“But you didn’t have that growing up, I’m guessing. Being on a boat.”
“They kept us in cages,” Tim said. “During the day we had the lounge container, and the exercise container. No dirt anywhere.”
“What do you mean by ‘containers’? Like, a container ship?”
“Exactly.” Had she not read any of the press material? “Every metal container was a room, and lots of them were welded together, with hatches between them. Three containers were the common room, and that’s where we spent most of our time when we weren’t locked in our cells. There was a TV, a boombox, boxes of VHS tapes and CDs and paperbacks. The staff brought that stuff on board and let us have it when they were done. They thought it was amazing when we learned to read. Then Tusk learned how to play this Casio keyboard—it was a toy, really, but he could hit the keys by holding pencils. They thought that was amazing, too.”
“And one night, this giant ship just . . . sank?”
Everyone’s eyes were on him. Even Kat had looked up from her phone.
“We never found out what happened,” Tim said. “There was an explosion, lots of people running around. Someone unlocked the cages, and the five of us got to the lifeboat.”
“Just the five of you?”
“What?”
“Just the five of you,” Delgado repeated. “No other staff, no other . . . prisoners? Dr. M asked you the same thing, you said.”
“Just us five.”
“But there were people on board you cared for. Is that who Sofia was?”
Tim felt his chest tighten. “How do you . . . ? Oh. Right. I’m stupid.”
“My daughter sings ‘Deep Down,’ all the time,” she said. “There’s a line about Sofia, when you’re in prison.”
“I know the lyrics,” Tim said. He remembered the night he wrote them.
That night behind my prison bars
I heard you singing to the moon and stars.
Oh, Sofia, did you know what they’d do?
I can’t believe that they would go that far.
“I had to pick a girl’s name,” he said. “And I liked Sofia because of the pun.” He looked up into the detectives’ blank faces. “Sofia means ‘knowledge,’ so saying, ‘did you know’ right after is . . . clever? At least I thought so. No one cares about that kind of thing, not in a pop song, but it makes me happy.”
“But Sofia’s based on a real person,” Delgado said.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You don’t have to,” Kat said. Delgado objected and Kat added, “We can wait on the lawyers for the rest of it.”
Tim shoved himself back between the cushions. One fell over, and Kat helpfully placed it over him. He listened to them as Kat gave them the second name she’d been looking up—the record label lawyer who processed the hate mail. They also asked her for the names of anyone in her crew who was at the party last night, and she gave them half a dozen names, mostly publicity people. The techies held their own parties, in their own hotel.
“I can still hear you,” Tim said, loudly.
“I’m sorry we bothered you,” Delgado said. Her voice was close; she was leaning down toward the cushions. “I know this is a really stressful time.”
Tim leaned so that he could see through the gap between the cushions. He looked Delgado in the eye. “You think this is stressful?” he said. “This is nothing compared to Shell Cancer.”
Track 10: “Beast Folk”
Featuring Detective Delgado
Kat ushered them out and in the hallway closed the door behind her. “Sorry about that,” she said quietly. “Those boys got fucked, growing up like they did. Major PTSD, and Tim’s got it worse than the others.”
“Sure, sure,” Luce said. Her pulse had ticked up a few notches because of something she’d seen in the room, but she kept her face and voice calm.
“Do you know what happened to this Sofia?” Banks asked.
“I don’t even know her real name, just that whatever happened on that barge, it broke Tim’s heart. All of ’em, really, and they haven’t dealt with it. I mean, Bobby drinks too much, Tim’s a basket case, Matt pretends like he doesn’t have feelings. . . .”
“What about Tusk?” Luce asked.
“Ha! Tusk doesn’t know he has feelings. But he does. I hope they get into fucking therapy after all this. Well, someone besides the quack that Devin’s seeing. Maybe then they’ll forgive each other.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’ve been fighting nonstop for months. Everyone’s pissed at Devin, Devin resents Tusk, Tim’s stopped talking to everybody but me. Tusk and Matt get along, but Matt’s had one foot out the door for a while now.”
