Con Job (10 page)

“Even the hallway pics,” Laser said. “Convention center hotels are pretty distinctive — that is, they all have their own flavor of ugly furnishings we have to work around. Lots of times you can pinpoint what con a photo was taken at by the carpet and furniture, it’s practically a game. No one would dare to post any of those photos taken right where they were stolen.”

“Sounds like a reasonable guess, then, to leave open the possibility that the thief was just stupid — which happens a lot, actually,” Detective Martin said. “But the idea that he was worried about something potentially in the background is a good one.” She looked at Laser. “I don’t suppose there’s a chance you were using those cards that upload while you take pictures?”

Laser shook her head. “Cost a lot, and not wholly compatible with my equipment.”

Jacob held up a finger to interrupt. “Laser, you let people shoot over you, right? With their phones?”

“What? Oh, definitely. Everybody likes the costumes, and I’m not worried about competing with a cell phone camera. Why?”

“I’ll bet a hundred or more photos were taken over your shoulder of that CLUTCH costume alone. That’s a hundred pics which might have that same something, whatever it is, in the background. What if we ask everyone to share their photos?”

“Kind of like the FBI did with the Boston Marathon suspects?”

“It wasn’t quite like that, but the same idea. And then we look for anything weird in the pics.” He shrugged. “It’s not great, but you never know, it might turn up something.”

Detective Martin considered. “Let me run it by someone above me, but yeah, maybe. How would you put the word out?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Con’s mobile app, the Twitter feed. Specify one upload bin. We’ll get some spam and joke submissions, sure, but we’ll get more legit ones.”

“Work it out,” said Detective Martin, “and get me the details.”

Jacob finished typing and half-turned in the chair. “Paul? This is ready, if you approve.”

Paul glanced at the screen. “This is the cops’ wording?”

“Yeah, exactly. We’re just helping them spread the word.”

“Then we’re probably covered, liability-wise, and I can’t see any issues with it. You’ve got a photo drop already set up?”

Jacob alt-tabbed to display a Flickr page. “Not fancy, but efficient. Anyone with a Flickr account can upload straight to the ‘Con Job Photo Request’ group. People who aren’t Flickr users can email them or use the Twitter hashtag.”

“Looks good.” Paul leaned over the keyboard and signed into the mobile scheduling software. “Paste it all in here, and hit Update.”

The request for photos would appear on every smartphone and tablet using the mobile app. Jacob set up a new column to track the #ConJobPhotoReq hashtag in Twitter. The police would be collecting and analyzing everything, of course, but it would be interesting to track what kind of response they received.

He pulled a sheet of paper from the printer beside him and wrote,
why kill Tasha/Dead-Laura?
A couple of inches over, he wrote,
why kill Valerie K?
Ringing the two questions, he began to write short lines about the con and incidents.
Laser assaulted, robbed. CoCO in viewing rooms. Photobombs. Powder in kitchen.

He drew a dotted line between
Laser assaulted, robbed
and
Photobombs
. There were no lines connecting any of the other items yet, just a scattering of isolated thoughts.

The door opened, and Jacob looked up as Daniel escorted, politely but firmly, someone new into Con Ops. The teen jerked away from Daniel’s hand and flung himself into a folding chair, slouching with arms crossed and scowl fixed firmly. Behind them came a short woman in a
Final Fantasy VII
shirt, also with crossed arms and a furious expression. She remained standing.

“So,” Daniel said, “this is probably the last chance to resolve this peaceably. Are you willing to pay for the item?”

“I already told you, I don’t have it,” the teen snapped. “Nobody’s got two hundred bucks for a stupid statue. That’s stupid.”

Daniel turned to the woman, who spoke before he could. “I want to press charges.”

“All right, then.” He took out his phone and began dialing.

“You can’t arrest me!” the boy said. “I’m an American citizen. I have rights. You’re not police.”

“You can be held by building security until police arrive,” Daniel said evenly, the phone to his ear, “and in fact I am police. Sergeant Daniel Ratherman.” He pulled the badge from his Imperial uniform jacket to display.

The kid swore.

Jacob put his eyes back on the Twitter feed — two comments and three photos already — but he could hear clearly Daniel’s report of a theft from a vendor who wanted to press charges. The woman spoke again. “What will you need from me?”

