Con Job (3 page)

“She had a badge,” said the uniformed officer. “Surely there’s a way to find out who she is.”

Vince Corleone shook his head. “Some cons number badges, we don’t have any reason to. If she didn’t have a custom name on the badge, there’s no way to track it in the system.” He shrugged, pushing his fingers through his hair. “They’re tickets, not identification.”

“She went by CosBright,” Jacob offered. “And I might be able to get her phone number.”

The officer turned. “You know her?”

Jacob shook his head. “Not exactly.”

“This is Jacob Foster,” Daniel said. “He’s done some ride-alongs with me, plans to enter Academy this fall.”

The other officer nodded, his face relaxing into friendliness. “Right on.”

“Thanks,” Jacob said. “I’ve been studying criminal justice, got one semester left. But I really want to get into the Academy.”

“Keep your nose clean.” The officer winked. “So, you sort of know the deceased?”

“Met her a few hours ago. Literally just bumped into her, but she talked to a friend of mine and they exchanged numbers.”

“Would your friend have the name?”

“No, just CosBright.” Under the officer’s gaze, Jacob continued, “A lot of people do that in the con community, go by aliases or screen names. It’s pretty common.”

“Hm.” The officer frowned.

“Not a criminal thing — it’s left over from when geeky pursuits were really looked down on. People didn’t want their bosses to know they were at a con over the weekend. But Sam’s got her number, anyway, and you could do a lookup off that. And if she pre-registered CosBright as a badge name, it should be connected to her credit card or Paypal account.”

“Spell it?”

Jacob hesitated. “I never saw it in print, just heard her say it. But I’d guess C-O-S-B-R-I-G-H-T, or maybe with a Z, or something like that.”

The officer nodded and looked at Vince. “Can you have someone look that up?”

“Sure. But we don’t have to say anything yet, do we?” Vince swallowed. “Not until we know more. This is a lot of people to panic.”

The officer nodded. “Just have someone look up the name, if it’s there. But there’s no reason to panic; we don’t have any evidence of foul play at this time. And you, get that number from your friend, but without making any waves.”

Jacob moved away and dialed Sam’s number, but the call was promptly sent to voice mail. A moment later a text arrived.
In a panel. What’s up?

Can you send me American Gods Laura’s number?

Sure. What’s up?

Later.

Right-o.
When things got serious, Samantha didn’t waste time with stupid questions. A moment later, his phone buzzed with the arriving number.

He glanced at Daniel and then started another text. Vince Corleone would probably flip out if he knew Jacob was telling anyone, but better for his aunt to hear it from Jacob than the news when it inevitably broke, and at least Jacob could be certain that she would keep it quiet. Lydia was professionally quiet about sensitive news.

A death at con, but not any of us or friends. Not public yet, just wanted you to know in case media goes nuts.

He pocketed the phone and went back. “I’ve got the number, if you’ve got a notepad or something.”

“Good.” Another officer had arrived, and she gestured to a chair. “Sit down, please, and copy it for me. Then I’d like you to tell me everything you noticed about the scene where you found her.”

Jacob tensed. As a con attendee? Or as a Police Academy hopeful? No, they wouldn’t want inferences. Just the facts, ma’am. “The stall door was closed; Daniel popped the lock with his badge. The dead woman was lying mostly between the toilet and the wall, kind of sprawled like she’d passed out or fallen. She was dressed, so she didn’t fall off the toilet, but she had been vomiting or something. And she smelled kind of garlicky. I don’t know if that’s relevant at all, probably just what she was throwing back up.”

The officer nodded. “Go on.”

“We were pretty sure she’d be dead, from what the Sailor Moon said and how she looked, but Daniel checked her anyway.” Jacob shrugged. “And then we came out to wait for the ambulance and officers.”

The officer nodded. “About as Daniel said. I hear you’re looking to enter the Academy?”

“I’m doing interviews next month.”

“Good to hear. Good luck.” She rose and went to speak with the others.

His phone buzzed, and Jacob read the incoming text.
Media always nuts, so thanks for heads-up. How’d you hear?

Was there when security found her.

Need backup?

I’m okay, thanks.

Getting some detective practice in?

Very funny.
It wasn’t even a murder, in all probability, just an unfortunate death.

Jacob swiped his key card and pushed back the hotel room door. “Tell me we have food.”

