Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon (26 page)

The faces were different, but the scene was the same, and I felt oddly transported back to those earlier evenings, with their odd mix of excitement and frustrated sexual tension. What am I doing here instead of in California with Michael? I wondered. I could – Something jarred me out of that fantasy. The scene before me was a little too much the same as those early days of Lawyers from Hell. Frankie was sitting behind a game master's screen, a piece of cardboard folded into three parts so it would stand upright and keep the players from seeing all the notes and statistic sheets he was using to run the game.

In the original live role-playing version of Lawyers from Hell, Rob had always used a special game master's screen – we'd called it the judge's bench. Our niece who went to art school had painted it. Around the bottom was a frieze with caricatures of several dozen family members who'd helped play-test the game, all depicted wearing prison stripes and leg irons as part of a chain gang.

I recognized the screen in front of Frankie as that original Lawyers from Hell judge's bench. A little battered, but unmistakable. I recognized the trio of rule books at Frankie's elbow, too. Pre-trial, jury selection, and trial phases – Rob's original final version, run off on his inkjet printer arid stapled in purple paper covers, the same copies we'd given to the graphic designer cousin to typeset. No doubt with Rob's handwritten notes in the margins. At least two out of the three volumes were the originals. The third was a printed copy, and I was willing to bet the missing volume was the one I'd found in Ted's cache. Not that the printed copy wasn't rare enough, given the short period of time Rob had tried to sell the paper-based game before moving to the computer version. But not nearly so rare as the original.

„What's going on here?“ I asked.

The half-dozen players all started and whirled to see what was up; then their faces all took on a sheepish, guilty look.

„We're playing Lawyers from Hell,“ Keisha said.

„Don't tell Rob,“ Frankie begged.

„That you're playing his game?“

„That we're playing the unautomated version,“ Keisha said.

„With Rob's paraphernalia,“ I added.

They all looked guilty. I folded my arms and looked stern. It's what I always did when I wanted to make Rob confess something. I'd learned my first day at Mutant Wizards that it seemed to have the same effect on the whole staff.

„It's okay,“ Frankie said. „I mean, we all love the computer version. It's wonderful!“

The others nodded and murmured agreement.

„But if you first got into gaming playing role-playing games – face-to-face ones – it's… well, it's kind of…“

„It's not as much fun,“ Keisha said bluntly.

„I keep telling them they should let the users hear the dice rolls,“ one player put in. „We could generate the sound of rattling dice.“

„I thought one of the advantages of the computer version was that you didn't have to spend so much time rolling dice and calculating things,“ I said.

„Yeah,“ Frankie said. „But you lose something, too. That adrenaline surge you get when the Judge rolls the dice and you know something's about to happen.“

„And the human interaction,“ Keisha added. „One of the weaknesses of the computer game is that it's at most a two-player game – you don't have all the fun of a group of people playing all the different witnesses and stuff. I know the online version is supposed to fix that, but it's still not like sitting in a room with people and playing. There's no ambience.“

I looked around the room. On the face of it, the lunchroom was pretty short on ambience. Deltas of paper spread across the floor, interspersed with pencils, stray dice, and bags of snack food. Half a dozen pizza boxes were scattered over the counters. Beer and soda cans, solo or in clumps, festooned the entire room.

But on another level…

„So sometimes we borrow Rob's stuff and play a game, the old-fashioned way,“ Frankie said. „Just… because.“

„Yeah, I know what you mean,“ I said. „We had a lot of fun, playing the game, back when Rob was still polishing it.“

„You were a beta tester?“ Keisha exclaimed. „Cool!“

„Do you still play?“ Frankie asked.

„I haven't for months,“ I said. I'd almost said years; it felt like that long. „It got to be pretty time consuming, especially after Rob decided that he needed someone else to judge so he could concentrate on experiencing the game as a player, and I got drafted. Being judge is a whole lot more work.“

„You've played the judge?“ Frankie asked.

„Oh, my God,“ Keisha exclaimed. „Do you realize who she
is?“

The others looked at her, puzzled. For that matter, so did I.

„She's Judge Hammer!“ Keisha said.

The others looked at me openmouthed.