“You can go on back to your booth, and we’ll send someone to take a statement when they get here. Thanks, and I’m sorry about all of this.”

“Some people are entitled little brats,” she said, an edge to her voice. “I’m just glad you’re doing something about it.”

The angry teen flipped her off as she left, but she didn’t see it. Daniel did. “Nicholas, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You under eighteen, Nicholas?”

“I’m seventeen.”

“You might want to take this opportunity to make a call, before you’re officially down to just one. You’ll need a parent or guardian to meet you at the station.”

He went still. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a minor, so you’ll have to be released into custody of a parent or guardian.”

Nicholas sat up slightly. “But — I don’t even live here. I came with friends. My dad’s at home, and it’s a seven-hour-drive.”

Daniel whistled. “You’d better call sooner rather than later, then.”

“But — he’ll have to take off work!”

“Sorry, son. I was just giving you the heads-up. But you can wait if you want, or let an officer make the call.”

He paled. “He’s gonna kill me.”

“If he does, we’ll arrest him. But until he does, you’ll need him to get out of holding, so you think about whether you want to call or not.”

Nicholas slouched further into the chair, dropping his head, and swore again. After a moment he drew out his phone. “Do I have to do it here?”

Daniel pointed. “There’s a corner. We’ll try not to eavesdrop.”

Nicholas retreated, sitting sideways in the corner and cradling his phone. Daniel turned to Jacob. “So,
Cougars and Cold Ones.
”

Jacob’s stomach dropped.

“That’s the name of the show that’s been popping up here. It’s all over the con, showing up in video rooms, on panel screens any time there’s a gap in the programming. Even had a bunch of old merchandise appear in the dealer room, scattered across booths who didn’t recognize it. Somebody seeded it. And man, is that some ugly merch, too. Who ever thought that would sell, even fifteen years ago?”

Jacob risked a breath. “So, you’ve just been seeing it around?”

“Everyone has. It’s all over. Did I miss some internet meme? Is
Cougars and Cold Ones
the new Rick-roll?” He frowned. “Because frankly, I think that’s doing Rick Astley a disservice.”

Jacob took another breath, more easily now. “Not that I’d heard of. I hope not.”

“
Cougars and Cold Ones
?” repeated Paul. “Oh, I remember that! That was years ago, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” agreed a volunteer Jacob didn’t recognize. “Some awful reality show about this family from hell. All these dysfunctional crazy people.”

“Man, I’d forgotten about that. Yeah, they were nuts.”

“I named my dog after that show,” said the volunteer. “When we got him, he kept scooting around on the carpet, smearing his butt on everything, so we called him Little Jakey.” He laughed. “Turned out he had worms or infected anal glands or something, the vet fixed it. Too bad nobody fixed them. Some people shouldn’t breed.”

Nicholas’ voice rose in the corner. “Dad, I’m sorry! I didn’t — no, I’m sorry! I know you have to work. I know. But the guy says you have to pick me up.”

Daniel blew out his breath. “Seven hours. That’s not going to be pretty. This will be about the longest seven hours he’s ever had to wait.”

“Won’t be as long as the seven hours home, I’m betting.”

“Boom.” Daniel gave a jaunty little point in Jacob’s direction. “You’re right on that one.” He glanced at the desk. “What are you working on?”

“Um, just some organizing,” he said, his ears growing warm. “Thought I’d get in some practice.”

Daniel looked down at the page, eyes running over the mind map and its single dotted line. “Think you’re going to solve it before the guys in Homicide?” He softened the joke with a grin.

“That would probably be a ticket straight into the Academy, right?”

“Sure wouldn’t hurt anything, I guess.”

Jacob swallowed and said casually, “The Academy application — how hard is it?”

“Are you worrying about it? I don’t think you have any red flags. Your grades are good, you’re taking the right classes, and no issues with the physical, right? Just the psychological profile and background, you should be fine.”

“But, the psychological… I mean, that’s a pretty big gap, and they can look at anything, and….”

Daniel shrugged. “I guess it does sound kind of scary. But it’s not really that bad. They want to be sure that you’re coming in for the right reasons, and that there’s nothing in your background to make you a risk to yourself or the department.”

Jacob looked back at the tablet. “Yeah.”

Behind them, Nicholas was off the phone. “He’s coming.”

“Good,” Daniel said.

Nicholas rested his forehead in his hand. “So stupid. No one can afford one of those, they shouldn’t cost so much. Stupid.”