A dozen or more people mumbled cheerful greetings through full mouths or waved as they chewed. Jacob slid into a gap against the wall and stretched for the pizza box Sam pushed toward him.

“You got stuck working late,” Andrew of Fish Face Costumes commented. “They’re really short on security?”

“A little short, but not bad now that they’ve picked up some extras.” There was a slice of pepperoni left in the box.

“Sam thought you’d be back sooner. Anything wrong?”

Jacob stopped chewing and made steady eye contact. “I could tell you,” he intoned, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

Andrew laughed and went back to his pizza.

“You don’t happen to know if Dead-Laura is going to make it, do you?” Sam asked. She hadn’t mentioned his request, which was good, but she was letting him know that
she
knew that
he
knew something about her tardiness. “She was so excited about talking construction techniques, and I’ve texted her twice.”

Jacob shook his head. “I don’t think she’ll be able tonight, sorry.”

Sam glanced at Brittany, who shrugged. “We’ll be here all weekend, if she gets a chance. And we’re doing a couple of how-to panels tomorrow, so she can drop in there.”

“I’ll tell her,” Sam said.

Jacob was rooting through the pile of discarded pizza boxes for another piece when Sam settled beside him. She opened her mouth, hesitated, and then spoke under her breath. “I hate to be the bearer of weird news, but….”

“What?”

“There was another episode playing.
Cougars and Cold Ones
, I mean. It was running when we arrived at the panel room.”

Jacob exhaled and looked down at the cold slice of extra cheese.

“We shut it down. Had to, so the panel could start. But, you know, it’s out there.”

“It always is,” he said. “Thanks.”

The dinner crowd was fading, slipping away to get drinks at the bar or finish costumes or play Werewolf in the lobby. Sam stacked empty pizza boxes and handed them to Zach to put in the hallway. “This is the girls’ bed,” she said, pointing. “You guys have the window bed.”

Jacob was the only one of the four who hadn’t brought costumes, and he saw his backpack and duffel tucked between the bed and the wall to save space. “Got it.”

Sam turned to face him. “So what really happened, or can you tell us? And why’d you need Dead-Laura’s phone number? Did she get in trouble?”

Jacob bobbed his head from side to side, considering. “You could say that.”

“Oh, no. What’d she do? She seemed nice.”

Jacob exhaled. “She died.” He gestured as the other three looked sharply at him. “Keep it on the down-low. Word will get out, of course, but we don’t want scary rumors running around.”

“What happened?” asked Jessica. “Was she — attacked?”

“No, it didn’t look anything like that,” he said. “It was more like something internal, like she was sick or something. Maybe a food allergy, even.”

“Whoa.” Zach shook his head. “I guess some are that serious, right? Like peanuts or something?”

“I don’t think it was peanuts,” Jacob said. “I’m guessing she had Italian. Not to be rude, but she kinda smelled of garlic.”

“That’s a clue!” Jessica slapped her hands on her thighs. “Garlic scent — that’s some sort of poison!”

“You read too many mysteries,” Jacob said.

“Besides,” Zach put in, “I think strychnine smells like almonds.”

“That’s cyanide,” corrected Jessica, “and it smells like bitter almond, which is a different species than sweet almond. And no, the garlic scent is a clue. I can’t remember what, but that’s a poison.”

Jacob turned his hands up in a helpless gesture. “Seriously, you can’t just run with these things. Murder? Because she smells like garlic? It’s not really that neat and tidy and contrived in real life. You know how hard it is to get a conviction now that juries expect everything to look like
CSI
?”

Jessica raised an eyebrow. “I just said she could have died of eating something poisonous. You’re the one who brought up murder.”

Someone knocked at the door, and he got up to answer it and avoid Jessica’s eyes. Probably one of the pizza guests had forgotten something.

A girl with pink and purple hair — her own, not a wig — stood outside. A duffel bag hung over her shoulder. “Jacob! I saw you come in a while ago. I don’t suppose there’s a chance your floor is open, is there?”

“Um, hi, Amber. Do you not have a room?”

“Well, about that.” She pushed purple-streaked hair back from her face. “I was supposed to be with Erika and people, because Tim dropped out because he had an exam he couldn’t miss. So I took his spot. But then Tim talked his prof into letting him do the exam early, so he came anyway, only they forgot to tell me that he was back in, and they said because he was a part of the room first that he got first dibs, even though no one had told me and I’d picked up his spot.”

