Dead Man on the Moon (17 page)

He reached for the front door, then stopped. It was bad luck for actors to enter through the main entrance. He glanced around and found a side corridor that took him around back to the stage entrance. Much better. The rear alley was surprisingly clean, with none of the usual garbage
smells. Almost everything on Luna was recycled, so there wasn't much garbage to throw away. Even table scraps could be made into fish food. The back door was unlocked. Noah stepped inside and climbed a short flight of steps into a dark, echoing space that smelled of wood, old ropes, and makeup. A sense of home swept over him—he was backstage again. Before his eyes had even finished adjusting, a woman with her hair pulled back in a severe, no-nonsense bun swooped down on him like a phantom from the curtains.

"Can I help you?" she asked frostily.

"I'm Noah Skyler," he said. "I've got a tech rehearsal?"

She thawed, but only a little, and checked her watch with obvious care. "You were almost late. I'm Judy Roberts, the stage manager. Follow me. Please."

Almost late?
Noah resisted the urge to make faces at her back and followed her onto the stage instead. The floor, curtains, and walls were matte black. An apron spread toward the audience, and his footsteps echoed in the tremendously open space. Lighting was dim. Judy planted Noah in the center of the apron.

"Do you need any props or costuming?" she asked crisply.

Noah shook his head. "I just need to link my obie to the theater. I handle my own sound and music cues. I can't handle lights, though. No good at it."

"Very well," Judy said. She raised her voice. "Yard!"

In response, Wesley Yard scurried onto the stage. He had a keyboard slung around his neck like a food seller's tray at a ball game, and he gave Noah a quick glance. "Hi," he said. "You're the deputy who does vaudeville?"

"That's me."

Wesley looked at the floor and muttered something that sounded like, "Lot of cops around."

"I'm not your first cop of the day?" Noah asked lightly, feeling an odd need to put Wesley at ease.

Wesley seemed surprised, either that Noah had heard him or that he had taken an interest. "Hector Valdez and I
helped Chief Pavlik with an investigation. We dissected the obie of a murder victim."

"I helped process—examine—the crime scene," Noah said, feeling a stab of excitement. "What did you find?"

"He was alive six months ago and someone used an imp gun to destroy the obie."

"Interesting," Noah said, making a mental note to ask Linus for more detail later. "So if you're in the computer department, this must be your secondary job?"

"Yeah. Weird, huh?"

"No weirder than me doing vaudeville."

"Noah needs to work out light cues," Judy put in. "Get it right, Yard, and let's try to be quick, okay?"

"Before we get started," Noah said, "can I have a front-row ticket set aside for a friend?"

"What's the friend's name?" Judy asked.

"Ilene Hatt. Two
Vs."

"Anyone else?"

"No, just her."

Judy put a finger to her ear and spoke in an undertone to her onboard. "All set. The ticket will be waiting for her at the box office. Let's get started, then."

She bounded from the stage into the center of the audience, or house, in a single, precise leap that Noah could only admire, even as he wondered at her brusqueness. Wesley looked nervously after her, then at Noah.

"I'll try to be quick," he said. "What parts of the stage will you be using?"

Noah scanned the area around him. "The apron, I think. I won't back up past the proscenium."

Wesley nodded and followed Judy down into the house, though with rather less grace. He planted himself in the middle of the house and tapped his board. Immediately a series of bright lights slammed Noah's eyes backward into his skull. He yelped and threw up a hand to shade them.

"Sorry!" Wesley said, and the lights faded. "I was going for general lighting."

"Scale it back," Judy said. "And add some amber. What do you want for your set, Noah?"

"Plain wooden floor and walls," Noah said. "And a plain stool center stage."

"We'll have one for you. Water glass?"

"Yeah."

"Let me get the setting," Wesley said. The matte black floor and walls swirled into sickening yellow fractals, then oozed into a yellow florid pattern. Judy clicked her tongue in irritation. Wesley flushed and worked his keyboard faster. After two more tries, the stage settled into the warm wood pattern Noah preferred.

"Is someone going to introduce me?" Noah asked.

"We'll get a computer recording for that," Judy said. "How do you want to come out?"

"From stage left onto a generally lit stage with a spotlight on me. Dim, not harsh."

"On it," Wesley said. The lighting phased into a warm yellow tone nearly like sunlight. Then a spotlight stabbed down like a blinding laser and Noah again flung up a hand against it.

"Dammit!" Judy said. "Yard, check your boards. Soft lights are second and fourth circuits."

"Right, right." Noah heard the clicking of keys, and the spotlight softened.

"Move around, Noah," Judy said. "See if the spotlight follows you."

Noah stepped sideways into near darkness. The spotlight didn't budge, pouring its light onto an empty section of floor.

"Yard!" Judy said through clenched teeth.

"Sorry," he said. More key clicks, and the spotlight swung around to shine on Noah. He moved downstage, and this time the light stayed with him. Noah began to understand Judy's attitude. This was taking three times as long as it should have.

It took, in fact, over two hours. Lights flashed awkwardly. A strobe light bobbled and gave Noah a throbbing headache.

