Chocolate Chocolate Moons (25 page)

“Can’t sleep. I have insomnia. Took a walk.”

“Anything else?”

Sandy’s face tightens like a clenched fist. “Are you accusing me of something? Because that’s all I’m going to say without a lawyer.”

33

O
NE DAY AFTER
I get back from Titan, I sit in Jersey and Trenton’s living room. The room has a dozen screens built into a wall. The opposite wall has a holograph of the brain that emerges and floats in three dimensions. It looks like a glowing map of the universe. It is one of the few truly beautiful things they own.

“What’s that buttery smell? I thought you never ate butter.”

“It’s the new butterscotch supplements we bought on the trip. Try one.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it food, but this isn’t bad,” I say savoring the taste. “Promise you won’t tell the twins that I ate this, or they’ll step up their pace monitoring what I eat.”

“Lamont called us,” Jersey says changing the subject. “Isn’t it amazing that Rocket Packarod died when we were on the transport?”

“I had heard he was a health food nut,” I say. “Maybe those of us who love chocolate are in better shape than those who love broccoli.”

Jersey rolls her eyes.

“I’m not happy with the forensic report about Rocket’s death,” Trenton says. “I’ve asked Lamont to send me samples from Rocket’s cabin. Remember that woman at the bar on the transport who bumped into me, the one with the rose tattoo on her pinky? I think I remember seeing such a tattoo on Breezy’s pinky. But I’m not sure. Let’s view the Candy Universe holo again, where the man had his arm raised standing next to a girl.”

I sit on the one comfortable upholstered chair reserved for guests and look at the photos on the table next to it. There is one of Jersey as a child and two of Trenton before his accident. I love those photos, because clearly Trenton was once fat.

Trenton keys the middle screen. We wait a moment, then the holo of the Candy Universe plays.

“Stop,” Jersey says getting up and pointing to the woman. “Enlarge the hand.” She peers at the image. “See, her pinky has a rose tattoo. No question. It’s Breezy. I knew it the minute she called Trenton a junk man.”

I take another supplement. “Right before the Mars Malt party, I was walking in the garden area. I saw Craig Cashew talking on his palm. I overheard him say, ‘Tell your cousin Pluto that I have what he or his girlfriend dropped.’ I think Craig must have been talking to Sandy’s wife, Solaria, about her cousin Pluto. If Craig found some piece of evidence that links Breezy and Pluto to the poisoning at the Candy Universe and he didn’t give it to the police, he’s withholding evidence. And withholding evidence is a crime.” I take another supplement. “I wonder what he could want from Pluto and Breezy. Could Craig be connected to the poisoning of the Chocolate Moons?”

Jersey removes the supplements before I can reach again. “I can’t see a motive. Craig Cashew made the Culinary what it is today.”

The next day, as Jersey is cleaning, she puts a lava lamp on her side of the bed and an identical one on Trenton’s side. She stands back and watches the symmetrical swirling patterns. Then she programs a micrometer to make sure they stay coordinated. She fears waking up in the middle of the night and screaming if she sees one lamp bubble up and the other bubble down. Then she puts her shoes in alphabetical order inside her closet.

“How could there be no prints or DNA in Rocket’s room?” she asks Trenton.

“Not hard if you can make a scanner-vac. Parts can be packed in separate bags and assembled later. It’s not a complicated gadget, and it’s small.”

“There,” Jersey says, standing back and admiring her closet. “Perfect. Now I’ll do yours.”

Trenton blocks his closet door. “No need to get carried away. You know, I wasn’t happy with the police lab results. This morning I received samples Lamont got from Rocket’s room. The new features I put on my tracers refined their analysis. Guess whose biometrics popped up on my screen?”

“Whose?”

“Breezy Point’s, Decibel Point’s, and Craig Cashew’s. We may never know why they were in Rocket’s room when he died. All of them may have had a motive to kill Rocket, but I think none of them did it.”

“Really?” Jersey says wide eyed.

“According to recent hospital records, Rocket’s body was on the edge of collapse from self-medicating with health foods and supplements. He was hospitalized earlier and a doctor prescribed a medication that would reduce the effects of all his self-medication, but he must have never filled the prescription because the coroner found none. The coroner also said his system was so fragile that the day he died even a baby aspirin might do him in. The culprit seems to be an enriched health food tea that he may have ordered from room service earlier; harmless to most but dangerous when it interacts with other substances.

“He probably died when Breezy, Decibel, and Craig were in his room and it was just an unfortunate coincidence that they were there at that time. I don’t know the reason they were with Rocket, but Lamont needs to pick them up and question them.”

Lamont Blackberry walks across his office and inserts two fingers into a vending machine sent by a criminal who thought the police should get their just desserts. Two raspberry cream puffs appear on the tray. Then he calls Trenton.

“It will be easy to pick up Craig,” Lamont says. “He’s back at the Culinary. And my guess is Breezy is back with Pluto in New Chicago. But Decibel Point’s DNA isn’t registering on any list from any planet or moon.” Lamont keys a few words, including
Rose’s Heaven
and
Rose’s Spa.
“Got it,” he says. “Decibel is at that fat farm satellite. The only one that I know that would fit right in there would be Molly. We have to talk her into going and finding him.”

