The Album of Dr. Moreau

by Daryl Gregory

  “You don’t believe him about the flying contraption?”

  “I don’t, but we’re going to have to talk to crew people to know for sure, see if they reported any malfunction, or if he complained at the time.”

  “If he’s lying, how do you think he— Wait. The balcony door. The crack in it. You think he flew into it?”

  “He’s not lying about the physics. I’m sure he can’t fly.”

  “So . . . what? He had a fight with Dr. M? They were alone for a couple minutes. Not enough time to kill him, and the two zoomies said that Dr. M—”

  “Zoomandos.”

  “Sorry, I meant to say Trekkies. Dr. M locked the door, then yelled at Matt.”

  “Bendix was alive and behind a locked door at three AM, no doubt about that,” Luce said. The elevator opened and they stepped out. “Which number is hers?”

  “Fifty-Six Sixteen,” he said. On this floor the rooms were smaller and there were more of them. “She’s the last interview, right?”

  “I need to do this one alone,” Luce said.

  “You sure?”

  “I think it’ll go better, woman to woman. Could you do me a favor? Call the coroner’s office, find out who’s doing the autopsy, and tell them that I absolutely need the results of the blood work, tonight.”

  “What’s going on? Was Dr. M poisoned? Did he OD?”

  “I just want to confirm something.”

  “You know who did it!”

  She did. What she didn’t understand was why Dr. M was murdered. All the motives on the table didn’t convince her. She said, “I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”

  “Don’t do this to me, I can see it in your face,” Banks said. “Who is it? Not the fan—we haven’t learned anything new. And not Matt. Did Tim go ballistic? Comes back, blood on his claws, washes up in the bathroom . . .”

  “Tim barely scratched him. I think people at the party would have noticed if he clawed him apart.”

  “So he goes in after the zoomando leaves.”

  “While Bobby is next to the Doc in bed?”

  “I got it,” Banks said. “Tim’s at the party and has poison on his claws, and then—never mind, that doesn’t explain the clawing.”

  “I promise you, if I get proof of what happened, I’ll let you know. Just try to get me those blood test results, okay? Beg and plead for me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Thanks, Mickey.”

  He tilted his head. “You never call me by my first name.”

  “I won’t let it happen again.”

  “I like it . . . Lucia.”

  “Aaagh! Go. That was a huge mistake.”

  “Okay, just call me if there’s a second murder.”

  She watched him lope away. She wondered what kind of animal he’d make. Looked like an owl, walked like a wolf, but left the overall impression of a smart-alec giraffe. And what kind of animal was Luce Delgado? She didn’t want to think about it.

  She shook a breath, held it, then let it out. Here we go, she thought, and knocked.

  * * *

  Marilyn Bendix stood by the bed, angrily going through a pile of skirts, tops, and shoes. She’d pick up a piece, scowl, and then throw it into one of the three open suitcases on the floor. A smaller carry-on bag was already zipped up. “Where the hell is my Versace bandeau? Canary yellow, rhinestones, matches the track pants.”

  “We couldn’t give you all of your clothes,” Luce said. “Some of them had blood on them, making them evidence.”

  “Blood? How did blood get on my clothes?”

  Because the killer was looking for something, Luce thought. Aloud she said, “We’re trying to figure that out. But after this is over, I promise you, if there’s anything of value, we’ll get it back for you.”

  “I don’t want it back if it’s got my husband’s blood on it!”

  “Understandable.”

  “Did you find the person who did this yet?”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  “They ripped him apart. Oh, the morgue people kept most of his body covered, but I could tell. I could tell.” She scooped a handful of glittery material and shoes and dropped them into one of the suitcases. “And now they say they can’t release the body. I have to wait here, in this goddamn tourist trap, for who knows how long.”

