Con Job (4 page)

He laughed, a little bitterly. “Yeah, I’ll put it on for the game show, but the costume hurts a little right now.” He looked back at Rita. “I’ll just walk over and catch Paul at the staff suite. Thanks.”

The Times looked after him, as if trying to decide whether he should be interested. “Who was that?”

“Christopher Adams. He’s a BNF.”

The Times looked blank.

“Big Name Fan. Famous for being a famous fan, I guess.”

“Like celebutantes,” contributed Rita, “but with more geek cred.”

“He’s usually in this crazy costume, the Terra Vista Ranger. Hilarious
sentai
thing. He pretty much had a career of being a fan, had a really popular web site and was even getting his own web series. But it got pulled when MEGAN!ME bought out FunFilms, which was his primary sponsor.”

The Times, who had been looking more intrigued, seemed to lose interest again. “Oh. Could have been a good human interest story there. Too bad.”

“Is this where we get props and weapons checked?” called a cosplayer at the window.

Jacob got up and checked the props, confirming that the fake firearms had orange tips and no moving parts and that the over-sized
shuriken
was less than four feet long, and he tagged them as approved. “Enjoy the con.”

A girl in a Japanese schoolgirl
fuku
was next, but before she could speak Ryan Brazil pushed forward. “Oh, hello,” he said to her. “What a lovely costume. You did a fabulous job on that.”

She smiled and blushed. “Thank you.”

“Really, it’s very nice. Did you know I was in that show? I did the voice for Sato Kaname. Can I get a picture of you, when you’re done here?”

“Sure.” She grinned, a little embarrassed but pleased.

“You need your
katana
checked?” Jacob held out his hand for the mock weapon.

The Herald was standing beside him. “You measure everything?”

“Four feet or less, to keep hallway traffic safe and manageable. And we check all blades and firearms, to be sure they’re fake.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not really. Mostly a precaution.” He tagged the
katana
and returned it to the schoolgirl. “There was a case once, I think, of some sick jerk bringing a paintball gun to use on cosplayers, but that wasn’t here. And it got shut down in a hurry.”

“And, what’s a cosplayer?”

Jacob gestured. “These guys, people in costume. Cosplay is short for costumed playacting.”

“Like, make-believe for grownups?”

“My friend Sam calls it performance art. It’s about craftsmanship and character.”

“He does this kind of thing?”

“She does a lot of it, yeah. She’s good, she’s won some awards — but that’s not why people do it. Like she says, it’s more of an art for most people.” He nodded toward the media badge clipped to the reporter’s shirt. “You should go to the masquerade tonight. That’s where all the best stuff will be.”

“I know cosplay!” The Times sounded pleased with himself. “I’ve never actually seen it before, but I watched this show on TV about cosplayers—”

“No,” several of them said together.

The Times looked around at them, startled. “You — you don’t like it?”

“It’s safe to say that for the most part we didn’t view it as a fair and accurate representation of our community,” Daniel said in a crisp, professional tone.

The Herald was typing into his phone. “So we should check out the masquerade tonight, get a real feel for it.” He looked at Jacob. “Anything else I should know?”

“About the con? Man, I can’t cover it in a sentence or two. You want me to walk you around a bit later, if I’ve got time?”

“I’d appreciate that.”

A man came in with a half-f coffee and an air of frustration. “What is wrong with people?” he demanded of no one in particular.

“Paul, did Christopher find you? Are we still on schedule with everything?”

“What? Oh, sure. As long as we can keep an eye on everything. Someone’s swapping discs to be funny, and I don’t have enough staff to babysit all the viewing rooms.”

Jacob’s stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”

“Two more viewing rooms this morning, running some old reality show instead of the scheduled episodes. And a couple of panel rooms, first thing this morning, and people walked in to find it playing. I mean, I guess I should be glad it’s not porn or something, but it’s annoying.”

Jacob knew, but he asked anyway. “What show?”

“Something older, Cougars and something. Does it matter?”

He shrugged over his stomach twisting. “Guess not.”

But it did.

“Her name was Tasha Kurlansky,” Daniel said. “They found her key card in her bra when they took her to the morgue, and the hotel was able to look up her room info. She was sharing with someone who says they met on the forums and had roomed a couple of times, but they didn’t know each other well.” He shook his head. “Which is admittedly a little weird, outside of a hostel, but on the other hand, roommate murders don’t tend to be bloodless and in a public restroom, so it’s pretty unlikely that anything came of that.”

“Was it murder, then?” Jacob asked.

“Oh, no, not necessarily. Autopsy’s going on now, most likely, and we’ll hear if they learn anything.”

“It feels so wrong to say I hope it was a food allergy or something,” Rita said, “but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Daniel said, “I do.”

“Hey, Jacob,” called Sam from the pass-through. “Can you tag my glaive for me?”