„You were, weren't you?“ Keisha demanded.

„Yeah,“ I said. „Rob was already Judge Langslow, so I picked hammer. For my blacksmithing.“

„Wow,“ Frankie said.

They were still looking at me, with the sort of awestruck expressions they usually wore when listening to Rob's pronouncements. As if I were some kind of heroic figure out of legend.

Which to them, I suppose I was. Although he had little or nothing intelligible to say about topics such as game mechanics, marketing techniques, or the future of the electronic entertainment industry, Rob kept getting invited to speak at conferences. And to many people's astonishment, he'd become a highly entertaining speaker. He confined himself largely to telling anecdotes about things that had happened during the development of Lawyers from Hell. Lightweight stuff, but Rob managed to make the development of the game seem like a scientific quest at least as important as the Alamo Project. Occasionally, someone who heard one of his tales would find it a powerful metaphor for some business truth, and if they
told Rob about their insights, he was always happy to add them to his repertoire. And otherwise sane people, after hearing his nostalgia-laden tales of playing the early version of the game, seemed to regard those late nights in my parents' family room with the same kind of envy other generations would feel for people who'd actually experienced Paris in the twenties or Haight Ashbury during the Summer of Love.

„Would you consider judging a game for us?“ Frankie asked, and several others began clamoring, as well.

None of us ought to be here at all, I thought, on a work night; I should confiscate Rob's paraphernalia and send them home, so I could get on with studying the floor tiles.

„Just a short game,“ I said.

In my fit of nostalgia about the good old days of playing the original Lawyers from Hell, I'd forgotten a few small details, like how absolutely horrible you feel the next day if you're trying to survive on two and a half hours of sleep.

At least I'd identified another of Ted's blackmail targets. Frankie, ringleader of last night's gaming party, was almost surely the Luddite.

I was too exhausted to protest when I discovered that the box of Affirmation Bears had reappeared in the closet. From time to time, Dr. Brown would trudge through the reception room and deposit several disheveled bears in the box. In between her trips, various staff would sidle into the room to abscond with an armful of bears. I couldn't focus well enough to keep count, but I got the feeling she was losing ground steadily.

The effort of punching the buttons to answer phone calls was almost more than I could manage, and I cringed when one call turned out to be Mother.

„I've got exactly what you need, dear,“ she said.

Please don't let this be about faux finishes, I thought.

„That veterinarian of yours has quite an interesting history,“ she went on.

„Just how interesting?“ I said, uttering a silent prayer of
thanks for gossip, the only thing on Earth that could distract Mother from interior decorating.

„He used to belong to one of those militant animal-rights organizations,“ Mother said. „Remember how Aunt Cecily told us about the protests they kept having at dog shows a few years ago?“

„Only vaguely,“ I said. As a child, I'd found Aunt Cecily fascinating, because she was the only grown-up who got away with talking about sex – not to mention using the word „bitch“ – at my grandmother's dinner table. But like most of my cousins, I learned to tune Aunt Cecily out once I'd reached the age where hearing about Pomeranians mating became boring instead of titillating.

„They would register dogs for a show – genuine dogs – but then they'd show up with some of their human members in cages, wearing collars, and try to take them into the ring. And then there were the anti-hunting protests, when the members dressed up like deer and went running through the woods.“

„I remember that,“ I said, recalling a newspaper shot of the earnest protestors, wearing synthetic fur ponchos and headgear topped with giant papier-mache antlers.

„Apparently your veterinarian friend left the group after a hunting protest that ended in a very unfortunate shooting incident.“

„Really,“ I said. I could feel adrenaline starting to wake me up. „Do you think it could be another murder?“

„No one was killed, dear,“ Mother said. „But your friend was shot… in the derriere. And instead of taking him to the hospital right away, the other protestors tied him to the hood of their Volvo and drove around town honking for several hours. He was quite put out, and they had a parting of the ways. I gather he's become much less radical – shortly after that he joined the ASPCA and applied to veterinary school.“

Mother grilled me for details of what Doc was doing now, and then signed off, presumably to relay his current whereabouts to Aunt Cecily. I made a note to share her information with the chief, next time I saw him. Would his history as a radical animal-rights activist make Doc more plausible as a murder suspect? Probably – after all, Ted had only two legs.

