The Big Sheep (9 page)

“
People
do, yes. But unfeeling harpies act like
that
.” He jerked his thumb toward the house as he got into the car.

I got into the driver's seat. “You of all people have no right…,” I started.

“That woman is a sociopath,” said Keane. “Did you see her house? Spotless. Smelled of Lysol and bleach. They have three children and, if Jessica is to be believed, two cats and a dog. There's no sign that anyone lives in that house other than Jessica Díaz. And did you notice her use of the pronoun
we
when referring to her husband? Appropriating his life, borrowing his emotions because she has none of her own. Can you imagine living with that? No friends, no life of your own, that creature living off your energy like a vampire. No wonder he tried to crush his skull in a vice.”

“You think that was intentional?” I asked, still trying to process his comments about Jessica.

“No, I think somebody accidentally left the blender on the skull-crushing setting. Think about it, Fowler. Nobody at a corporation like Gendrome writes a line of code without documenting it. If a machine got reprogrammed, there would have been a record of it, unless somebody deliberately flouted protocol.”

“That sounds like an argument for murder,” I said. “Not suicide. If it were suicide, why would he care about covering it up? And Jesus, why would anyone commit suicide like
that
?”

“His family would get a nice compensation package from Gendrome for an on-the-job death,” Keane said. “There probably aren't a lot of ways to kill yourself at a job like that, so Díaz got creative. Also, I was in a room with that woman for ten minutes, and I kind of wanted
my
skull crushed. My guess is that he flinched at the last minute, couldn't go through with it. Took him another five years to finally get out.”

“Hang on,” I said. “You're saying Hugo Díaz gave himself a heart attack to get away from his wife?”

“It would appear so,” said Keane.

“Tell me how,” I said, throwing up my hands. “How does it appear that way to you? What are you looking at that I'm not seeing?”

“It's sort of a general gestalt-type thing,” said Keane with a frown. “Difficult to encapsulate in words. Are we going to go somewhere, or just sit in the car all night? Because while I like you, Fowler, I don't like you the way Hugo Díaz likes sheep.”

“I do hope you're joking,” I said, pulling away from the curb.

“No, I really don't have those sorts of feelings for you. I'm sorry to have to tell you like this.”

“I meant joking about Hugo Díaz and the sheep.”

“Oh,” said Keane. “Yeah. Probably. I mean, you never know what people are into, but I suspect his tastes are more conventional. House cats and the like.”

We headed toward the DZ. We were about halfway to the checkpoint when Keane got a call from Jason Banerjee from Esper. Keane put him on speaker.

“Mr. Keane,” said Banerjee. “Jason Banerjee. Following up on your request for an autopsy of Hugo Díaz.”

“Right,” said Keane. “How's that coming along?”

“It's not,” said Banerjee. “There isn't going to be any autopsy.”

“Why not?”

“Because Hugo Díaz was cremated yesterday.”

“Already?” Keane asked. “How is that possible?”

“His wife requested an expedited cremation,” Banerjee said. “I'll message you the information for the funeral parlor, but I don't think they're going to be able to tell you much. I assume this isn't your only avenue of investigation, Mr. Keane?”

“You're breaking up, Banerjee,” said Keane. “We're going through a tunnel.” He ended the call.

“Was that a good idea?” I asked.

“He was getting on my nerves,” said Keane. “Go through a tunnel if it makes you feel better.”

“Jessica sure was in a hurry to get Hugo cremated,” I said after a moment. “You think she's trying to hide something?”

“Maybe. Or somebody else is trying to hide something, and they persuaded Jessica to expedite things. What do you think they did with the shoulder?”

“The what?”

“Jessica told us Hugo Díaz had a titanium shoulder. That would be a strange thing to make up, so I'm going to assume she was telling the truth. A cremation incinerator burns at up to 1800 degrees Fahrenheit. The melting point of titanium is 3034 degrees Fahrenheit. So unless Díaz was cremated in the heart of a dying star, the funeral home has a titanium shoulder joint lying around somewhere.”