“What the heck is a glaive?” Daniel stood to see the prop.

“It’s what the toughest knights wield in the toughest battles, of course.” Sam held it up and gave it a little twirl in her hand. “Seven feet of pure evil-smashing kick-assery,” she said, “and then — poof! — it breaks down into two conveniently hallway-approved economy-sized components.” She twisted the weapon’s long pole and it came apart. “I’ll be carrying it tomorrow with my Spellknight.”

“Nice,” Daniel acknowledged. “Tag it, Jacob.” He looked back at Sam and nodded toward Jacob. “You know this clown?”

She grinned. “He’s my BFF. And I keep him put together. Here.” She reached into the faux leather satchel at her waist. “I found your energy bar in the room where you forgot it.”

“Thanks.” Jacob took it.

“An energy bar? For serious?” Daniel assumed an overly-skeptical scowl. “Jacob, did you have breakfast?”

“Not after I walked out and forgot it.”

“That’s no good. Take advantage of the lull and go grab some real food. You’re up to take care of Greg Hammer later, and it’ll be embarrassing if your knees buckle and drop you in the middle of his autograph table.” He grinned and added, “Seriously, three hot meals a day. Con rules for staff.”

“I’m not staff, I’m a volunteer.”

“Do not bother me with trifles,” Daniel quoted. “After twenty years, at last my father’s soul will be at peace.” He nodded toward the door. “What’s your name, girl?”

“I’m Samantha, but Sam is fine. Are you Daniel?”

“I see he’s been talking about me behind my back.”

“He told me about the ride-alongs and stuff.”

“Yep. Sam, drag your BFF out for some real food. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a long day, and a man needs some protein.”

“Yessir.” Sam saluted and came around to the door. “Let’s go, Jacob.”

They’d made it halfway across the lobby when Sam stopped dead. “Oh, wow,” she breathed. “Look at that.”

Jacob followed her eyes and saw a woman in breathtaking costume, where the hotel lobby opened onto the sunlit conservatory. “Oh, wow.”

She wore something inspired by Chinese or Japanese history — Jacob wasn’t knowledgeable enough to tell which — and probably at the level of imperial court finery even before it had been tricked up for stylization. Schooled by friendships with enthusiastic cosplayers, Jacob counted at least ten distinct layers of pastel color in her sleeves, and her outer layers spread wide about her in stunning pattern and color. The topmost layer was solid white, with white and silver embroidery over all the torso and down the sleeves. The sleek, dark wig was elaborately styled, high and twisted and smooth, and a riot of intricate jewelry and sashes ran over the entire thing, rather like a cage dress in semi-precious stones.

“That has got to be something from CLUTCH,” Sam said. “I don’t recognize it, but that amount of crazywork makes it a good bet. Probably something from one of the artbooks. Look at the sheen on it! Those under-layers have got to be silk, and I’ll bet hand-dyed to get that kind of color.” The cosplayer raised an arm to spread the sleeve for the crouching photographer, and Sam gripped Jacob’s arm. “Oh — look at that lavender to pink gradient!”

“You need professional help,” Jacob told her. “I wonder if there’s a cosplay rehab clinic or something.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t tell me that isn’t gorgeous.”

He conceded. “No, I can’t.”

The photographer, a young black woman Jacob recognized, shifted slightly and waved an assistant to adjust the external flash he held. She had a real name, but Jacob could only recall that most people knew her as Laser, for her Laser Focus Photography. She shot several more photos, spoke to the cosplayer who moved her chin a half inch to the left, and took two more.

“I really want to talk to her, but not while she’s in a shoot,” said Sam. “I’ll try to catch her afterward. Because that’s amazing.”

“After food,” Jacob said firmly. “I have to eat now, or I won’t be back in time to escort Greg Hammer, and I’m not missing that.”

“Right.” She started forward, but she kept looking back over her shoulder as the cosplayer knelt and spread the outer layers.

“Come on,” Jacob prompted. “Maybe she’ll get lunch after she’s done.”

“Are you kidding? That thing’s not going within a hundred yards of the food court. She’s probably got a restraining order against ketchup.”

The food court lines were already long, though the lunch wave wouldn’t hit for another hour or two, and they chose a counter offering something called “breakfast gyros,” mostly because its line seemed to be moving most quickly. “Any word yet on, you know, last night?” Sam asked.

“Nothing yet. But I don’t know if there will be, either. I mean, it’s not like they have to notify us if she died of a food allergy.”

“That’d be sad.” They shuffled forward in line. “But man, I hope that’s all it is. Can you imagine if it were murder?”

“What do you mean?”

“This would be the worst place ever for a murder! For investigating, I mean.” She put on a stern, deadpan voice. “Who were the last people seen with the victim? Eren Jaeger and a
Star Wars
stormtrooper? Quick, men, look for Eren Jeager and a stormtrooper! There are only twelve hundred or so here at the convention.”

