floor, and just made it.
I am starting to dislike this man.
Chapter 17: Publisher, Perished
Killing people by manual strangulation took effort. So when Kendall Adler was found dead, her throat nearly crushed in the shape of fingers, Sean knew that this killer was stronger than the average idiot.
The last thing he wanted was another freaking body. He had hated the last time he played detective…
Okay, that part wasn't entirely true, he did like the roundup of suspects and the reveal of the killer. But he didn't like having to dig through crap in the first place. Detective work included listening ... to people. Damn it, he didn't like talking to people in the first place, now he had to talk to numerous people? Gossip? Rumors? And he had to spend even more time with all of the screaming, whining mewling little lefty Puppy Punters, as well as all of the Puppies. He hated everything the Friedman investigation had required of him already, he didn't want to do this one, too.
Dammmmmnnniiiiiiiitttttttt.
Sean didn't walk into the room any farther than he had to, and even made certain to walk on the very edge of the carpet, his shoes scraping against the wall as he moved in. The idea of footprints seemed to be overlooked in many television shows, but Sean had hung out with enough forensic consultants in Hollywood to lecture on it.
A quick glance told him all he really needed to know. There were fingernail marks in her throat, confirming the strangulation theory. Scuff marks on the floor by the torso told him that the killer had straddled her chest, putting knees into Adler's armpits as she was being strangled to death. The scuff marks couldn't tell him much else—Adler's thrashing about as she was being murdered would have obscured anything else about the killer's size—right now, if the marks were anything to go by, the killer had shins the length of Sean's entire leg, and the broadness of a baseball bat, that's how distorted they were. Then again, Adler's own scuff marks showed that she at least kicked and thrashed, and moved down at least a good foot from where she originally started.
In addition to the marks on the throat, Adler's forehead was split open.
Sean looked around some more, and tried to decide if he should risk giving the area a closer look. He didn't have a Tyvek suit, or gloves, and he didn't want to think about fingerprints.
Sean shook his head, then backtracked, making certain to stay in his own footprints. Whatever had happened had started just inside the door, somewhere between the bathroom and the closet. The drywall next to the bathroom door had a dent in it. So someone had slammed her head into the wall.
The only other thing that he could tell was that Kendall had not been attacked when she had arrived. She couldn't have been. There was a lone set of scuff marks from the door to the balcony and back.
Okay. Adler came in. She walked to the balcony. Perhaps she was looking for whatever publisher Terry had sent her here for. She walks back to the door, opens it, and the killer pushes in the door, slamming her head against the wall.
Sean frowned, thinking it over. But if that was the way it had happened, that would mean that an impact with the door would have caused the gash on her forehead. There would be blood on the door.
Sean slipped out his phone, called up an app that sent out ultraviolet light. He gave it a quick glance over the door. Nothing luminesced.
His brow furrowed. Now he was just confused. If Adler managed to make it to the balcony, back to the door, the gash on her head most likely came from the door, but no blood meant that it wasn't probable.
Sean waved his phone at the impact point on the wall. There was a nice little spot of blood right there.
So she got to the door, was about to leave, someone stopped her, she turned, was about to make a run for it, but s/he pounced on her and slammed her head into the wall?
Assume, for a moment, it's Moshevsky. He's the only one who doesn't have an alibi. Could a hunchback move that fast? Or leap that far?
Sean studied the rug again. There were three footprints that were not a woman's shoe, nor were they Sean's, and they led out of the hotel room. The shoe size looked right for Moshevsky, but they were even paced. They weren't the tread of a man with a limp.
Sean stepped back into the apartment, being careful to step where he had been before. This time, he let the door close behind him. When open, the door had concealed the closet.
The closet was still open. The clothes that were there had been shoved to one side.
At which point, Sean cocked his head to one side. I wonder if the hunchback of ROT Publishing can fit in the closet. Which means that everything I knew was wrong.
Sean frowned, and made his way back out of the room.
He had only two questions for the two Stormtroopers waiting out in the hall. “Either of you two know what the balconies of the Hilton look like?”
One of them nodded. “Yes. Sure. They're nice. Maybe enough room for a chair, if you don't mind leaving your windows open. I'm surprised they bothered putting them in if they're going to be so small.”
Sean recognized Moses' voice, the retired Petty Officer. “Could someone leap it?”
“I … guess? There's three feet of distance between my balcony and the one on either side.”
Sean nodded. That was easy enough. “Second: Who were Kendall Adler's neighbors?”
“NKVD and Teacup share a room on one side, and the ROT publishers on the other.”
Sean grinned. “The Triple-S?”
Moses nodded. “Yup. Why? Does that help you know who did it?”
“A little. I think I know a large chunk of the how. I just need the who.”
* * * *
The Atlanta police arrived, along with their forensic teams, a horde of detectives, and enough cops to lock down the floor of the Hilton.
“To start with, explain how the floor works,” Gilbert Bellmore asked. The Detective was a big, strapping fellow, who looked like he had been a cop long past putting in his twenty, and would only be retired by God. Sean diagnosed Bellmore had probably been a marine, perhaps navy.
Sean and he sat in a nice, quiet little corner of the lobby, away from the entrance and the escalators. Aside from the through traffic, the lobby was empty. Between the banquet (still ongoing) and the masquerade (still ongoing) and the all-day-and-into-the-night gaming, there was no one left, except for those people going to bed after a long day of con going.
“The top floor of the Hilton is cut off, and only accessible by someone with a room key for that floor. It's like an employee access key, only for the guests. Easy enough.
I checked, no one on this floor has reported a key missing, which means that the only suspects are hotel employees, and people on this floor.”
“And I've got the impression that you already have a suspect?”
Sean nodded. “The scuff marks on the floor. If your crime scene analysts can tell what marks belong to what type of shoe, I think I can tell you who did it. My best guess is that most of the prints are from a woman's shoe, the toe end is too pointed to be a man’s. Unless it's a cross-dresser, which, around here, is a possibility.”
“Cross dressers?” Bellmore asked. “Trannies?”
“Cosplayers,” Sean answered. “Don't even ask, trust me.”
“Right. But how will the shoes tell you who the killer is?”
Sean sighed, leaned forward, and explained his theory to the detective, based solely on the footprints he had observed in the room.
“Have a motive?” Bellmore finally asked.
Sean shook his head. “Right now? No, but it's really the only way the whole thing makes sense.”
“What can you tell me about the victim?”
“Kendall Adler went up against a movement within fandom, and libeled them with a statement that they were all male, misogynistic, racist neo-Nazis, and that everyone they backed for the Hubble Award was a crappy writer.”
Bellmore arched a brow. “Well, that certainly gives them a motive.”
Sean nodded, and smiled. “Yes, but that 'everybody' backed for the award? That included authors at her own publishing company—several of whom she had worked with.”
Bellmore's eyes widened in surprise, and his jaw dropped a little. “Seriously? That's a pink slip if I've ever seen one.”
“Yes, but when most of the company represents one side of the debate, and she's throwing mud on behalf of that side, it's not easy to throw them under the bus. Firing her would have been a sign of weakness.”
Bellmore shrugged. “But you would have to be insane to kill her. It would have been easier to put up with her for another year or two, then fire her. Wouldn't it?”