“And Bobby?” Luce asked.
“Everybody likes Bobby,” she says. “And everybody hates him. He’s annoying as fuck. Don’t tell that to your daughter.”
“There’s so much I can’t tell her. It’s going to be bad enough when she finds out the band’s breaking up. She’s not just a fan—she wants to be them. She’s been performing in choirs, and she’s already started writing her own songs.”
“Really? Good for her.”
“Magician, musician,” Banks said. “It’s all showbiz.”
Kat looked quizzical and Banks said, “Detective Delgado here had a magic act, back in the day. Her and her father. Played some big rooms on the Strip.”
Luce shot him a look.
Kat said, “Can you show me a trick?”
“No,” Luce said. “Does Dr. M have a laptop?”
The conversational curveball seemed to throw Kat for a second. “It’s an old black ThinkPad,” she said. “It should be in his room. Is it missing?”
“I’m sure it’ll turn up,” Luce said. “Do you know if it’s password protected?”
“Oh yeah,” Kat said. “Maury kept his accounts on there, and he was fucking paranoid about financial data.”
“Understandable, considering he was being sued.” She took a breath. “I think that’s it for now. Could I ask a personal question, though?”
Kat’s eyes narrowed. “That depends.”
“How many months?”
“Aw fuck, you can tell?”
“I figure last trimester. The coveralls are hiding it pretty well.”
“Don’t tell the boyz—they’ll stop listening to me. I just want to get them taken care of, before I go settle down and leave this shit behind.”
“Sounds like a good idea. Seems like you’ve been through enough.”
Kat frowned, then seemed to come to a decision. “You seem like a nice person, so fair warning? I booked a jet to fly the boyz back to Orlando in the morning. We all want to help, but we’re walking out of here at nine sharp. The lawyers have already talked to your sheriff, and they say you’re not going to go to the wall for this material witness bullshit.”
“What the hell?” Luce said.
“Word is, Bobby’s not even your top suspect anymore.”
* * *
Luce didn’t explode with anger—immediately.
She walked past the cops guarding the penthouse suite door, went into the suite’s first bathroom, shut the door, and screamed into a towel.
She left the bathroom feeling only fractionally better. Banks watched her, afraid to speak, and finally said, “I shouldn’t have brought up the magic act.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” She got out her Nokia and dialed Captain DeAndrea, her immediate supervisor.
“Hey there, Captain,” she said, with razor cheeriness. “You want to tell me why all my witnesses are being allowed to flee the state tomorrow?”
“Because tomorrow they won’t be yours,” the captain said. “Federal agents will be here in the morning.”
“No, this case is my baby.”
“It’s our baby, for one special night. It’s like foster care. Besides, you’ve got a prime suspect on video who’s not the cat man we’re holding.”
“All we’ve got is a costume,” Luce s
aid. “We don’t have a photo of the person inside it.”
“Is Bobby O still a suspect?” the captain asked.
“No.”
“Are you ready to charge any of the other animals?”
“That’s rude. And no.”
“Then this is what’s going to happen. I’ll be releasing Bobby O and announcing we have a new suspect—a costumed killer—and we’re in pursuit. And we’re going to do both those things tonight, before the WyldBoyZ sue us and the feds grab all the glory.”
Luce wanted to throw the phone off the balcony, but it was expensive.
“Fifteen hours?” Banks asked. “That’s not fair. In any decent movie, the hard-ass captain gives the detectives twenty-four hours to solve the case. Eddie Murphy got forty-eight.”
“Eddie’s the criminal in that movie,” Luce said.
“Are you saying you’d rather be Nick Nolte? Nobody wants to be Nick Nolte, except for Gary Busey. Lionel! Who would you rather be?”
The mustachioed Lionel Paget had appeared from the back bedroom, lugging his crime scene bag. “Kris Kristofferson.”
“You get everything?” Luce asked.
“I got a lot,” Lionel said. “But not near enough. By all indications there was a hundred people traipsing through here last night. You wouldn’t believe the hair clog we found in the hot tub drain.”