Twice Wesley hit the wrong commands and erased the entire program, forcing them to start from scratch. Judy became more and more impatient, which only seemed to make Wesley more nervous. Noah sympathized entirely with Judy and began to understand her attitude. He'd be short-tempered if he had to work with Wesley Yard, too. At long last everything was set. Judy double-checked that Wesley had saved the cues correctly and told Noah he could leave. He did so, feeling wrung out and close to exhaustion. Tech rehearsals were a pain in the ass, but this one ... Noah couldn't ever remember one going so poorly. His feelings toward Wesley had quickly gone from pity to an intense need to smack him with a golf club. Incompetent idiot.

Noah sighed and trudged back to his apartment, the one he had barely spent any time in. Only his second day, and he was ready for a vacation. Maybe he'd fork out the cash to call his brother Darren. The two of them had always gotten along well, and Noah needed to hear a familiar voice. Sure, it'd be expensive, but—

He stared down at the area in front of his apartment door. The contents of his duffel bag—all his belongings—were strewn across the floor.

"Trouble with the new guy," Linus repeated. "What do you mean, Gary?"

"Well
..." Gary began, the hesitation in his voice clear.
"I hate to bear tales, but I figured it's better for you to know."

"Know what?" Linus allowed an edge of impatience to creep into his voice. He did
not
need this. The Mayor-President breathing down his back was bad enough. He glanced around the room, as if the bare white walls and dull floor might hold some sort of solution. Maybe it was time to spruce the place up a little.

"I'm almost at your office,"
Gary told him.
"It might be better to tell you in person."

Linus took advantage of the wait to upload the computer image of the victim's head to a couple contacts among the newsfeeds. With any luck, someone in the general public would recognize John Doe. The process only took a moment, however, and Linus was drumming his fingers impatiently on his desk when Gary entered a few moments later.

"What's going on, then?" Linus demanded.

Gary, a big, square-built man with a blond crew cut, looked uncomfortable. He was about Noah's age and, like Noah, was working on a masters degree in criminal science, though he was in his second semester. Linus also knew Gary spent a lot of time in Tourist Town—not a good idea for someone on a student budget. The man also wore too much aftershave, and the sickly-sweet smell hung around him in a heavy cloud.

"I hate to bear tales," Gary repeated.

"You said that," Linus said. "Bear the bearing and I'll decide what to do, if anything."

"Yes, sir." Gary cleared his throat like a dog preparing to bark. "It was when Noah and I were outside doing the casts. A couple of times, I noticed him about to make . . . make mistakes. He started to make one cast before taking a hologram, and he almost walked across the drag mark before either of us had processed it. Both times when I stopped him to make corrections, he . . . well, he snarled at me, sir. I don't want to sound petty," he hastened to add. "A little snarling is really nothing. But he almost ruined evidence. In a big case like this one . .." He trailed off.

"I see." Linus kept his face police-level impassive, but inside, his mind raced. He had been greatly impressed by Noah's credentials and apparent desire to learn, and had pushed the committee hard to ensure Noah would get the Aidan Cosgrove grant. Linus also had to admit that Noah reminded Linus of himself at a younger age—eager to travel, sniff around, pick up whatever he could. The four other finalists had been highly qualified, but for whatever reason, they just hadn't grabbed Linus's interest. Had he been blinded by this and made a mistake in pushing for Noah?

All this flashed through Linus's head in an instant. He looked across his desk at Gary. "Do you want to file a complaint?"

"No," Gary said quickly. "I just thought you should know."

Linus nodded a dismissal and Gary quickly withdrew. His forehead puckered in a frown, Linus called up Noah's application to reread it. A copy of his work record with the Madison police was included. No citations for poor performance, no reprimands, no filed complaints. And his references had all given him excellent reports. That didn't mean anything, though—who would list a reference that might give you an iffy response?

Linus sighed and leaned back in his chair. It creaked, even beneath his slight lunar weight. He had several choices here. He could open a formal investigation. He could add a private, informal note to the confidential files Linus kept on all the deputies. He could ignore the entire situation. But before he did any of those things, he supposed he should talk to Noah about it, get his side. Linus had no doubt it would be unpleasant.

He was just opening his mouth to order up the call when his desk chimed, alerting him to an incoming call. It was Noah. Linus blinked. Had the kid gotten wind of Gary's complaint? He accepted the call, which was on audio only.

"Linus, I have a crime to report,"
the kid said. Anger, perhaps even fury, shook in his voice.

The greeting caught Linus off-guard. "A crime? What do you mean? Who committed a crime?"

"My roommate Wade Koenig. I want him locked up. I want him on fish shit patrol. I want him on fucking bread and water."

"Whoa, whoa," Linus said, putting his hands up even though Noah couldn't see him. "Slow down. What happened?"

A furious, rambling tirade followed. Linus recognized the symptoms—an angry victim venting in the direction of the closest police officer. Funny how even cops, who should know better, could get caught up in it. But the longer Linus listened, the more he began to wonder about Noah. It sounded like a simple roommate spat. Wade Koenig—Linus recognized the name from Noah's initial report on the death of Viktor Riza—had apparently scattered Noah's possessions
up and down the hallway in front of their apartment. Linus couldn't count the number of roommate conflicts he had been dragged into over the years, some of which had even become violent. This one sounded fairly minor. Was Noah unstable? Linus shook his head.

"All right, all right," he finally interrupted. "Listen to what you're saying. Do you
really
want to charge your roommate with theft and have the area processed as a crime scene?"

"It would teach him a lesson,"
Noah snapped.