“What would they normally do with such a thing?” I asked.

“Presumably they would wait for it to cool and then return it to the next of kin.” He thought for a moment and then announced, “Change of plans. I'll drop you off at the
DiZzy Girl
set. I'm going to the funeral parlor.”

“Why?” I asked.

He grinned at me. “To see if they'll give me the cold shoulder.”

 

EIGHT

It was after noon by the time we got to the location where
DiZzy Girl
was shooting. There had been a backup at the checkpoint into the DZ; probably the police had gotten another tip about weapons smuggling. Priya had given us the address of the shoot, which was in a particularly rundown area of the DZ, the sort of neighborhood that directors loved because it had that authentic post-apocalyptic DZ look that made for good TV. We could have avoided the checkpoint and flown directly to the location, but flying into the DZ was risky. Keane had enough contacts in the DZ that kidnapping wasn't a big concern, but there was always a chance some paranoid gangbanger with a SAM would shoot us down before checking the car's radio signature. Going street side was no guarantee of safety either, but the biggest threat on the ground was carjackers, and they tended to be a little more careful about whom they targeted. Anyone who bothered to do an ID check of Keane's car would know they were better off leaving us alone. I don't pretend to understand the depth of Keane's connections in the criminal underworld, but I'd met enough of his “friends” to know he was virtually untouchable in the DZ.

The other problem with flying into the DZ was that it was technically illegal. That wouldn't be a problem, except that eventually, unless you were really desperate, you had to
leave
the DZ—which meant either flying out or going through a checkpoint. If you went through a checkpoint, you'd have to explain why there was no record of your vehicle entering the DZ, and if you flew out, you might find yourself intercepted by the police and forced to the ground, where your car would be torn apart and searched for contraband. So we took the surface streets and suffered through the checkpoint. Once inside, we found ourselves in the urban wasteland known as the DZ. We made our way quickly to the area where
DiZzy Girl
was filming.

It wasn't difficult to find. An entire neighborhood had been blocked off by private security guards; they were only letting people through who could prove either that they lived there or that they belonged on the set. I wondered how the logistics of this worked. There were no civil authorities inside the DZ, per se, and no permits or police. Probably the production company, Flagship Media, struck some kind of deal with whatever gang ran this part of town to let them shoot in relative peace.

Keane let me off down the street from one of the barriers and drove away. A wave of humidity hit me as I left the air-conditioned car. Strange weather for this time of year; when the heat finally broke, it was going to rain like in the Bible.

I strode toward one of the men guarding the barriers and showed him my ID. The guy wore an ensemble somewhere between gang attire and corporate security uniform, which was probably an accurate summary of his professional affiliation. The outfit was dark-green and black, and I noticed a turtle tattoo on his neck: the signs of the Tortuga gang. Several similarly attired men loitered nearby. Last I'd heard, the Tortugas were working for Mag-Lev, one of the most powerful warlords in the DZ. If they were handling security for the set, Flagship must have made a deal with Mag-Lev. Selah Fiore, the ex-actress who now ran Flagship, had a reputation as a tough-as-nails negotiator; it wouldn't surprise me at all to learn she had personally met with Mag-Lev to arrange for
DiZzy Girl
to shoot in the DZ. Élan Durham was the creative genius behind the show, but Selah Fiore was the one with the money, connections, and resolve to get things done.

The guard looked at my ID, muttered something into his comm, and then said, “Wait over there.” I obliged. A few minutes later a very large man wearing a turtleneck strolled down the street toward me. A Glock hung in a holster on his chest. He didn't look happy to see me. “I'm your escort,” he said.

“Not really my type, Brian,” I said, slipping between two Jersey barriers and brushing past him.

Brian turned to walk alongside me. “Yeah, well, I'm not exactly thrilled about it either,” he said.

“That's what you get when you let someone disarm you,” I said. “Babysitting detail.”

“That was a lucky break,” he said.

