“Good,” said Selah. “I’d like to hire you.”
“I’m rather booked up at present,” said Keane.
“I’ll pay double your normal rate.”
“Hmm,” said Keane. “And if your case happens to distract us from another investigation we’re engaged in, that’s purely incidental.”
Selah sighed. “Feel free to follow Priya around the DiZzy Girl set if you like,” she said. “She should be back tomorrow. But you’re wasting your time. She’s in no danger. Meanwhile, I have a very pressing matter I would like you to look into.”
“I’m listening,” said Keane.
“To be blunt,” said Selah. “Something has been stolen from me. I want it back.”
“I see,” said Keane. “And this stolen item, what might it be, exactly?”
I took another sip of coffee.
“A sheep,” said Selah.
I came very close to spitting out the coffee. Instead I swallowed hard and coughed violently for a while. Selah Fiore, world-famous film star and multibillionaire, couldn’t possibly have just said what I thought she said. I had sheep on the brain. It was the only explanation. “I’m sorry,” I croaked. “Went down the wrong pipe. I thought you said someone stole your sheep.”
“You have to understand,” Selah said, regarding me disapprovingly, “this is no ordinary sheep.”
So I had heard her correctly. “Lot of that going around,” I murmured.
“And you’re the legal owner of this sheep?” Keane asked hurriedly, shooting me a disapproving glance.
Selah took a sip of her coffee. “Ownership is a tricky thing,” she said.
“Not in my experience,” I said. “Either you own something or you don’t.” I was starting to really dislike the vibe I was getting from Selah Fiore.
“It may help if I give you a little background,” said Selah, studying her coffee cup. “A parable, if you will. The parable of the lost sheep.”
I gave Keane a dubious look, but he just shrugged.
“Once upon a time…,” started Selah.
“Hold on,” I said. “I thought this was a parable. Not a fairy tale. Parables don’t start with once upon a time.”
“This one does,” said Selah, irritably. “Once upon a time,” she said again, glaring at me as if challenging me to interrupt. I shrugged and took another sip of coffee. She continued, “There was a king of a very large and very powerful kingdom. This king became overconfident in his wealth and abilities, and overextended himself fighting wars against other kingdoms. His resources were spread so thin that eventually his own kingdom fell into anarchy. It took him five years to get control of the kingdom again. Now in this kingdom there were certain wizards, practitioners of what you might call black magic—a kind of sorcery that had been outlawed by the king. When the kingdom collapsed, these wizards seized up their chance to pursue their arcane work. But the work these wizards were doing was expensive. They needed gold to buy … let’s say, materials.”
“Eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog,” said Keane.
“Right,” said Selah. “That sort of thing. Now, a certain merchant gave a certain wizard a lot of gold to buy newt eyes and the like, with the understanding that the merchant would be given access to the fruit of the wizard’s sorcery. But then the king reasserted control over his kingdom and threatened to imprison any wizards who had been practicing black magic. A few of them did get imprisoned, but most of them just destroyed the evidence and kept the results of their work to themselves.”
“And our generous merchant got screwed.”
“Precisely. The wizard claimed not to know anything about any black magic, so the merchant never got what she paid for. Now let’s suppose the merchant became aware of some of the fruits of the wizard’s work, and found an opportunity to avail herself of those fruits. Under those circumstances, Mr. Keane, wouldn’t you say that the merchant would be justified in claiming the fruits for herself?”
“The scenario is too abstract for me to make any definitive judgment,” Keane said. “Let’s just say I can see the merchant’s point of view. But whether or not the fruits belong to you, I’m not a thief. I’m not going to break into a lab and steal your fruits for you.”
“Just so we’re all on the same page here,” I said, “you do both realize a sheep is not a variety of fruit?”
Selah glared at me.
“I’m just saying,” I grumbled. “The story was supposed to be about a sheep.”
“The sheep has already been removed from the lab,” Selah said. “But it never got to me.”
“You hired someone to steal the sheep, but they double-crossed you,” said Keane.
“Something like that,” replied Selah. “I’ll give you the details once you’ve agreed to take the case.”
I suspected we already knew quite a few of those details, but I kept my mouth shut.
Keane shook his head. “I’m sympathetic to your plight, but I’m afraid I have to decline. I have a conflicting engagement.” Presumably, Keane was talking about the fact that he had already promised to return the sheep to the Esper Corporation. After all, it had to be the same sheep, didn’t it? How many genetically modified sheep could be at large in Los Angeles at any given time? But of course Selah thought he meant he was busy on Priya’s case.
“I’ll triple your rate,” said Selah. “No, quadruple it. Hell, Keane, name your price. I need this sheep found.”
“Why do you even want this sheep?” I asked. “You’re a movie star and a powerful executive. What possible use do you have for a genetically modified sheep?”
“That’s my business,” said Selah curtly. “I’ll tell you anything that might help you find the sheep, but why I want it is none of your concern. What do you say, Mr. Keane?”
“I’m sorry,” said Keane. “I just can’t do it.”
Selah sighed. “A man of principle, eh? So there’s nothing I can offer you that will change your mind?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Keane.
