by Drew Murray
“What the hell is that?”
“Discrimination against a particular age.”
“I’m not being ageist. You said it was sophisticated. They picked a lock.”
“It’s a standard RV lock. There’s a how-to for everything on YouTube. Let’s go.” I look both ways and set out toward the hall.
“Hold up,” she says holding out a hand to block the door. “There’s four of them and two of us.”
“So? They’re just kids. I’m sure we can handle them,” I say, reaching for the door.
“They’re going to bolt,” she says, stepping in front of me. “We can’t catch them all.”
“Why would they bolt?” I ask. “We’re just here to talk. Maybe people run when you try to talk to them, but you have an assertive bearing.”
“You don’t like my bearing?” she asks.
“No, I love your bearing,” I say.
“You do. Good to know,” she says, flashing her perfect teeth my way. “But there’s still four of them and two of us.”
Where will those kids go if they run? Back the way they came? I look around the hall, my eyes settling on the seating areas.
“We use the environment to our advantage. Give me a hand with that sofa over there.”
The furniture is small, but large enough for this to work. We don’t want to harm the kids, just keep them from getting away. For the next few minutes we drag sofas and chairs around until all the doors to the vendor hall are blocked by furniture. All except one. We’re short one piece.
“Now what?” Dana asks.
“We bring in some backup.”
“The guard? Are you sure? He looked pretty useless.”
“Better,” I say, easing open the last door to peek inside.
I don’t know if all of these kids were here last night, or if they saw and heard the same things. As the closest things to witnesses we’ve got, we’ve got to catch them all. If they do bolt, I can’t afford any of them to get away.
What I’m looking for stands right where I remembered it from this afternoon. Slipping inside, I silently make my way over to it. When Dana sees what I’m after, she hisses. I turn around to find her holding her hands in the air, and rolling her eyes in a way that clearly expresses WTF. Pointing at the door, I wave it in an opening gesture. Shaking her head in disbelief, she does it anyway.
Eyes wide open, I approach my backup slowly, until I see how it’s disabled with a piece of duct tape. Carefully dragging it behind me, I back out into the hallway.
“Are you serious right now?” Dana asks.
“This will totally work,” I insist, pointing. “Once I pull the duct tape off the motion sensor, he goes live. You’d better get inside.”
Muttering something that sounds like Spanish, she eases open the door and disappears into the vendor hall. The tape comes off easily. Once the eye is clear, I slip around behind him and through the door after Dana.
Being here now, alone in this enormous hall usually filled with people, is eerie. The dull roar of thousands of voices is replaced by the soft whoosh of air handlers. A dull bang from above signals some shift in the HVAC system. Or was it the sound of movement reflected off the ceiling? Can I be sure that the only other people in here are those kids? Or is my watcher here too?
The sounds of laughter drift our way from the direction of the Wasteout 3 mobile display vehicle. Heading down the aisle, we keep to the side, moving quietly, heads up and alert. If there’s a straggler, we don’t want to stumble across them and give them a chance to sound the alarm.
“We should come at this from different directions,” Dana says as we reach the end of the aisle.
“It’s not a bad idea. They’ll be easier to corral with us on either side of them,” I whisper. But I really don’t think they’re going to run. All we want to do is talk. “You stay out of sight; I’ll strike up the conversation. Then, when we’re chatting you can come in.”
“Strike up a conversation? How do you think you’re going to do that?”
“Just talk to them. You know, hang out. I’m cool like that.”
“You don’t think going in strong and putting them on the deck would work better?”
“You sound like Decker.”
Some situations need finesse. These are my kind of people, young and into tech. I’m famous in their world, so they may even recognize me. A brush with celebrity is a better way to start a conversation than shock and awe.
We split up. Leaving Dana behind, the sense of unease at being alone in here returns. I move as quickly as I can without making any noise, coming back to the mobile display vehicle from behind the Game Planet space.