  Even furious, Mrs. M looked put together. Luce had grown up with women like her: showgirls and burlesque performers who understood the transformational power of vivid makeup and structurally sound underwear. Luce’s father had been clueless about “woman things,” but these battle-hardened show-biz ladies had taken young Luce under their wing and taught her the essentials. When the girl went onstage, she looked like she belonged there. Luce had stopped putting in the effort when she left the magic act, but Marilyn Bendix was still onstage, engaged in a permanent performance as Mrs. M.

  “I know this has to be hard,” Luce said. “And complicated.”

  “Complicated? What the hell does that mean?”

  “I’ve gone through a divorce. I know about mixed feelings.”

  “Who says I was going through a divorce?”

  Luce sat down. It was usually a good de-escalation move. “I know when you left that room last night, you weren’t planning on coming back.”

  “Did Devin say that? Devin’s a kid.” She must have realized how that sounded and quickly added, “A young man. Ape. Whatever. He was a good lay, but he doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “You walked out in a towel, Mrs. Bendix. But when I saw you this morning, you were wearing your clothes.”

  Mrs. M blinked. “So?”

  “So, you either snuck back to the room, sometime after four thirty in the morning, got Dr. M to open the door for you, which makes you the last person to see your husband alive, or—”

  “That never happened!”

  “Or you packed a bag, before the party. You put it in Devin’s room, because you knew you’d sleep there last night.”

  “So what? I wanted one last fuck.”

  Luce appreciated how quickly the woman changed tack. “And you stayed in Devin’s room all night, until I saw you?”

  “Yes. What are you getting at?”

  “Devin didn’t leave the room, either?”

  “No.”

  “You’re absolutely sure? Perhaps you dozed off and he slipped away.”

  “Sure, it’s possible. But the way he sleeps—he wraps his arms and legs around you and holds on for dear life. At first it’s kind of sweet, and then you think, oh my God, I’m going to suffocate. I barely slept.”

  “So, you’re vouching for him.”

  Her eyes narrowed—and her intense black eyeliner added to the gun-barrel effect. “You think I’m covering for him, so Devin could kill my husband?”

  “Or he’s covering for you.”

  “What?”

  Devin was right about her arms—the woman was toned. Luce didn’t doubt she could pull herself up the side of a building if she wanted to. A lot of cops underestimated the power of a determined woman.

  Luce said, “I wanted to kill my ex, plenty of times. Especially when I realized he was lying to me about money.”

  “I didn’t need to kill him to get what’s mine.”

  “But that’s the hard part, isn’t it? Finding out what’s yours. When I went through my breakup, it was a mess. See, I knew how much money I made, but my husband was a professional poker player. I could never get a straight answer from him on how much he’d put away in bank accounts, how much cash he had—and how big a debt he owed. I might have walked away, but I had a kid to take care of, so I went digging through the family computer.”

  Mrs. M had stopped looking through the suitcases—her attention was fully on Luce now.

  “The computer belonged to both of us, but he’d encrypted a bunch of the files with a password. I couldn’t see any of his banking information.”

  “What did you do?” Mrs. M asked.

  “Luckily, we have
this department, they do computer forensics. Real nerd stuff, with all the hacking software.” This was a fib. The forensics guys were pretty good, but they were overworked and every job they performed left a paper trail. Luce had gone to her cousin for help. “Long story short,” Luce said, “I have people who can open anything.”

  Mrs. M sat on the bed. “Anything?”

  “Your husband had something on the WyldBoyZ, and I think it’s on his laptop.”

  “Maury never discussed that with me. He never discussed anything. If there’s dirt about the boyz, I don’t know it.”

  “I believe you. He sounds like he was paranoid about that kind of thing. I think the killer was searching your room for that laptop, and couldn’t find it. But if you could help me put my hands on it, that would go a long way toward proving you have nothing to hide, and had no part of the murder. My guys would crack the password, we’d make copies of the files we’re interested in, and then give the laptop back to you. It’s your property, after all.”

  “And the password?”

  “We’d of course tell you what it is. Or just disable it and leave the laptop unlocked. Your choice.”

  Mrs. M stared at her. Then she stood and walked to the carry-on bag. Unzipped the top. Pulled out a black laptop.