“Can’t you just sleep on the floor in there then?” asked Zach.

Jacob started shaking his head before Amber could answer; he knew how Erika and her friends afforded cons. “No room, right?”

“There’s already twelve people, and it’s got a shower, not a bathtub.”

“Fine,” Sam said, waving her in. “You can probably fit at the foot of the guys’ bed. Safer than that fire hazard, anyway.”

“The scent of garlic,” announced Jessica, reading from her phone, “is a potential indicator for arsenic.”

Jacob turned and gave her an incredulous look. “No one’s killed anyone with arsenic since Agatha Christie retired.”

“What about arsenic?” asked Amber, unrolling her sleeping bag.

“Nothing,” Jacob said. “We’re talking about pizza and Italian food.”

“Ooh, is there any pizza left?”

Jacob sighed and pointed. “Over there.”

“We have got to do something about those green alien things,” said Rita the registration DH as she came into the Ops office. “Some of ‘em are smearing body makeup all over everything. Hotel’s gonna eat us alive.”

“I think they’re grey,” said Daniel. “Like aliens.”

“Grey-green. Are aliens grey? Do we know that?”

“Greys are. Or the Silence. But these are from some web series.”

“They’re Moles,” Jacob offered. “Yes, from a web series, crazy fan base. I don’t follow it enough to understand it all, but they’re all those alien Moles with little antennae and grey-green skin. There’s a zillion of them — everything from high school students to space pirates to ancient Greeks. All Moles.”

“Whatever,” said Rita. “Point is, I just threw a kid off the lobby couch because he was leaving body paint on it. Vince is going to flip his skull when the hotel hits him with the cleaning bill.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why cosplayers have to be so irresponsible.”

“Two of my roommates are doing body makeup this weekend,” Jacob said defensively, “and they seal it all properly. They say it’s mostly the young kids who are cheap and don’t know what they’re doing who make a mess.”

“The young kids, whose parents drop them off like we’re a freaking babysitting service,” grumbled Rita. “You know how many twelve-year-olds are running around here on their own? What’s wrong with people these days?”

Zach was some version of Hellboy for the day, and he’d spent the morning painting himself red. Jessica had started as one of the grey-green Moles — there were dozens or hundreds of characters, as Jacob had said, and he couldn’t keep them straight — in a fluffy ballgown she’d made of chiffon and sparkles. She would change later, though; Jessica often did three or four costumes throughout a long convention day, for various photoshoots or to meet different friends.

Samantha was dressed today as a 1930s aviatrix, with boots and scarf and goggles, from some retro comic. She was carrying Jacob’s copy of
How to Die in Five Easy Steps
, so that he wouldn’t have to return for it when it was time to escort Greg Hammer to his autograph session. He’d reminded her again and again of how to fit it into her bag, of the importance of keeping it in mint condition, until she’d rolled her eyes and pushed him out into the hotel hallway.

Live music started in the lobby, a melodic ballad, and Rita raised her head. “That’s got to be the Spork Minstrels,” she said. They were a band specializing in video game music. “I like them. They add a bit of class, wherever they go.”

Two men leaned into the half-open door, and one rapped at the door frame. “Excuse me? Is this headquarters, or whatever it’s called?”

“Con Ops,” said Rita. “What can I do for you?”

“Reporters,” breathed Daniel, just loud enough for Jacob to hear.

“I’m Andy Timmerman, from the
Times
, and this is John Dresler, with the
Herald
. Is there someone we could talk to about what happened here last night?”

Jacob looked at Daniel, who nodded once. “You can smell ‘em,” he whispered.

Rita opened her mouth, closed it, and looked at Daniel with mute appeal. He sighed. “What do you want to know, gentlemen?”

“A woman was found dead last night. Can you speak to her condition? Was it homicide or accidental?”

Daniel frowned. “Cause of death yet to be determined, no immediate indication of foul play. But you didn’t have to come here to get that.”

The reporters’ ears practically pricked like interested dogs’ as they came into the room. “Were you here at the time?” One raised a camera phone and snapped a shot of Daniel.