“Those Hardy Daytonas are really nice,” Daniel said. “Very pretty. I’d like one, too, if I had the spare change.”

“Shuddup.” Nicholas glared at him. “Quit pretending to be a fan. I dunno why you’re even dressed up. Cosplay is gay. And you’re too old to pretend like you belong at a con.”

Daniel crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Son, I was a
Star Wars
fan before you were an itch in your daddy’s crotch. If you want something to feel possessive about, go on down to the
My Little Ponies
gathering at the — wait, no, that’s a throwback to the eighties show. I guess you’ll have to stick with
Doctor Who.
Oops, no, that started in the sixties. Hmm, let’s see here.” He glanced at the photoshoot gathering schedule on the wall. “Batman and DC villains? Nope. The Marvel Universe? Nope.
Evangelion
? Also before your time.”

“Shaddup,” growled the kid.

“Ooh, here you go. Your generation has—”

A shriek came from the hall, and Jacob lunged to the door. People were clearing a little space around the girl in the CLUTCH multi-layered garb, who stood frozen, arms half-raised, staring down at herself. Her gorgeous white costume was smeared across the chest and torso with blue-green streaks.

A few feet in front of her, a girl of perhaps fifteen gaped, easing backward. She wore only a narrow plaid tube top and short denim cutoffs over a body covered liberally with grey-green makeup, inexpertly swirled and now smeared in several places. Her multi-colored antennae were crooked.

The spell of shock broke as the scream’s echoes faded, and the stained cosplayer’s eyes rose from her ruined silks to the grey-green Daisy Duke-like Mole in front of her. Her jaw worked, unable to form words.

“Um — I’m sorry,” squeaked the blue-green girl.

“Sorry?” The silken cosplayer looked down at herself again.

The Mole girl bolted. Some of the bystanders shouted after her angrily, but no one stopped her, and she dashed up the escalator, pushing past two more people who recoiled and cried in outrage at fresh grey-green smears, and disappeared down one of the corridors.

Jacob looked back as cosplayers began to gather around the multi-layered silks, two of them carefully folding and protecting her trailing robes as others knelt to look at the makeup stains without touching. “Hydrogen peroxide?” someone asked.

“I’ve got a bleach pen,” called someone from the crowd.

“That’ll eat right through the silk,” a girl answered. “We need to get it off.”

Jacob phoned Sam. “We’ve got a cosplay emergency,” he said. “Who do I call?”

“Fish Face. They’ve got a whole kit of everything here, since they’re doing workshops. What happened?”

“One of the Moles ran right into the CLUTCH costume. Left blue body makeup all over the white.”

Sam’s horror was palpable even through the phone. “What? Oh, I’ll kill him. Unless someone already has.”

“Not funny today, Sam. She’s by Ops, if you want to come help.”

“I’ll call Fish Face and meet you there with whatever I can borrow.”

A man in an elegant Victorian suit pushed gently through to kneel beside the stricken cosplayer. “Don’t rub it, or it’ll set worse,” he warned. “Is this oil-based?” He scowled at it. “What the heck is this stuff? Anybody have a clue?”

“Some sort of Halloween kit, I’ll bet,” said someone else. “What a nightmare.”

The cosplayer had begun to cry. “We’ll never get it out!” She started to rub away tears and then caught herself before she touched her elaborate makeup.

“Excuse me,” Jacob said. “I just called someone, and she’s coming here with an emergency kit. She might have something to blot it out.”

She nodded, sniffing. “I was on my way to judging. Guess there’s no point now.”

“No, no, you can do it!” said the man in the suit. “Just tell the judges what happened. It’s not like nothing like this has ever happened before — though this is pretty bad. But they’ll understand. And this is beautiful; it deserves to be judged.”

“I’ll go and tell them you’ve been delayed, and why,” Jacob offered. “Then it’s official and everything. And Sam will be here any minute with Fish Face’s kit, and they’ll get you taken care of. Okay?”

She sniffed and nodded.

“What’s your entry info?”

“I’m FallingStar, entry M-18, dressed as Achenar from
Crooked Running Water
by CLUTCH, the Heavenly Wedding arc, artbook version.”

Cosplayers
.
Couldn’t give a simple answer when an enthusiastic one would do. Jacob nodded. “I’ll tell them.”