Peering around a rack of recycled video games, I see the teens. One of the guys stands in a square space under the vehicle’s awning, wearing the new VR goggles and waving his black-gloved hands around in front of him. I have to admit I’m impressed. Seeing them on the kid’s head, they’re amazingly slim, with no wires to get in the way.
The other three lounge around in cushy leather chairs, feet up and over the arms. Cans of energy drinks and a pile of chocolate snacks cover one of the end tables. A monitor mounted in the side of the MDV shows them what their friend is seeing in the goggles, currently the creepy ruins of a shack.
Stepping out and strolling over, I keep my hands in my pockets. Chill. Like a celeb should be. Dana’s peeking out from the aisle behind them, hanging back. The three kids lounging around catch sight of me at the same time.
“Hey, guys,” I say, “don’t get up.”
They bolt.
One of the guys, launching over furniture with the speed of a spider monkey, screams, “Nick!” The other two loungers scramble after him.
I barely have time to pull my hands out of my pockets before the kid with the goggles tears them off his face, leaps over the end table, and takes off deeper into the hall.
Dana steps out to head off the loungers, arms wide, badge in one hand.
“Stop, police!” she thunders.
Fine. Now that we’re in pursuit, it’s a good idea. Chasing after the goggles kid, I shout, “FBI, freeze!”
He doesn’t, but it was worth a shot. Looking over his shoulder, he sees me gaining on him. If he keeps going straight, I’ll have him in a dozen paces.
“Come on, kid, give it up,” I shout.
Ignoring me, he slows to turn down another aisle. I pour on the speed to grab him before he changes direction.
Sensing my reach, he cuts the corner with a grunt. I swing around a booth of fan art made from melted beads. When I finally catch up with him, he’s zigzagging through the life-sized Lego character display.
“Dude!” I shout. “I just want to talk to you for a minute.”
Somehow this kid finds another gear, accelerating into a straight shot for the exit doors. He’ll never make it. I’ve totally got him.
Until he drops two handfuls of loose Lego pieces onto the floor.
Too close to avoid it, I run into the Lego slick full tilt. The bricks are smooth, hard plastic, and the Convention Center floor is smooth, hard concrete. When my full weight comes down on them, the Lego pieces act like marbles, shooting my feet out from under me. As I go down, I tuck my shoulder into a roll. Hitting the ground, the world spins around me twice before I come out of it, leaping to my feet. It’s too late. I can’t catch him before he gets to the exit doors, but I run as hard as I can. Sure enough, I’m still twenty feet behind when he aims for the only door that doesn’t have a piece of furniture on the other side. Slamming into the crash bar with both hands, he flings the door open so hard it bounces closed behind him.
From the other side comes the characteristic roar of Godzilla, the rubber-suited, Tokyo-smashing star of Japanese monster movies, followed immediately by a scream and a thud.
As I push the crash bar myself, the door swings wide to reveal the kid on the floor, scrambling to get up. Above him is the six-foot-tall statue of Godzilla I dragged out from a vendor’s booth. The monster’s
trademark roar blasts through speakers in its chest, the wide-set eyes in his lizard head glowing with white LEDs.
I drop on the kid, pushing him back down to his stomach, a knee in his back.
“Come on, man, you can’t escape the King of the Monsters!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“What did I tell you, Will?” Dana asks when I arrive back at the RV, goggles kid in tow.
She’s got a short blond boy and the girl sitting in leather chairs next to the mobile display vehicle. The display screen is still on, showing a world of ruins, a dry wind kicking up clouds of dust. I’m not sure what looks more miserable: the dystopian world of Wasteout 3, or the faces of these kids.
“We’re one short,” I point out. “You’ve only got two of them.”
“And you’ve only got one.”
“He was fast,” I mutter, “and there was Lego.”
Dana shakes her head, pointing to an empty chair. I give the kid called Nick a not too gentle push forward.