I laughed. “Luck? I grabbed your gun right out from under your nose.”

“I had an itch,” said Brian. “I was distracted. You just caught me at the wrong moment. Luck.”

I shook my head. This was why Brian was never going to be more than hired muscle. He wasn't willing to learn from his mistakes. “Twenty bucks says I can do it again before the end of the day,” I said.

It was his turn to laugh. “Take my gun? No way in hell. You're on.”

“Candy from a baby,” I said.

The street ended at a T, and looking to the left, I saw a flurry of activity. Along the street were parked a half dozen trailers, a dozen or so box trucks, and probably another two dozen other vehicles. A huddle of people was convened in the street, and several other technicians and workers were milling around. Camera drones buzzed lazily about, awaiting instruction. I headed that way, and Brian stuck by my side.

As we approached the epicenter of activity, I made a brief survey of the area. This was a particularly run-down region of the DZ. The streets were in bad shape, and nearly half of the buildings were boarded up or burned out. Graffiti covered much of the walls. The shop owners who remained had a harried, suspicious look about them, and nearly all of them openly carried guns. A few of them glared at us as we passed, and I wondered if this was because they assumed we were with the production and resented us taking over their neighborhood, or if they just always acted that way. Drunks, junkies, and other miscreants populated the streets—which struck me as odd, since such people could pose a threat to the cast and crew. Presumably someone had at least checked them for weapons.

We made our way down the street toward the trailers, passing an intersection that was cordoned off with police tape. Two security guards—not Tortugas but actual corporate security types—were checking IDs and letting people through. A sign hanging on a sawhorse read:

SHOOTING LOCATION ONE

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

QUIET PLEASE!!!

We continued past the cordoned-off area. To our right was an abandoned store whose plate-glass windows had several cracks running through them that had been repaired with black tape. Hanging crookedly inside the window facing us was a faded plywood sign that read
EVERYTHING MUST GO
. The rest of the street was lined by nondescript brick and stucco buildings. We followed the street a hundred feet or so past the Everything Must Go store, where large trailers were parked along either side of the street. Between these two rows, a few trailers down, were several canopies that had been erected to give shelter from the Southern California sun. Beneath these, card tables and folding chairs had been set up, and a number of crew members and extras sat, playing cards or eating. Along one edge of the shelter was a row of lawn chairs in which sat several actors I recognized, including Priya. She looked beautiful as always, her hair pulled back in the style of her character on
DiZzy Girl
. She wore a faded green T-shirt, blue jeans, and black leather boots.

“So, what are your instructions, Brian?” I asked, as I walked toward the shelter.

“I'm your shadow,” said Brian. “Wherever you go, I go.”

“Right, but what are you supposed to do, exactly?”

“Keep you out of trouble.”

“In that case,” I said, “it might help if you give me some idea what trouble you expect me to get into. That way I can avoid it preemptively and make your job that much easier.”

Brian remained silent.

“Like, if there are any areas I'm not supposed to go, or particular people I'm not supposed to talk to.”

He continued to ignore me. Oh well, it was worth a shot. I approached Priya, who was seated next to her bodyguard, All-Grown-Up Noogus, and several of her costars. I figured that since I was no longer incognito, I might as well say hi. Maybe I could make up for my behavior the previous night. But as I approached, Priya waved to someone behind me, got up, and hurried away. I turned, but couldn't tell who she had waved at. Possibly no one. Did she really want to avoid me that badly? She seemed to be headed toward the shooting location, the area blocked off with police tape.

Meanwhile, I stood there in the middle of the street like a schmuck. I became aware that people were watching me, which shouldn't have bothered me, but it did. At this point I had to decide to acknowledge the fact that Priya had snubbed me, or pretend I hadn't wanted to talk to her in the first place. I did the latter. I kept on walking toward where Priya had been sitting, and plopped down in her chair, grinning broadly at All-Grown-Up Noogus. The giant Samoan, who had been engrossed in a book, turned to look at me.

“Shouldn't you be watching Priya?” I said.