After that flurry of excitement, my energy level dropped again. I actually dozed off at the switchboard at some point in the morning and woke up to find Luis shaking my shoulder.

„Are you all right?“ he asked.

„I'm fine,“ I said, although I noticed that I didn't sound fine; I sounded cranky. Realizing that only made me feel more cranky.

„Here,“ Luis said, handing me a diskette.

„What's this?“ I asked.

„The collected works of Anna Floyd,“ he said, glancing around to make sure no one was there.

„So I was right,“ I said. „It is a pseudonym for someone at the office.“

„Bet you can't guess who,“ he said with a Cheshire Cat smile.

„What's-his-name,“ I said. „One of the therapists, the mousy little guy. Dr. Lorelei's husband.“

„You knew all along,“ he said.

„I suspected, but I didn't know,“ I said.

He shook his head.

„How's the other research project going?“ I asked.

„More slowly,“ he said. „I assume you'd rather not tip off whoever runs the porn sites that someone's checking them out.“

„You assume right,“ I said. „Just let me know when you have something.“

He nodded and left.

So now I knew who the Bodice Ripper was, I thought as I stuck the diskette into the computer and began checking the files Luis had copied.

I found copies of letters to and from publishers – fairly big publishers, I presumed, since I'd heard of them. Complete drafts of two of the books I'd seen in print. And a file that was clearly the first half of another novel.

I couldn't think of anything else I could do while stuck on the switchboard, so I began to read the unfinished book.

Which turned out to be rather interesting. You found out in the first chapter that the heroine, a typical blond, statuesque Anna Floyd kind of gal, was already married to a mousy, bespectacled man who greatly resembled Anna's usual heroes. But the wife was bored with him – she was contemplating having an affair with a sexy neighbor who'd been flirting with her. A sexy neighbor who, the reader quickly deduces, might well be the local Jack the Ripper or Hannibal Lecter. Was the heroine so mesmerized by Sexy Neighbor's pecs and cleft chin that she couldn't see fava beans and a nice Chianti in her future? Or had I heard so many analyses of real and literary serial killers from Dad that I suspected the worst from Sexy Neighbor long before most people would?

Eventually, even the heroine began to have a few nagging doubts about Sexy Neighbor – though of course she paid no attention to her intuition, probably because doing so would bring the book to a screeching halt about one hundred pages short of the minimum required length. Still, having read three of Anna's books, I figured I didn't have to worry about the heroine. Sure, she'd let Sexy Neighbor lure her to his den of iniquity, but Mousy Husband would turn up just in time. He would burst on the scene, eyes flashing, and save her from
certain death, or a fate worse than death, whichever Sexy Neighbor intended to come first.

Imagine my surprise when Sexy Neighbor turned up dead. And Mousy Husband began acting… well, highly suspicious. Was this just a ploy to keep the two lovers apart for a few more chapters? Or would Mousy Husband turn out to be the real serial killer, thereby allowing the heroine to find happiness with the mousy, bespectacled but perhaps secretly heroic homicide detective who had just turned up to investigate the neighbor's death?

The husband and the homicide detective were in the middle of a duel of waspish wit and mousy spectacle polishing when the manuscript broke off in midchapter.

„Aarrgghh!“ I exclaimed. I wasn't sure which was more provoking: not knowing how the story ended, or realizing that I'd actually gotten caught up in Anna Floyd's hokey plot.

Although perhaps my interest was less related to the plot than to the question of what, if anything, it had to do with Ted's murder? Was this rather dark and brooding story really the product of the same mind that had produced the other three mildly amusing if somewhat predictable works I'd previously read? Was there any significance to the fact mat Anna Floyd was writing about murder instead of the usual abduction and seduction themes?