Sid Seedless interrupts. “I’m getting an unusual transmission.”

“Trenton, are you on the line? Sid is getting an unusual transmission.”

“Still here.”

“Make sure you record the conversation, Sid,” Lamont says.

“Hello. Is this Drew Barron?” a nervous voice asks.

“Who wants to know?”

“Are you the Drew Barron who knew the late Rocket Packarod?”

“Don’t want any. Gave at the office.” Drew is ready to hang up.

“My name is Roger Orbit. I’m the director of Far Horizons, the community where Rocket Packarod’s son, Zeus Packarod, lives.”

Drew listens.

“I’m holding a copy of Rocket’s will. His lawyer says that he updated it after he was hospitalized following the Mars Malt celebration. He named you executor.”

“Executor? That’s a surprise. I never knew Rocket had a son until one night at Nirgal Palace when I learned about him from someone else.”

“Rocket’s left everything to his son, Zeus, in care of Far Horizons,” says Roger, fingering a key. “But everything is stored at the Ali Baba Caves. Would you come with me and help me sort through Rocket’s things?”

Drew thinks fast. “Scheherazade runs Ali Baba Caves. I met her at Gramercy Gardens when Rocket brought her to dinner. A lot of people have had trouble retrieving things, even with a key. Scheherazade expects a hefty surcharge to retrieve. I’m told if you ask to see Ali Baba, she puts you in a dark room and you watch someone who looks like the Wizard of Oz give a sales pitch about the place, but I’m told it’s her in drag.”

“So, is that a yes or a no?”

Suddenly Drew realizes that he could bring the Giacometti that Rocket switched with him and if he sees another one at the ABC he could try to trade them. Finally he says, “Yes, I’ll go.”

Trenton asks Lamont, “Did you record that conversation?”

“Sid, did you record it?” Lamont asks.

“Record it? Let me check.”

“What do you mean,
let me check
?”

“Got it. The light on the right blinking.”

“It’s supposed to be the light on the left.”

“Did I say
right?
I meant
left
—I was looking in a mirror. Sorry.”

“Why do you put up with him?” Trenton asks.

Lamont sighs. “He’s family.”

The next day, Lamont calls Sid into his office. “I’m assigning you to follow Drew Barron and Roger Orbit to the ABC.”

“Follow them? Why me?”

“Because I said so, that’s why.”

“But everyone knows they won’t let you in unless you pass some kind of test. What if I fail and end up in a dungeon?”

“Too late. Got you a ticket.”

34

D
REW AND
R
OGER
stand in front of the ABC. Drew carries a black case that contains the Giacometti that Rocket switched with him. Roger wears a backpack jammed with documentation about Rocket’s request. Two large guards wearing brown uniforms that say “Knight 507” and “Knight 509” are at the entrance. They are seven feet tall, have Mohawk haircuts, necks as thick as bears and crack rubber whips. They are not in a good mood.

Drew and Roger enter an elevator that descends into a dark hallway. Ahead is a high door with a picture of a mushroom cloud and the words “Testing Area.” 509 opens a creaking door and points to a table with pliers, nails, small sharp objects and a jar that looks like it is filled with blood.

“Sit!” shouts 507, shoving two chairs in their direction. They sit.

“Could I have a glass of water?” Drew asks.

509 cracks his whip and tells 507 to bring some water. “Don’t spill it!” he shouts. “The last guy shook so much, his cup runneth over.” He cracks his whip again. “Get my drift?”

“Do you have to shout?” Drew says. “There are only four of us here.”

“You the voice of authority? Shaddup!”

Roger bunches a handkerchief and mentally says the words to “My Sweet Lord.”

“We have to ask you a few questions to make sure you are who you say you are. We want to be fair,” 507 says.

Roger and Drew look at each other, knowing that whenever anyone makes a big deal out of saying how they want to be fair, you know you’re headed for big trouble.

“I’ll ask the questions,” 509 says, “because I went to John Gotti Community College and you didn’t.”

Then he makes a sound like a volcano springing to life. “Does vitamin A make you smarter than vitamin B? How many Napoleons did Napoleon eat before he drank water from the loo? Are synonyms found in a thesaurus or a brontosaurus? What (if any) is the difference between a hamlet and omelet with ham? Where are the shores of Gitchie Goomie?”

They wait nervously while 507 tally their scores. “Not bad,” he says. “You both passed.” He turns to Roger. “How did you know where Gitchie Goomie was? Not even Scheherazade knows.”

“My mother’s family came from there. It’s not too far from the big sea waters.”

“You don’t say.”

Then 509 covers their eyes and puts earphones on their ears that play a continuous loop of the Weavers singing “Wimoweh” and marches them through winding halls smelling of burning flesh, down long passages that drip warm liquids on their heads amid sounds of a trapdoor opening and something falling into an abyss nearby. At last they reach Scheherazade’s outer office and the earphones and eye coverings are pulled off.

Drew rubs his ears.

“No rubbing,” 507 says. “It excites some of the guys who have been here a long time.”