Daniel gave him a small glare which was only enhanced by his Imperial uniform. “You’re here for some color to the story?”

“Well, you know, the convention is kind of… a colorful thing.” The Times reporter had the grace to look a bit embarrassed, but only a bit.

“I was here,” Daniel said. “Word came of an incident in the restroom, I responded.”

They brightened. “And your name?”

“Sergeant Daniel Ratherman.”

There was a moment of hesitation. “Sergeant?”

Daniel reached into his uniform jacket and withdrew the badge hanging on a lanyard about his neck.

The Herald cleared his throat and put on a look of suspicious annoyance. “You said there was no evidence of foul play, but then what’s an undercover officer doing here?”

“Not undercover, just enjoying the con on his off-duty hours,” Daniel said, “and volunteering to keep it running smoothly, like good con attendees do. Is there anything else I can help you gentlemen with?”

The door swung back and a stocky man in a tight green polo shirt pushed inside. “Is this Ops?”

“It is,” said Rita. “What do you need?”

“Where is my freakin’ coffee?”

Rita blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I need another guy, and some coffee. I’m out.”

Rita raised an eyebrow. “Who are you?”

“Um,” Jacob started, “this is Ryan Brazil.”

“Ah,” Rita said, her expression flat. “Sorry, I don’t do anything with Guests. But what’d you need?”

“That guy who was supposed to be helping me, I sent him for coffee, and he just disappeared. What kind of aide is that? So I came here to get another.”

“Another guest staffer, or another coffee?” Rita’s expression hadn’t grown more welcoming.

The Herald snapped a photo. “You’re a guest here? Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

Ryan Brazil turned a caffeine-deprived stare on him. “Eh?”

The Herald produced a business card. “I’m—”

“Media,” supplied Ryan, his stare dissolving into a smile. “Of course. Yes, I’m delighted to speak with you, and I’m sure there’s an interview coordinator, yes?” He looked at Rita.

She was looking at a laptop screen. “I’m still not with Guests. You’ll have to talk with Henry.”

Ryan looked irritated but masked it as he turned back to the Herald. “Of course, I suppose we could take a few minutes now, rather than inconvenience you gentlemen later. What about the green room?”

The Times got the courage to ask first. “Er, what brings you here to the convention?”

Ryan’s pasted smile wavered. “I’m Ryan Brazil. I’m a voice actor. I’m here as a media guest.”

The Herald nodded once. “I’d be happy to take your media kit.” He smiled, and Jacob realized he was trying to be kind.

Ryan didn’t think so. “Just the kit? A headshot and a standard bio? It doesn’t have anything about the upcoming
Mega-Nega-Racetrap
reboot.”

The Times wasn’t so kind. “What’s that?”

“Only the most anticipated game franchise update since Lara Croft got de-pixelated boobs. I voice Nega Carson, the—”

“Actually, maybe you can help us,” interrupted the Herald with only a slight air of desperation. “I don’t suppose you were here last night when the body was found?”

Now Ryan blinked. “What?”

“Guys.” Rita rose and closed the door, though the pass-through was still open to the streaming hallway. “We’re trying not to panic people. What happened was tragic, but it’s not worth scaring a whole convention.”

“Wait, a real body?” said Ryan. “Like, a dead one?”

Daniel sighed. “A young woman was found dead in a restroom yesterday. Looked like she’d been ill. We haven’t heard back on the autopsy yet, but as there was no reason to suspect homicide, we’re keeping it on the down-low for the moment. Not a cover-up, but just trying not to shout it down the halls, either.”

Ryan rubbed a finger across his eye. “I hadn’t heard. Of course, I haven’t heard much of anything this morning, since I’m still trying to wake up and my stupid coffee hasn’t ever appeared.”

“You can get some in the staff suite,” Rita sighed. “Two doors down, conference room B.”

Ryan’s mouth twisted. “Somehow I doubt the staff suite stocks Starbucks Limited Auromar,” he said. “I make a living off my throat, you know. I have to be careful what I put into it.”

“You should think a bit about what comes out,” Rita said, and before Ryan could respond she continued, “News guys, are you going to be here for a while, or do you have what you need?”

The Times and the Herald exchanged glances. “We really ought to get some photos, at least. Maybe cover the con a bit until we hear back on, you know, the victim.”

