Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes

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Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 32

by Joanna Campbell Slan


  “That’s thoughtful of you. Most of the red is gone. Good job,” I said, trying to sound cheerier than I felt.

  Through floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see folks milling about in the brightly lit area above us. Once inside, it was apparent that Maintenance Associates were working to raise one of the transparent sliders. A malfunction would explain how the bad guys got away. The escalator was not running, so Jack and I rode up to the gallery level on the elevator. As soon as we stepped out, Max hurried toward us.

  “Georgie, at last.”

  I fought the desire to harrumph in response to his remark. At last? Jack must have hit 90 on the highway and hadn't reduced speed by much on the city streets. But I resisted the temptation to argue the point with Max, because he did not look well.

  “Detective Wheeler, I wish I could say I’m glad to see you again, but I’m not.” Max glanced quickly from me to Jack and back again, perhaps realizing it was more than a coincidence we had arrived together.

  “Homicide detectives get used to the idea that we're not going to brighten anyone’s day when we show up. Were you here in the building when all this happened?” So much for the amenities, Detective Wheeler was on the job.

  I wanted to get Max off his feet before he fell over. “Let’s get out of the way of the elevator, if that’s okay with you two?” I didn’t wait for a reply but walked over to a set of club chairs off to one side. I tried not to look too closely at the red spots on the gleaming white Gallery walls or the man prone and unmoving on the floor. I sat down in a chair and tugged at Max’s sleeve to get him to do the same.

  Shattered glass was on the ground, too. Some of that must have come from the special glass used to shield the artwork from exposure to light. All that remained now were empty frames. The thieves had also smashed a large rectangular display case. Most of its contents were gone, although a few items rested on the ground.

  Dozens of articles that had been on display were now missing, damaged, or destroyed. The stolen wall art included valuable animation celluloids, called cels, from Max’s art department days. Many of the oldest were hand-painted back in the 60s and 70s before the switch to reliance on computer-generated animation.

  The magnitude of the disaster sank in, and I felt myself growing angry. I flashed for a moment on the image of a guitar smashed to bits in a similarly senseless act years ago. Even worse than the damaged guitar was the fact that two men lost their lives, and had nearly taken mine.

  I had been doing much better since the truth of that loss was revealed to me in June. Still, it bothers me that so much damage can be done in a matter of moments, ending a life or undoing years and even decades of hard work.

  “Are you okay to answer a few questions, Mr. Marley?’

  “Yes, yes. Please call me Max. Everybody else does. I'm sure I've told you that before, haven't I?” Like Walt Disney, Max had adopted a practice that associates at Marvelous Marley World address one another on a first-name basis.

  “Will do, Max. What happened?”

  “I was upstairs working in my office when I got an alert on my laptop and phone. I called security to find out what was going on. That’s when I learned there was an armed intruder in the building. I did as I was told and remained in my office. It wasn’t more than a few minutes before a security team came to check on me. They wanted me to stay put until they were sure teams had finished sweeping all the floors in the building. When they told me what had happened, I had to see it.” Max stopped speaking and shook his head from side to side, as though trying to clear his mind or free it from an unwelcome image. “I can’t believe they killed Barry. He was close to retirement. I liked him. I used to joke that if he retired, I would too.”

  “So, who were the first people on the scene? Do you know?”

  “I’m sure it must have been Barry Hall and his partner, Bill Miller. The head of security, Ralph Emerson, is over there talking to the uniformed officers that arrived before you two. Ralph keeps the schedule and knows who was assigned where and when. He can tell you more.”

  “Okay, thanks, Max. I’m going to do that next. Did you hear gunshots or anything else?”

  “No, my office is on the twelfth floor and soundproof. I wanted it that way since confidential meetings go on in there with discussions about proprietary ideas and products. Like I said, I did get one of those alerts. Did that go out to you, Georgie?”

  “Yes, Max. The system worked as it was intended to do. Stacy got an alert, too. By the time I called and spoke to her, she was already heading this way.”

  “So where the heck is she?”

  “She didn’t have a police escort as I did. I’m sure she’ll be here any time now.” As if on cue, an elevator pinged, and Stacy stepped from a door that slid open and then closed behind her.

  “Here she is now, Max.”

  “Good, good. We’ve got to get a handle on this situation, quick. All we need is more bad press, so soon after…” Max did not finish that sentence. Speaking about the murder of his daughter was still not easy for him to do.

  “I’m going to let you all get on with the conversation about how to handle the public,” Jack said. “I know I don’t have to ask you not to give out details about what went on tonight.”

  “We understand, Detective,” Stacy said. “It’s our job to manage the public’s desire for information while protecting the Marvelous Marley World brand and not compromising an ongoing investigation. It’s Detective Wheeler, isn't it? I’m Stacy Peterson.”

  “Yes,” Jack replied, shaking the woman’s outstretched hand.

  “I’m sorry you’re back here on police business,” she said. “Our first meeting was a much more pleasant one.”

  I jumped in, uncertain that Jack remembered the occasion to which Stacy referred. “The reception to welcome you as Director of Public Relations was a lovely evening, wasn’t it?” I saw a flicker of recognition in Jack’s eyes. Mission accomplished.