“In that case,” said Selah, her jaw set firmly, “I have no more use for you.”
THIRTEEN
We took the hint and got the hell out of Selah’s office. I was doing my best not to read too much into her comment about having “no more use” for us—I’d heard stories about Selah Fiore’s ruthlessness, and after witnessing her reaction to an explosion that killed three of her employees, I wasn’t eager to see what she was capable of.
“Did you notice anything strange about that conversation?” Keane asked as we strolled down the street past the site of the explosion. We seemed to be headed back to the car.
“Well, there was the part where she asked us to locate a sheep for her,” I said.
“I was referring to the way she ended it,” said Keane.
“The comment about having no use for us?”
“No, she’s right about that,” said Keane. “She has no use for us. My point was that despite the fact that she has no use for us, she didn’t kick us off the set. She wanted nothing more than to tell me to go to hell, but she didn’t. She wants us here.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Presumably, because there’s nothing for us to find. And perhaps because she doesn’t want us somewhere else.”
“Like the Palomar,” I said.
“Right,” said Keane.
“So you don’t think the sheep was a red herring?” The mixed metaphor didn’t register until it had left my mouth.
“No,” said Keane. “I think she’s actually desperate to get her hands on that sheep.”
It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t being facetious. “Why?” I asked.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“So it’s just a coincidence that she asked us to find a sheep we’re already looking for.”
“A coincidence?” said Keane thoughtfully. “I’d call it a confluence of events.”
“We do think it’s the same sheep, right?”
He
raised an eyebrow at me. “How many genetically engineered sheep do you think are at large in Los Angeles?”
I nodded. So we were in agreement on that one.
“I take it we’re done here then,” I said.
Keane nodded. “If Selah wants us here, this is the last place we need to be.”
“Where to then?”
“Back to the office. I need to think.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll drop you off. I’m going to check out some of the Nifty Truck Rental locations and see if I can find any leads on the sheep thieves.”
Keane nodded absently, deep in thought. I doubt he heard a word I said. But it didn’t matter, because we never made it to the office.
* * *
“Erasmus Keane,” said the cop at the DZ checkpoint, leaning over to see Keane in the passenger’s seat. “I need you to follow that officer over there.” He pointed to a sunglasses-wearing cop standing next to an aircar some fifty feet away. Officer Shades gave us a slight wave as we looked in his direction.
“This relationship isn’t entirely about your needs,” said Keane. “Am I being arrested?”
“Not if you do as you’re told,” said the cop. “Otherwise I might find I suspect you’re transporting contraband and have to tear your car apart.”
Keane gritted his teeth but said nothing. He knew when he was beat. You couldn’t fight the LAPD.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“Orders,” said the cop. “Get moving.”
I glanced at Keane, who shrugged. I pulled up behind the aircar. Officer Shades got in and pulled away from the curb. When he got to a launching area down the street, he took off and arced toward Downtown. We followed. A few seconds later a second police car closed behind us.
“These guys aren’t messing around,” I said.
“It’s for show,” Keane said. “Somebody is trying to impress us.”
He turned out to be exactly right. Five minutes later we were directed to land on the roof of the Esper building. We were met by the head of security for the Esper Corporation and escorted to the office of Jason Banerjee. He didn’t offer us coffee. In fact, he didn’t even get up from his desk.
“You could have just called,” I said.
“It seems you’ve been a bit distracted of late,” said Banerjee. “I wanted to get your attention. I assume my friends in the LAPD treated you well.”
“Is that who those guys were?” said Keane. “I thought we had crashed some kind of fascist parade.”
Banerjee smiled wanly. “Please, have a seat.”
Keane and I took the chairs opposite him.
“So, gentlemen. Any progress in finding our missing sheep?”
“The investigation is ongoing,” said Keane. “Your theatrics aren’t going to make things move any more quickly.”
“Nor is your feigned indignation,” replied Banerjee.
Keane studied him for a moment. “We’ve identified an employee who was involved.”
“The dead man, yes,” said Banerjee. “I heard you harassed his widow.”
“Harassed is a harsh term,” said Keane. “I heckled her a bit.”
“Mr. Keane’s interrogative technique can be a bit brusque,” I said. “We believed Jessica Díaz may have been withholding some critical—”
“Let me be clear,” said Banerjee. “I don’t give a damn about Jessica Díaz. You can tar and feather her if it gets results. What I want to know is, where the hell is my sheep?”
“We’ve connected Hugo Díaz to a criminal organization operating in the DZ,” said Keane. “As the investigation is ongoing, I’d prefer not to say more at the moment.”
“I see,” said Banerjee. “And might this criminal organization have some connection to Selah Fiore?”
“Not that I know of,” said Keane, without hesitation. “Why do you ask?”
I had to admire Keane’s composure. Where the hell did Banerjee get the idea Selah Fiore was involved? Did he have somebody watching us?
“I’ve got a source in Selah’s organization,” said Banerjee. “Esper has done some business with her in the past, and I’ve found it worthwhile to keep an eye on her. Mr. Fowler was seen on the DiZzy Girl set yesterday, and you two were there again today. My source says Selah was there at the same time.”