“You didn’t happen to find a laptop, did you? A black IBM?”
“No, ma’am. But I do have this for you.” He handed her a folder. “All the stills from the video. Sorry they’re smeary—we used the ink-jet they had in the office center. I’ll have good ones made back at the office.”
“You’re the best, Lionel. Don’t fill up your dance card tomorrow, though. I may be calling with some extra credit.”
“Is that so?”
“We’ll see. And of course I’d like to see the pictures soon as you get them.”
“They’re all digital—I’ll have them on the server soon as we get back.”
Luce sat down in the middle of the huge couch. God, she was tired. “I’ve made a huge mistake,” she said. “Two mistakes. Both come from being too nice to celebrities. I should have kicked all of them out of their rooms, turned the whole floor upside down. But I worried if I got them moving, they’d scatter.”
“You’re doing that Great Detective thing,” Banks said. “You know something, but you’re not sharing it with the idiot assistant. I just want to say, it’s not my fault I didn’t see she was pregnant. I’ve been taught never to comment on a woman’s weight.”
“That’s a good rule.”
“So what’s with the laptop? I didn’t know Dr. M had a computer, let alone that we were supposed to be looking for it.”
“It’s been on my mind since Bobby told us about the party. I don’t know what happened to it.”
“Maybe the chipmunk stole it.”
“That would be stupid of them—find it on them and it’d be pretty easy to tie it to Dr. M. And now they’re stuck trying to break his password.”
“Maybe they’re a hacker,” Banks said. He frowned, making his entire forehead wrinkle.
“What is it?” Luce asked.
“Chipmunk hackers. There’s a pun there, I can feel it.”
“I have faith in you.”
“So what’s the second thing?” Banks asked. “You said you made two mistakes.”
“I should have moved Tim out of his room.”
“Why?”
“You didn’t see it?” Luce asked. “In the hallway leading to the bathroom, there was blood on the carpet. A few drops, and a few more right next to the bathroom door. It may not even be blood, but I took a sample, and swabbed the sink.” She’d thought about giving the evidence to Lionel, but then she’d have to explain why she didn’t have his team do it. Better to get forgiveness later.
“Wait,” Banks said. “So Tim did draw blood?”
“I don’t know. But now I want to see if they do anything about it. If they go out for cleaning supplies, that’ll tell us something.”
“Entrapment!” Banks said. “I love it. I’ll call down to Rudolfo and cancel maid service, then ask the boys out front to watch Tim’s door.”
“Do it quick.” She glanced at her watch. How the hell was it already 6:00 PM? She was exhausted and starving. If she didn’t eat soon a headache would kick in. At least Melanie was getting fed; she never failed to remind her mother that Aunt Maria was a better cook than her. Which was unfair. You can’t be declared bad at something you’d never attempted.
She rested her head back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. The balcony door had been closed long enough and the air conditioning had caught up. Room temperature was back to Las Vegas Standard, aka Casino Cold.
Banks returned. “I’ve got some news—Gordon and Shweta Wisniewski, the fan club people, are waiting to talk to us. They’re about to catch a shuttle to the airport.”
“Shit. Okay.” Luce held out an arm, and Banks pulled her upright.
They walked the short distance to the elevator and pressed the button. Suddenly Banks stood straight and made a surprised noise.
“What is it?” she asked.
He turned to her, his eyes lit up. “Silicon Chip ’n’ Dale.”
* * *
The only clues that they were talking to a zebra and a gopher were the tails clipped to their belt loops. Shweta’s was a long striped braid ending in a black pouf. Gordon’s was brown and fluffy. Gordon saw Luce looking at it and said, “I know, it’s not anatomically correct, gopher tails are, well, kind of ratlike, but Shweta—”
“I like it, honey.” The couple were holding hands, and she raised his hand and kissed it. “It’s sexy.”
Shweta Wisniewski was a short East Indian woman whose hair was cut in a bob, Gordon a round-faced white man. Travel wear consisted of cargo shorts, Sun Microsystems polos, and white Reeboks—for both of them.