  He said, “You’re right about that, Georgie. I wish we were meeting here in the Gallery for a better reason, too, Stacy. I know Georgie and Max are glad you’ve joined them. When you can, Max, will you please get me a list of all the items that are missing? Whoever did this may try to find buyers for the items so we should get on top of that as soon as possible.”

  Max nodded wearily, as though he understood.

  “We’ll make it a priority,” I said. “I’ll call someone from the corporate archives right now. They’ll have all the information related to identification at their fingertips.”

  “Any idea what the going rate is for the stolen items?” Jack inquired.

  “It varies, but the entire collection is worth millions. One of the cels on exhibit is a rare one, recently appraised at close to half-million dollars,” Max said.

  Jack emitted the low whistle he uses to register surprise. “Really?”

  “Yes. I hand-painted it myself. It’s one of the earliest cels I created forty years ago for Catmmando Tom. That makes it valuable.”

  “More like priceless,” I muttered. Jack still seemed a bit stunned. Mention outsized prices for big-ticket items or sky-high compensation paid to CEOs like our company founder, and Jack experiences something akin to vertigo. Frugal by nature, spending that much money on anything probably seems unreasonable even though Jack appreciates art.

  “Why is something that valuable on display?”

  “So people can view it.” Max had taken on an exasperated tone that sounded haughty as he continued. “Clara Hendricks has assured me our Gallery is museum quality in every way, including security. Art is meant to be shared, Detective. Hand-painted cels are a part of our history as animators and my personal contribution to that history.” Max did not wait for a rebuttal from Jack but turned to me.

  “You were planning to call Clara, right, Georgie? She’s up to speed on what’s where—or what ought to be where.” Words failed him again, and Max stopped speaking. Despite the dismissive way the man had treated Jack, my heart went out t
o him. Our founder could drive me up the wall at times, but there was also something vulnerable about him. Mad Max did not handle setbacks well. Not in the short run, at least.

  “Yes. I have Clara’s number,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll be a big help. Please excuse me while I make the call.”

  With that, our little group dispersed. Jack strode across the room toward the uniformed police officers and the head of security. Stacy took a seat next to Max as I stepped away to make my call.

  I also decided to ask the EMTs still hanging out in a corner of the gallery area for a couple of bottles of water. Max probably would have preferred something stronger than that, but I hoped water might counter the gray cast to his complexion.

  It seemed like it should be midnight, but it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. The All Hallows’ Eve party in Arcadia Park would be going strong. Families brought their children to trick-or-treat at locations set up throughout the park tonight. A haunted house created for the evening was a favorite attraction, as were costume contests, hayrides, and events including pumpkin carving and apple bobbing. All were attempts to give the night a homey, small town feel. The party would continue until midnight, marked by a fireworks display that no small town could afford to host.

  Mad Max is always a man of glaring contradictions, I thought. I snagged water for him after speaking briefly to Clara Hendricks on the phone. When I rejoined them, I handed a bottle of water to Max and offered another to Stacy.

  “Clara’s on her way, Max.” But before I could say more, a shout rang out.

  “Shots fired in the tunnels.”

  Chapter 4: Caught in a Web

  We all jumped when that shout went out from a member of the security staff. Not Ralph Emerson, but one of the young associates from his department. The man was pacing back and forth, evidently uncertain about what to do next.

  As we looked on, Ralph checked his phone. “I don’t see an alert. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. The call came to me, personally, not through formal channels. It’s from Julie Kennedy, a friend, not a Security Associate. She’s Arielle and coming off her shift early. She heard shouts and gunfire. Julie’s hiding. I told her not to move until we get there.”

  His friend Julie is but one of several associates at Marvelous Marley world to assume the role of Arielle. And Arielle is only one of three beloved shepherdess characters inhabiting Max’s pastoral utopia as portrayed in Arcadia Park and full-length animated feature films. Fans around the world are smitten with the charming trio of shepherdesses charged to keep watch over their flocks and thwart evildoers bent on harming innocent creatures like the little lambs in their charge. It was too bad Julie Kennedy didn't possess special powers or a magical shepherd’s hook like her imaginary counterparts.

  “Where?” Ralph asked.

  “Backstage Area 3 West. Also, she says the men involved are ‘in character,’ sir.”

  Jack raced across the floor to be by my side.

  I sucked in my breath after hearing that last bit. Oh no, bad guys in character outfits, that's not good, I thought. It had to be the same thieves who had robbed the Gallery. Still, Bill Miller, who had caught the thieves in the act, would have mentioned it if he had shot at Marvelous Marley World characters. Had the full moon on All Hallows’ Eve unleashed a crime spree at Marvelous Marley World?

  I knew exactly where Matthew’s friend was hiding out. An entire network of utility corridors ran underground from here, beneath the administrative campus buildings, to Arcadia Park. Thieves on the run, looking to disguise themselves, could find character outfits there.

  Like so many other projects in Mad Max's world, the underground conduits are a marvel of engineering. They are used to transport people, supplies, and equipment. They keep the Park, surrounding resort hotels, and our day-to-day business operations running smoothly. The idea of armed and dangerous men with underground access to those locations was just plain scary. Max must have come to the same conclusion. He blanched, his skin almost as white as his hair.