  “Unlocked,” she said.

  * * *

  Luce had almost made it out of the hotel when Captain DeAndrea spotted her. She’d turned down the same hallway where they’d found the chipmunk suit and there he was, standing in front of the notorious restroom, expounding to two white men in suits and an uncomfortable Detective Banks. The captain called to her before she could wheel about and run.

  “Detective! We were just talking about you. Let me introduce you to Agent Hammergarten and Agent Wilhelm.”

  Luce reluctantly shook hands with them. “Pleased to meet you!” one said. “We’re fans of your work!” They were both as fit and aggro-cheery as spin class instructors.

  “You’re FBI?” The laptop she held at her side seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.

  “Oh no, they’ll be here in the morning, I’m sure,” one of them said. She’d already forgotten which was which. “We’re FWS.”

  “I’ve never heard of you.”

  “United States Fish and Wildlife Service,” the other one said. “Anything regarding the WyldBoyZ falls under our purview.”

  “Oh, purview,” she said. “Well, none of them are suspects at the moment, not even Bobby O. The captain told you about our current theory?”

  “The FBI will handle the investigation—we’re here on a related matter. Have you seen this man?”

  He opened a file folder and handed it to her. Sitting on top was a black-and-white portrait, shot in harsh light, of a man with gray eyes, stiff black hair, and a face-swallowing black beard. Scars ran along his forehead. His expression, facing that camera, was defiant.

  “Who is he?” she asked.

  “Jorge Heriberto. A smuggler of endangered species—we’ve been tracking him for a while. Have you seen him? He might have shaved, obvs!”

  “Captain,” she said. “Have you heard of this guy?”

  The captain said no but assured the agents he’d look into it.

  “I haven’t heard of him, either,” Luce said. She closed the folder and handed it back to the agent. Her heart was beating fast, but she’d been performing under pressure since she was eight years old. “Then again, there’s a lot of people running around in costumes, so who knows.” She walked away, toward the fire exit.

  The captain made captain noises and Luce said over her shoulder, “Have to pick up Melanie!”

  The door sounded an alarm. She ignored it. The courtyard was brightly lit, and the warmth was a relief after the refrigerated atmosphere of the hotel.

  The alarm blared again and Banks caught up to her. “Where are you going? The captain wants to do a press conference.”

  “Home.” She kept walking toward the VIP lot.

  “Are you okay?” Banks said. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  Shit. Banks was getting to know her a little too well. She stopped and opened the laptop. Tucked between screen and keyboard was the photograph of Jorge Heriberto. “Did the fish police show you this?”

  “Wait—how did you . . . ?”

  “Just look at it. Does it remind you of anybody?”

  He studied it closely, then his eyes widened. “Kat Vainikolo? Holy cow, you’re right! No tattoos, but he could be her twin brother. What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know yet. Any word on the blood tests?”

  “They’re still working on them. But get this: Lionel found a hair—inside the chipmunk suit.”

  “Hair, or fur?”

  “Turns out, they’re chemically indistinguishable—we just call it hair when humans have it. But this one’s thick and black, like, Devin-quality hair.”

  Luce didn’t speak for a moment, and Banks said, “I thought you would have been more excited about this. This could put Devin in the suit! Which means Mrs. M was covering for him. Devin climbs up the building, goes down the other side, and walks out in the suit.”

  Luce took a breath. “Okay, that’s all good stuff. I need to chew on it.”

  “You want to tell me where you found the laptop?”

  “Mrs. M had it. Call me as soon as you’ve got something from the blood test.”

  She started walking and Banks said, “What about the press conference?”

  “You do it. Just look into the camera and be boring. Don’t smile. And for Christ sake, no jokes.”

  She walked to her car and put the laptop on the floor on the passenger side. Called a number on her cell and was relieved when he picked up. “Manuel, it’s Luce. How you doing?”

  “How you doing, Cousin? Solve any murders today?”

  “Getting close. I need a favor—I’m having a tech support emergency. Can you come by tonight? I’ll make you dinner.”