Most interesting of all – since all Anna Floyd's statuesque blond heroines and mousy heroes clearly resembled Dr. Lorelei and her husband, was this plot inspired by something in real life? If Lorelei was having an affair with a patient, she'd probably done a certain amount of sneaking around. And if Ted had been blackmailing her, an observant eye – say, a jealous husband – could have detected a certain emotional tension between them. What if the husband had put the evidence together and come to the erroneous conclusion that Dr. Lorelei had been having an affair with Ted? Was the book some kind of wish fulfillment? Or, better yet, a game plan? In the book, Sexy Neighbor had been bludgeoned, not strangled, of course, so the book wasn't a finished game plan. But what if the blow to Ted's throat was a bludgeoning attempt that had failed, forcing the killer to fall back on the mouse cord to finish his victim off?

I'd have to consider the husband a suspect. And decided that if he was a suspect, I should make a better effort to remember his name. I looked him up on the phone list. Dr. Glass. I'd work on remembering that. Dr. Glass whose motive, if he turned out to be the killer, would be transparent.

I was rereading passages of the manuscript, trying to figure out if the mousy homicide detective resembled anyone else around the office or if he was another version of Dr. Glass. And also looking for clues that the deceased Sexy Neighbor was intended to represent Ted. He wasn't my idea of a dream-boat, but maybe he looked that way to Dr. Glass. He was taller and younger, anyway. And perhaps his breezy attempts at charm had gone over better with Dr. Glass than they had with me.

I still had my nose buried in the book when the door opened. I glanced up to see a cleaning cart rattle into the reception area. I focused back on the screen, and then realized that there was something odd about the figure pushing the cart. I looked up at her. Her shoulders sagged in typical tired fashion beneath the usual faded blue smock the building cleaning service staff wore. A few wisps of gray hair escaped from her bandanna.

Odd that she would be here so early, I thought. Usually the cleaners didn't show up till after five. Probably someone had called for a special cleanup of some kind, I deduced, and
was about to turn my attention back to my computer screen.

The cleaner stopped for a moment before pushing her cart through the opening into the rest of the office, and sighed heavily as she eased her obviously aching back. As she did, her bandanna slipped up a little, revealing an earlobe pocked with odd, assorted earrings.

The rabid fan.

„You again!“ I shouted, furious that the intruder had very nearly gotten past me in her cleaning lady disguise. I vaulted over the reception desk to catch her. She turned and tried to ram me with the cleaning cart, but I had more momentum. I batted the cart aside, shoved the bandanna-clad figure to the floor, and sat on her.

Four of the office dogs thought this was enormous fun, and danced around us barking. Jack and Frankie, who had been talking in the hallway, ran over and Waded through the dogs to help.

„Hold on to her,“ I said. „And turn her over.“

„Her again,“ Frankie said.

„This time we arrest her for trespassing, I hope,“ Jack said.

„Definitely,“ I said. „And just maybe a little more than trespassing.“

I went back to my desk, rummaged in my carryall, and pulled out the computer gaming magazine I'd found in Ted's cache. I opened it to the article he'd marked and studied the pictures briefly.

„Take a look,“ I said, holding out the magazine to Jack. „That's her in the middle picture. Read the caption.“

„What's up?“ Frankie asked.

„She's not a fan,“ Jack said, looking up from the magazine. „She's a spy.“

„Let me see that,“ Frankie said, reaching for the magazine.

„She works for The Four Gamers of the Apocalypse,“ I said.

„Those sleazy copycats,“ Frankie growled, which was mild compared to what some of the programmers said about Mutant Wizards' biggest and most hated competitor.

„Hang on to her while I call the police,“ I said.

„I'll leave quietly,“ she said.

„No, you'll stay here till the police arrive,“ I said, from the switchboard, where I was dialing. „I think they'll want to hear why the vice president of one of Mutant Wizards' major business rivals has been hanging around here in disguise for several weeks. And I bet they'll be fascinated when they hear that the first person to see through her disguise turned up dead shortly afterward.“

„I had nothing to do with that,“ she said quickly.

„Yeah, right,“ I said. I was mentally congratulating myself. I'd identified another of the code names on Ted's blackmail list. Our rabid fan turned corporate spy had to be Mata Hari.

As I expected, the police were very interested to hear about a case of trespassing on the scene of the murder. The chief, they promised, would be right over. I hung up feeling quite cheerful. Surely Mata Hari would draw some of the heat away from Rob.