  “That was excellent advice you gave Julie,” Jack said, and I relaxed a bit at his clear, calm voice. “Great job, uh, sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  Max seemed relieved, too. He listened intently as the young security guard introduced himself.

  “Matthew Seton, sir.” He smiled at Jack as he spoke in the same deferential tone he used to address his boss, Ralph Emerson.

  “By ‘in character,’ do you mean the shooters are in Marley World character costumes?” Jack asked for clarification.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s go. Matthew, you know how to get to your friend, don’t you?” As he spoke, Jack motioned for a uniformed police officer to join him. The EMTs grabbed their packs and were also on the move.

  The group moved toward the elevators. The head of security continued barking orders into a headset he had donned. When the elevator pinged, a team from Marley World private security stepped out. They were armed and almost as well-armored as S.W.A.T. guys I had seen on TV.

  Another in the bank of elevator doors opened, and Clara Hendricks joined us. She looked aghast at the scene. Max rushed to greet her. I thought he meant to comfort the woman who had just stepped into what looked more like a combat zone than a museum. But once he pulled her off to one side, Max stood close and spoke in a low voice. He shook his head in response to something she said. Then Max gestured emphatically, pointing his finger in her face that was only inches from his. They turned away from us as they continued their heated discussion.

  “What’s that about?” I wondered. Stacy made eye contact with me. Her brow furrowed and a puzzled expression swept over her face. She mouthed the word “what?” I held out my hands and shrugged. Stacy went back to work using a tablet computer she held in her hands.

  “Georgie.” Max called out, suddenly. “Go with them. Call me the minute you know what’s going on.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Jack argued. “As soon as we have a handle on things, I’ll give you an update.”

  “No. That will not do. I insist that you go, Georgie.”

  For a moment I flashed on childhood images of the impish Rumpelstiltskin character from the fairytale, who threw such a riotous tantrum he split the earth and fell into a nasty crevice.

  I feared Max was on the verge of a fall alright—onto the floor with a stroke or heart attack. His face was purplish red instead of pale and gray. Given the amount of stress he was under, it wouldn't surprise me if he became the next victim of this ghastly evening.

  I spoke up using the same clear, calm voice Jack had used with Matthew moments earlier. “I’d like to go, Jack. I spent a lot of years in those tunnels traveling to and from work each day. I’m familiar with the locker rooms and break areas, and I know my way around. Maybe even better than Matthew or most of Ralph's security team.”

  I recognized the look of resignation in Jack’s eyes. He knew it would do no further good to argue with me. Mad Max stood there too, with his jaw clenched and arms folded across his chest.

  “On one condition. You do what I tell you to do. If I say stay put, you stay put, okay?” His tone grated but I responded amiably.

  “Sure, Detective. No problem.” We surged ahead, filling two elevators. The descent down into the utility tunnels took less than a minute. Our elevator must have been the slow one. When we exited, Ralph and his team members piled into in two Park-Karts—golf carts, basically. They took off as I swiped my keycard and a wheel lock released on a Park-Kart in a space nearby.

  Jack took the wheel. I sat next to him in the front seat. The uniformed police officer and EMT guys sat three abreast in the back. It had taken us an extra minute to help the EMTs stow their gear. When we took off in pursuit, the Park-Karts ahead of us had increased their lead.

  “How trigger-happy is Ralph?” Jack whispered, so only I was able to hear.

  “I believe he's smart enough to fear our corporate lawyers if he overreacts. That should make him cautious, but R
alph’s new around here.” An issue with Buddy Bear during the investigation into Mallory’s murder had caused a shake-up in security. Our previous Security Chief had taken an early retirement. “Tonight is the first time a situation has put Ralph to the test, as far as I know.”

  “Taking off as he just did, without making sure we were with him, isn't reassuring,” Jack said, pressing the pedal to the floor. Our top speed probably wasn't more than 35 mph, but the Park-Kart's are wide open and it felt risky. Once again, I found myself hanging on for dear life with Detective Wheeler at the wheel.

  “I hope you're right about Ralph and your lawyers, Georgie. We're losing ground to the guy.”

  “I know where we’re going. In fact, if you hang a right up there at the intersection Ralph just blew through, I know a shorter route. We might even get there first.”

  “Okay, but get ready to duck down when we arrive if I tell you to.”

  “Sure, if you promise to pry me out later. That’ll be like opening a can of sardines.” I imagined squeezing myself down into the tiny space at my feet. I try to stay limber with stretching exercises every morning, but I’m no pretzel.

  “You have my word on it.” He winked.

  “What?” one of the EMTs, asked from the back seat.

  “Nothing, just getting directions from Ms. Shaw. Hang on. We're taking the next right turn a little fast.”

  I would have said something about slowing down if associates were roaming the area. So far we had not spotted a single soul—armed or unarmed. A good thing, given the dangerous men we were after. Still, it felt eerie. Our headlights bounced back at us from spots on the floor and walls. Shadows loomed as we passed. Less than five minutes later, we approached another intersection.

 

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