“We spoke to her regarding another case,” said Keane. “You understand I can’t give you details.”
“I see,” said Banerjee. “So Selah didn’t ask you about the sheep?”
“Why would you think Selah Fiore has any interest in your sheep?” I asked. “Just what sort of business did you do with her anyway?”
“My past dealings with Selah Fiore aren’t relevant to this case,” said Banerjee. “Suffice it to say she has a bit of a grudge against Esper.”
“You know,” I said, “I’m getting really tired of people not telling me things because supposedly they aren’t relevant. I have a crazy idea. How about we all tell each other what we know, and then we can all decide for ourselves what’s relevant. I’ll start. Selah Fiore thinks you owe her a sheep. Your turn.”
Keane scowled at me. I ignored him.
Banerjee smiled. “Selah provided Esper with some capital for an off-the-books project we were working on a few years ago.”
“During the Collapse,” I said.
“Yes,” said Banerjee. “Not illegal, but not commercially viable in the conventional sense. Selah wanted Flagship to be the sole beneficiary of the research.”
“Which was what?”
Banerjee studied me for a moment. “That information isn’t relevant to the discussion at hand—”
I groaned and pounded my fist against my head.
“But I’m willing to tell you as a show of good faith. Understand I’m putting Esper in a potentially compromising position by sharing this with you.”
I nodded impatiently. Keane regarded Banerjee, a curious expression on his face.
“What is it, then?” I said. “What was Esper working on that Selah Fiore was so interested in?”
“Age reversal,” said Banerjee.
I frowned. “What, Selah wants to relive her glory days?”
“No,” Banerjee said. “That wasn’t her stated motivation, in any case. She wanted to—as she put it—maximize her investment.”
“In what?”
“In people. Actors and actresses, primarily. Imagine how much a Clive Harrow or a TC Gemmel is worth.”
“Or a Priya Mistry,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Banerjee. “Priya Mistry’s actually a better example, because the shelf life of actresses is so short. Even Selah Fiore’s career really only spanned a couple of decades. How much time do you think Priya Mistry has left? Flagship Media spends a lot of money developing programs, finding out which actresses have star potential. And then, a few years later, they have to start over with someone new. Imagine how much more money they could make if they could just extend the life of Priya Mistry’s career by five or ten years.”
“Hundreds of millions,” I said.
Banerjee nodded. “At least.”
“Did it work?” asked Keane.
“Animal trials showed some promise,” said Banerjee. “But there’s a societal barrier to the adoption of this technology.”
“Which is?” I asked.
“Like many new technological advancements, it’s prohibitively expensive for most people. Generally, the way technology companies get past such a barrier is by marketing the first-generation product to wealthy people who value the cachet of having the latest thing.”
“The stupid rich,” said Keane.
“To put it bluntly, yes,” said Banerjee. “The stupid rich pay the cost of the initial R and D. Once the initial development is paid for, prices begin to come down, and the user base expands. As the volume produced increases, prices drop even more. The cycle is self-reinforcing, and prices ultimately bottom out somewhere just above the cost of the raw materials. So, for example, in 1980 a basic vi
deocassette recorder cost over two thousand dollars. By 1990, you could get one for less than one hundred dollars.”
“But eternal youth isn’t a VCR,” Keane said.
“Correct,” said Banerjee. “Nobody in 1980 expected everyone in America to be able to afford a VCR. But you can’t sell immortality at a hundred million dollars a pop to the obscenely wealthy with the promise that everyone else will be able to afford it in twenty years or so.”
“It isn’t a crime to sell things to rich people,” I said.
“Not a crime, no,” Banerjee said. “But it’s bad PR to be viewed as catering solely to the elite, particularly if you’re a company like Esper, which relies heavily on federal funding. Politicians like to be seen supporting companies believed to be promoting the general welfare. During the Collapse, when both the funding and the oversight were intermittent, Selah’s scheme seemed like a potentially profitable one. Post-Collapse, it’s too risky.”
“Selah came to you?” I asked.
“It was a mutual arrangement,” replied Banerjee. “We approached several potential investors regarding various … sensitive projects we were considering. Selah was very interested in the possibility of age reversal.”
“So you promised her immortality and then welshed on the deal,” I said. “No wonder she’s pissed off at you.”
Banerjee shrugged. “Esper promised her exclusive access to the results of our R and D for ten years. The program was shut down, so there were no results. We abided by the letter of the agreement. But I’m glad you brought up the importance of fulfilling one’s contractual obligations.” He opened a drawer in his desk and extracted a large brown envelope. He placed it on the desk in front of us. On the upper right-hand corner was a label on which was written a single word:
Maelstrom
“What’s this?” I asked, picking up the envelope.
“Insurance,” said Banerjee. “Against the possibility you’ll be tempted to renege on your agreement with Esper or expose sensitive information about us.”
“How is that?” I asked. “What is ‘Maelstrom’?”
Banerjee smiled. “Why don’t you ask Mr. Keane?” he asked.
I turned to Keane, who was studying Banerjee dispassionately.
The Big Sheep Page 11