It bugs me that we only have three. Thinking back in my mind to the moment they bolted, I concentrate on what each of them did. Nick was in the VR rig. The blond kid shouted out his name. The girl climbed across two chairs to get away. The last kid hit the deck. Closing my eyes, I remember he had on an orange shirt. Messy black hair. Looked well fed. Not the kind of kid that would try to win a footrace. If he didn’t go anywhere, he must have hidden.
I look around. Living room furniture. Giant screens. The carpet under the awning with cameras mounted all around it to capture motion for the VR rig. The door to the RV. Closed. Was it closed before?
Placing my ear on the door yields nothing. All I hear is the rush of the air handlers in the massive hall. I tap on the thin metal. Still nothing.
“Forget it, man,” says Nick, with a grunt of disgust. “You screwed up. You let one get away. Gonna be in trouble I bet, huh?”
“If I were you,” Dana says to him, “I’d be worrying about my own troubles.”
I’m just about to lift my ear from the RV door when I hear something. I try the latch on the door, finding it’s unlocked. The door opens smoothly; I step inside cautiously, in case this kid’s got the wrong idea about fight or flight. The shuffling sound comes again, but not from inside the display vehicle.
Climbing back down to the carpeted floor, I take a knee, one hand on my Glock. The carpet is nice and plush between my fingers as I bend down to look underneath the giant vehicle. Looking back at me is the heavy kid in the orange shirt. He’s shuffled back almost out the far side.
“Well, hello there,” I say. “Come on out and join the party.”
The kid wriggles and jiggles his way back. It wasn’t a bad idea. Hiding was probably his best option, but he could have picked a better spot.
“All right, let’s get this out of the way,” I say when the kids are all seated in front of me. “I really don’t care about you sneaking in here to play video games.”
While three of their faces slide into shock and confusion, Nick looks suspicious, squinting his eyes at me as if trying to figure out the game. Being the one to play first is a privilege that usually goes to whoever’s in charge, so he must be the leader of the group.
Nick’s the key to getting this show on the road. Not for what he knows, specifically, but because the quickest way to get the other three talking is to break their leader. If they were here last night, they must know something. Dana and I need to figure out what.
“Where were you last night?” I ask. Keep it simple to start. Sound him out. See how difficult this is going to be.
“At home, asleep,” he says with a sneer. He looks around, rolling his eyes, like this is just a big inconvenience to him. Okay, difficult it is, then.
My eyes dash back to Dana. She shrugs her shoulders and waves at me. Your show.
“What’s your name, big shot?” I ask. Less patience in my tone this time.
“What’s yours?” he counters. This kid’s clearly used to getting his way.
Time to change up that dynamic.
“Hook him up,” I say to Dana. “We haven’t got time for this. We’ll deal with him tomorrow.”
“Got it,” she says, coming around, the cuffs already jangling in her hands.
She tells Nick to stand up and turn around with his hands behind his back. When he refuses to move, Dana and I move fast, each seizing and arm and taking him to the carpet, facedown.
“Stop resisting,” repeats Dana endlessly.
We’re gentle as we manipulate his arms behind his back. He’s a young kid and we don’t want to hurt him. Despite the loud commands, Dana’s face is calm. I suspect she’s done this many times before, with much bigger, more unruly suspects.
Nick grunts and yelps from underneath us. I’ve got one knee digging right into the back of his leg.
“Stop, you’re hurting him,” exclaims the girl, rising out of her seat.
“Sit down!” I shout, taking one hand off Nick to point at her. She settles back into the chair, but lightly, perched on the edge.
We struggle with Nick for a little while, eventually bringing his wrists together, securing them in Dana’s cuffs. The second they click closed, his resistance drops away. His shoulders relax and his arms hang limply.
Lifting him to his feet, I pat him down before seating him in a chair. All he’s got on him are a wallet and a phone. While he’s no longer physically struggling, the fight isn’t out of him yet. His eyes glower at us, full of resentment.
“You can’t do this,” he says defiantly. “I want a phone call.”
“Kid, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dana says.
“Yeah I do. You can’t question me without a lawyer present. I want to call my dad. He’s got the best lawyers. You’re going to regret this.”