  “Oh hell no.”

  “I mean I’ll buy you dinner. How about Serrano’s?”

  “That’s more like it. Can’t wait to see Melanie—I haven’t seen her since her birthday! So what’s the nature of your IT emergency?”

  “I’ll have to tell you when you get there. Bring all your tools.”

  * * *

  Melanie sat in the passenger seat, holding the takeout bag, practically vibrating with excitement. “So who was the nicest? Was it Tusk? I bet it was Tusk. Do you know he named himself after a Fleetwood Mac song?”

  “Tusk was very polite. They were all nice. Please don’t put your feet on the laptop.”

  “Did you meet Tim? He’s the shy one, sometimes he gets so shy he can’t even talk.”

  Luce was heartsick. How was she going to tell Melanie that the band would never sing together again and it was her mother’s fault? She might as well have lined them up and shot them all down on Sunset Strip. The Moreau Massacre.

  “Mami, no one’s going to believe me. If I call Chloe can you tell her that you met them?”

  “Sweetie, no. You can’t tell anyone about this, not right now. It’s an open case. You’re sworn to police secrecy, okay?”

  Manuel’s Audi Twin Turbo roared in three minutes after Luce pulled in the driveway. The power of the Serrano’s green shrimp enchiladas was strong.

  Her cousin was only twenty-nine, but he was already in demand as an electronic security consultant. Casinos had gotten very nervous about people sneaking computers into the gaming rooms or communicating wirelessly with confederates. Manuel, the teenage phone phreak, had gone legit. Well, mostly legit. He still did favors for his older cousin, such as breaking into an ex-husband’s encrypted files.

  After they finished with the enchiladas (for the adults) and flautas (for the nine-year-old), Manuel said, “So what do you got?”

  Luce opened the ThinkPad. “It’s password protected and I need to get into it. It looks like it’s running Windows 98. Is that hard to break into?”

  Manuel frowned.
“Windows 98? Wow. Okay, let me think. I’m going to need a fork.”

  “A fork?”

  “Please.”

  Luce went to the kitchen and came back. “Okay, now what do you—hey!”

  The screen was open and showing File Explorer. Manuel took a USB drive out of the side and put it in his pocket.

  “How did you do that?” she asked.

  Melanie fell out laughing. Manuel said to the girl, “When I was younger than you, your mom did this amazing card trick—the card I picked jumped into her mouth. I begged and begged her to tell me how she did it, and do you know what she said? ‘If I tell you, it wouldn’t be magic, it would just be a dumb trick.’”

  “You got burned, Mami! Burned!”

  “So what’s the fork for?” Luce said.

  Manuel opened his arms. “Flan!”

  After dessert, Luce asked him how to find a CD image file on the hard disk. “I think the guy who owned this laptop conned some people. They gave him a CD to play, and he copied the whole thing while they thought he was just playing it. Then later, he burned it again to CD. Is that possible?”

  “Sure, let me look. Okay, here’s a bunch of ISO images, let me find the CUE file—okay, yes.”

  “Yes? Do you see MP3 files? I’m looking for music.”

  “No MP3s, but there are a bunch of WAV files. The first ten tracks of the CD are audio—those will play fine in a CD player—then there’s a bunch of data files stacked on to the last track. Images, mostly.”

  “If you transfer those to CD, can I see the images on another PC?”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Okay, burn it again, the whole CD.”

  In six minutes she was holding a CD that she hoped was the copy of the one Dr. M had put in the CD player.

  “Manuel, you’re the best.”

  “Say my name.”

  Melanie shouted, “Manuel!”

  “Say my hacker name!”

  “Manuel Override!”

  Manuel swept up Melanie in his arms, spun her around. “You bet, princesa!”

  * * *

  An hour later, Luce was on the couch, her legs resting on her dad’s old Trunk of Mystery!, which they used as a coffee table. Melanie sat curled up next to her. Luce turned down the TV and put the CD into her laptop. Windows Media Player popped up, and she clicked Play.