“Fine. Then you’ll need badges.” She pulled a couple of blank media badges from a box and grabbed a marker.

“Not necessarily a victim,” Daniel added.

“I guess we can do a local color angle,” said the Herald. “Show off the con a bit, if there’s nothing to the death.”

“Could have been drugs,” suggested the Times in a low voice. “You know, it’s a whole hotel full of grown people playing games and dress-up. Not to generalize, but lots of losers here.”

“Excuse me,” rumbled Daniel. “The man in the Imperial uniform can hear you.”

Ryan looked around the room pointedly for a moment, but when no one seemed to notice, he sighed audibly and said, “I guess I’ll see what the staff suite has, then,” and opened the door again.

As he exited, a woman came in, wearing a dark green pantsuit and her hair in an incongruous ponytail. “Is Vince Corleone in here?”

It was the VP from MEGAN!ME, and she didn’t look any happier than the last time Jacob had seen her. He suspected that Vince wouldn’t be any happier this time, either. “He’s out for now,” he offered, “but I can give him a message for you.”

She looked at him as if she’d just been surprised by a talking doorknob. “I don’t want to be put off by some unpaid volunteer,” she said, dripping disdain. “I want to talk to Corleone. People are talking about a death at the convention, and I don’t want MEGAN!ME associated with—”

A tall, thin man sporting a goatee and a
Season of the Dove
t-shirt came in. “Hey, has anyone—” He stopped, startled as he nearly bumped into the power-suited woman.

She turned on him. “I didn’t realize you were here, Christopher. Thought you’d still be in a basement somewhere below your mother’s kitchen.”

“Um.” He blinked and then seemed to recover, and a corner of his mouth turned down. “That doesn’t surprise me much, Valerie. But if you’d bothered to check the program, you might have noticed that I’m a guest.”

“Sorry you’ll have to disappoint your fans,” she answered. She turned back to Jacob. “Radio Vince and find out what he’s doing about this bad publicity.”

“It’s not really bad publicity,” Rita said. “No one’s freaking out. A few people are talking, but it’s more rumor than panic. Even the press isn’t wigging out over it.” She gave pointed looks to the Herald and the Times.

Valerie turned on them. “Are you media?”

The Herald cleared his throat. “I’m—”

“Never mind, I need Vince. Radio him and tell him I want to talk with him.”

“What are we talking about?” asked the newcomer she’d called Christopher. “What bad publicity?”

Rita sighed. “A young woman died last night at the con. Probably a medical thing, not any kind of assault, but sad all the same.”

Christopher’s mouth dropped slightly open. “Oh, no.”

“Which is why I need to talk to Vince,” snapped Valerie. “Somebody get him.”

“I’ll get right on that,” Jacob volunteered. “Where should I have him meet you? It’s getting pretty crowded in here.”

She considered. “The hotel bar will be fine; it shouldn’t be busy this time of morning.”

“Got it. I’ll tell him.”

She pushed past the goateed Christopher and shoved into the hallway, already full of attendees. Christopher pushed the door shut behind her.

Daniel looked at Jacob. “Where should he meet her? Brilliant.”

“It seemed logical,” Jacob said. “And, well…. If he doesn’t get the message, maybe she shouldn’t have left it with some unpaid volunteer.”

Daniel laughed. He pushed a button on the radio attached to his belt and spoke into the earpiece. “Chair, this is Con Aid. We have a Code SEP in the bar, repeat Code SEP in the bar.”

Jacob fumbled his earpiece into place in time to hear, “Got it, thank you.”

He looked at Daniel. “SEP?”

Daniel smiled. “Know your Douglas Adams? That’s
Somebody Else’s Problem
. Something to ignore, and in this case to avoid.”

“Um,” said Christopher. “With the, you know, are we still running full schedule and everything?”

“Paul’s the programming DH,” Rita said, “and he’s grabbing breakfast in the staff suite, but I haven’t heard anything about any changes. When’s your stuff?”

“Eleven, in Main, for the game show, and then at three and five after that.”

“As far as I know, everything should be fine, but if you want to wait a few minutes, Paul will be back and we can confirm. And hey, I was really sorry to hear about your show. That was rough.”

“Thanks. It was pretty frustrating.”

Jacob looked at him again. “Wait — you’re Christopher Adams! I didn’t recognize you.”