Dana laughs, low and slow, flipping open his wallet. She takes her time, looking through all the cards until she finds his driver’s license.
“Nick Reynolds, age nineteen.” She reads off his address.
“Nice neighborhood?” I ask Dana. Then to Nick, “I’m not from around here. FBI.” I show him my badge, holding it up so the others can see.
“It’s all right, if you’re into that sort of thing,” Dana says. Meeting my eyes with a wink signals she’s down with the plan. Dad’s a big shot, so junior is too. Nick’s used to people being impressed. Take that away and he’s got nothing. “Big houses on tiny lots out in the ’burbs. Not my cup of tea.”
“Well, he wants his phone call, and his lawyer, which is his right,” I say clearly, looking at the other three kids. “But you don’t get one here. You’ll get one after you’ve been booked and processed. What’s the wait time on processing in this town, Detective?”
“Busy Friday night?” she says, looking up in the air like she’s calculating something. “You’ve got the usual bar drunk and disorderly traffic, and nice weather like this there’ll be a lineup of streetwalkers down there. The heat gets people fighting, too, so add in some brawlers. They’re usually covered in blood—cleaning that up takes time. I’d say probably mid-morning before he’s assigned to his cell and it’s his turn for a phone call.”
“Cell?” Nick says, his voice faltering slightly.
Dana snaps her fingers, making Nick twitch. “Oh, you know what? I forgot to tell him, I work Homicide.”
Nick’s eyes widen slightly, but his jaw is still set in defiance.
“I didn’t kill anybody.”
“I didn’t say you did,” says Dana with a shrug, looking at the time on her Fitbit. “But what it means to you, is that I’m busy right now, so the paperwork on your little break and enter can wait. I have twenty-four long hours to file charges, before the slow wheels of justice even start turning. Assuming this is your first offense, I’d say you should be home by lunch time on Monday.”
“Right now, you’re detained, not under arrest,” I explain. “Once she reads you your rights, it’s a done deal. A weekend behind bars instead of a weekend here at
the Con. Are you ready for that? It’s all up to you.”
Nick doesn’t answer, so I nod to Dana who takes over. It’s so smooth, how we’re handing off to one another. We’re in tune, like we’ve done this before.
“Let’s see if we can save some time,” she says. “Can I just have a show of hands? Who else is going along with Nick here to jail for the weekend? Just so I know how big a vehicle to request.”
My gaze scans over the other three. The blond kid started out pale, but now he’s downright spectral. The girl is biting her lower lip, thinking.
The kid in the pylon-orange shirt is a mess. He’s sweating up a storm, pockets of damp forming under his armpits. He rubs his palms together repeatedly like he’s washing them.
None of them raise their hands, clinging to solidarity.
“Here’s the deal,” Dana says, addressing the group. “You’re in trouble, but you can still walk away from it. We need information, that’s it. Refuse to cooperate, and it’s a trip to the cells. Talk to me, and you’ll be home snug in your beds in no time. Last chance.”
Nick’s staring sullenly at the floor in front of him. The kid looks anxiously over at the girl, who’s still biting her lip. As the kid in orange stares at his hands, a tear drops off his cheek to the carpet below. The girl looks up at Dana. Bingo. We have a winner.
“Promise? Detective …”
“Lopez. Dana Lopez. And you are?”
“Ashley Brewster.”
“Nice to meet you Ashley, and yes, I promise. So does Agent Parker,” she says, pointing at me.
“Okay, sure, we can talk,” she says. “Was someone really murdered?”
Not only has Ashley distinguished herself as the smartest of the bunch, cooperating with us, she also seems compassionate. I don’t know what she’s doing hanging around these other turkeys. She casts a glance over at Nick who refuses to look at her. Then again, maybe I do. The oldest story.
“I’m afraid so,” Dana says. “I can’t tell you more than that, okay? But I have a few questions.”
“Sure,” Ashley replies, folding her hands in her lap. She’s sitting up, back straight like Decker. Her parents must be drill sergeants.