Jacob laughed. “We’ll just have to hope that it’s a more standout costume then, like your CLUTCH piece.”

They had picked up their breakfast gyros, which turned out to be just scrambled eggs and salsa in a pita, and were searching with increasing pessimism for an empty table when Jacob’s phone rang. He balanced his food in one hand and pulled it from his pocket. “What’s up, Daniel?”

“You aren’t answering your radio.”

“I’m on break, I don’t have my ear in.”

“Get back here. We got the autopsy results, and it’s not good.”

Daniel gestured Jacob into the staff suite and closed the door. Without a pass-through, this room was much more private, and Jacob guessed at the news. “So it wasn’t a food allergy.”

“Poisoned,” Daniel confirmed.

Jacob shook his head. “But — why? She wasn’t here with anyone…. Was it some date rape drug gone wrong?”

“No, and that’s the weird thing,” Daniel said. “She was poisoned with arsenic, and that hasn’t been a murder tactic since it was a cliché. So it could be accidental, just because it’s so weird and people do sometimes get accidental exposure. But it means we’re now officially investigating a potential homicide.”

Jacob felt the guilty little thrill again when Daniel said
we
and reminded himself that the word was meant generally. “So, what are you going to do, interview the whole con?” He remembered Sam’s joke. “Oh, man, this is going to be impossible.”

“So we’re going to need every pair of eyes,” Daniel said. “You can’t do much on the record — any unusual participation or investigation would jeopardize a conviction if we did find a perp — but run it by me if you have any brilliant ideas. Because yeah, a victim without any real connections in a non-assault death at a convention like this, it’s going to be rough.”

Jacob nodded and tried to look appropriately serious. He really was sorry for Dead-Laura’s death — he had liked her, the little he’d known her — but the excitement of participating in the investigation, even a tiny unofficial bit, was undeniable.

“And not to minimize the significance of her death,” Daniel continued, “but this could end Con Job. I don’t know everything that’s going on, but Vince has let on that the con’s not doing well right now, and refunds or a drop in next year’s attendance would pretty much be the death knell.”

“It’s not the con’s fault,” Jacob said, but he knew as he said it that it didn’t matter. The public looked for something to blame, always, and rationality took a back seat.

Daniel’s phone buzzed, and he drew it and read the screen. “Well, that’s it, then,” he said. “Update on the autopsy, and arsenic was in the stomach contents. Someone put it in her food. No way that’s accidental.”

Jacob looked at the remainder of his breakfast gyro. “Do we know what food?”

“Not for certain. She’d recently had an energy bar, a milkshake or something similar, and an order of fries, but it’s not clear if any of them were the mechanism.” He followed Jacob’s eyes. “Surely someone isn’t randomly poisoning the food court? Nah. There are thousands of people here, so statistically we should have already heard if someone was doing something like that.” He sighed. “Finish your breakfast, and I’m going to go call everyone in. Vince wants to have a meeting about this, get us all on the same page.” He went out, presumably to Con Ops.

Jacob sat for a moment and eyed his breakfast gyro. Only a couple of bites left; if it was going to poison him, he was probably already doomed. He gathered it into a sloppy handful and forced himself to swallow it.

Dead-Laura had eaten a series of snacks, it seemed, and it was impossible to guess where she’d bought them, or even if it had been at the food court or outside the hotel. There wasn’t much around the convention center, but she could have even picked something up en route to the con.

Dead-Laura had been glad to be invited to dinner, and she hadn’t mentioned bringing anyone else. And she’d made room-sharing arrangements online, with someone who said they weren’t close. She’d been at the con alone, meeting people she knew only casually. So who at the con would have reason to kill her?

But if it were somehow a con attendee, rather than someone from Dead-Laura’s personal life, then they needed to find a suspect fast. Because Sam was right, it would be hard to even track down the right people to question, and then tomorrow night the con would end and the attendees would scatter across several states, with only Registration’s troubled hand-entered spreadsheet to identify them. And those who bought badges at the con itself, paying with cash, might have no record at all. And then Con Job would fail forever, and Dead-Laura’s murderer would probably escape for good.

Jacob stared at the gyro’s empty wrapping. This was going to be difficult.

He drew out his phone and typed a message to Lydia.
Death last night turns out to be a poisoning homicide. Really freaky. Going to be an interesting investigation, and I’ll help where I can.

This was exactly what he’d wanted to do. He’d wanted to go into Homicide for years, since he’d started thinking a real career was a possibility. He would have to put in his time and earn his way to Detective, of course, but this was his chance to shine going into the Academy. Daniel trusted him to help; he had to use his con knowledge.

His phone buzzed.
Coming. Don’t panic, I’ll be good.