“Please, have a seat,” Luce said. Rudolfo had lent them a conference room.
“We don’t have long,” Shweta said apologetically. “We’re flying back to Columbus today and the shuttle leaves in a half hour.”
“When’s your flight leave?” Banks asked.
Gordon checked his digital watch. “Three hours and twenty minutes.”
“We like to be early,” Shweta said.
Luce suppressed a groan. They could have done this an hour from now—after interviewing Matt, after getting dinner. But now that they were here, there was no way out but through.
“We don’t mind being a little late,” Gordon said. “We want to help. Bobby couldn’t have done this, and if there’s any way we can help clear his name, we’ll do it.”
Banks opened his notebook. “You were at the party last night, yes?”
“We like to work the door, as they say,” Shweta said.
“So many people try to get in, and not the right people,” Gordon added. “Sometimes, um, professional ladies?”
“Got it,” Banks said. “So you would have seen everybody who came in and tried to get in—zoomies, crew members, prostitutes—”
“You . . . Oh. Wow. I wish you wouldn’t use that word.”
“‘Prostitutes’?”
“‘Zoomies,’” Gordon said. “The proper term is ‘zoomandos.’ We’re adult fans of the WyldBoyZ, separate from kidfans, but also distinct from furry fandom in general. Though you don’t have to wear a fursuit to be a zoomando—”
“Not in the least!” Shweta added.
Banks said, “And ‘zoomie’ is . . . ?”
“Offensive,” Shweta said. “Deeply offensive.”
“Well . . . ,” Gordon said.
“Most of the time,” Shweta said. “We’re allowed to use it amongst ourselves, especially if you’re an LTZ, otherwise, you should really avoid it.”
Luce sighed.
“No idea,” Banks said to her. Then to Shweta: “LTZ?”
“Long Term Zoomando.”
“Of course,” Banks sa
id.
“Like Shweta and I,” Gordon said. “We were there from the beginning. We met at a Wylding. I looked across the room, and there she was, being spit roasted by the Dalmatian twins. We made eye contact and bing! Magic.”
“So this is a sex thing,” Banks said.
“My God, that’s so . . .” Shweta put up a hand. “That’s not part of it at all.”
“Well, it’s a part of it,” Gordon said.
“But it doesn’t define us,” Shweta said. “Do we have sex together? Yes, just like everyone else. Do we keep our fursuits on while we do it? Sometimes! And do we find it freeing to embrace a part of ourselves that society—”
“Thanks for that,” Luce said. She pushed a photo at them. “Do you remember seeing this person at the party?”
Shweta and Gordon peered at the picture of the chipmunk leaving the elevator.
“Nope, they weren’t there,” Shweta said. “We’d remember.”
“Oh yeah,” Gordon said.
“It’s not one of your zoomandos?” Luce asked.
“Definitely not,” Shweta said. “None of our people would be caught dead in that.”
Gordon was shaking his head. “It’s store-bought.”
“You can tell that from this picture?” Banks asked.
“That’s some knock-off of a knock-off. See how baggy it is? There’s no craft there. No customization. You’d just buy that off the rack in a Halloween store.”
“All right, fine,” Luce said. “Can you tell us who you do remember?”
Banks opened his notebook to the page of names he’d taken from Tusk, placing a checkmark next to each name the Wisniewskis confirmed and adding new ones.
After they’d finished Banks asked them about everything they remembered and they confirmed much of what Bobby, Devin, and Tusk had told them. They saw Bobby hanging over the pool table, watched in alarm as Tim knocked down Dr. M. Saw Devin and Mrs. M come out from the Jacuzzi.
“It broke up pretty quickly after that,” Shweta said. “Which was sad, it being the last party and all.”
“The WyldBoyZ may never sing together again!” Gordon said.
“You heard they’re breaking up?” Delgado asked.
“Everybody knows the boyz are suing Dr. M and he’s counter-suing,” Shweta said. “Dr. M won’t give in, and it’ll be ugly.”
The Album of Dr. Moreau Page 8