“What exactly are we supposed to do?” asked Vince, gesturing in frustration. “We announce there’s a murder, people freak out. And not entirely without reason. We could tell them it was poison, so they should eat only from the food court or a reliable source — but she might have been poisoned at the food court, for all we know. So we don’t know if that will protect people or expose them to some sicko employee who’s poisoning random people for fun.” He shook his head. “Or we could tell everyone to go home, which pretty much kills Con Job forever, not to mention makes a clean getaway for any sicko who’s not a food court employee.”

The assembled department heads shook heads, bit lips, and generally looked bleak.

“We need to know who she was with,” Daniel said, “and where she went. We can open that up, ask people to step forward if they know anything. It’s easy enough to spread the word; we can use the con mobile app or Twitter.”

“Start with her screen name,” Jacob said. “Ask for friends of Cosbright to come forward. That will at least narrow the field to something manageable, and we can always widen it if we need more.”

Daniel nodded. “And a room where we can talk with people in private. Even one of the hotel rooms will—”

The staff suite door swung open. “I’m sorry,” said a short, prematurely-balding man. “I did see the sign about a private staff meeting, but no one in Ops wanted to make the decision.”

Vince sighed with frustration, but his voice remained civil. “What do you need, Mickey?”

“I’m slated to lead a game of Murder tonight. I kind of suspect it would be in bad taste now, you know? But I wanted to check with you guys before my panel in a half-hour, so I know what to tell people there about an official schedule change.”

Vince ran a hand through his hair. “Can you improv something? Stories from behind the scenes, trivia, question and answer?”

Mickey nodded. “I’ll tell Ops, and they can post the schedule change.”

Vince turned to Paul. “You can update the mobile app as soon as we’re done here, right?”

“That’s why we have it.”

“Thanks, Mickey. We’ll take care of it.”

The man closed the door, and Rita pointed a pencil at it. “Who’s that?”

“Mickey Groene, from
Star Chase
. Played Lieutenant Stafford. Does mostly voice work now.” Vince looked at him. “You don’t know the show?”

Rita shook her head. “Sorry.”

“Well, you can’t know everything at a con like this,” Vince conceded. “Con Job is pretty broad, lots of fandoms, and that’s one of the reasons people like us. Let’s keep it that way, and find out what happened to this poor young woman, and with any luck at all it’ll turn out to be nothing whatsoever to do with the con. But keep stuff calm. We’ve got to find out what happened without panicking anyone. We can’t afford to lose this weekend.”

They adjourned the meeting, and Jacob trailed the others back to Con Ops, testing announcement wordings in his head.
Would anyone who knew Cosbright please come forward? The police are seeking information regarding her movements yesterday.
Did that sound too scary? Would it put off potential witnesses?

Paul sat down at a laptop and began updating the schedule, replacing the Murder game with Mickey Groene’s alternative programming.

Vince took a deep breath. “Okay, is anything else urgent at the moment? I mean, of course yes, but really, really urgent? Because I haven’t eaten yet today, and I still haven’t seen Valerie Kimberton, and I can only put her off for so long before she flips out and finds some legal way to yank their sponsorship and break us over her knobbly knee.” He sighed again. “And I think I want a drink, I don’t care if it is before noon.” He turned and pointed. “Paul, you have the con.”

“What?”

“What? It’s a pun. You know how whenever the captain leaves the bridge he passes control to another officer with, You have the conn? Like when Captain Kirk…. Never mind. I’ll be back as soon as I find some protein and a beer, in either order.”

Sirens came distantly through the babble of hallway conversation, and Vince sighed. “I guess that’s going to be how it is.”

Daniel shook his head. “Shouldn’t be any sirens, not for an investigation like this. That’s emergency.”

“Maybe they’re just passing,” Jacob suggested.

But the sirens grew louder, and then they seemed to plateau at moderately loud, and then they shut off abruptly rather than fading away again with distance.

Vince shoved his earpiece into position and spun the volume dial on his radio. “Does anyone know what’s going on outside with the sirens? Are those for us?”

No one answered, and he called again. Finally someone responded, “I don’t know anything, but I see the ambulance team. Got to be something in the hotel. I’m following, will let you know what I learn.”

“Where are you?”

“Mezzanine. Heading toward the central elevator well.”

Vince jerked his head. “We’re on our way.”

As they hurried toward the elevators, the Con Aid member reported further. “EMTs won’t answer questions, I’m not staff. Past the well, toward the bar, still following.”

They took an escalator, skipping steps.

“At the hotel bar. It’s not serving yet, but they’re going in. They — there’s somebody on the floor. Not moving. They’re checking her, but they don’t…. They don’t look like they’re in a big hurry.”

Vince swore.

“I — I think it’s that MEGAN!ME lady. I don’t remember her name. But it looks like her.”