Con Job (7 page)

“Uh, it’s a little, super-cute thing. Comes from the Japanese for
small
. Generally a little, disproportionate, hyper-cute character.” He held up his key chain and pointed to a cartoonish Captain America dangling from it. “Comes in all flavors.”

She nodded. “And it was thought that Valerie was having her sister do the design?”

“That’s what my friend heard.”

“And what’s your friend’s name?”

“I don’t think I should tell you. She probably shouldn’t have been talking to me about it, you know? Do I have to tell you?”

“Maybe later.” Detective Martin closed her notebook. “That’s all for now, Mr. Adams. But please don’t leave the con without checking in with us, okay? In case we have any more questions.”

When Christopher had gone, Detective Martin looked dubiously at Daniel. “So let me get this straight: we have a suspect whose motive would have been, his job was threatened by a stuffed animal?”

Daniel shrugged. “Some people take these things very seriously. But I have to agree with you, it doesn’t seem the killing thing to do.”

Martin looked down at her notes. “This whole thing’s a mess. So far I’ve got one guy who was on a business trip to Beijing until two days ago, a woman who says the deceased had a bleak aura and probably invited dark forces, and now a professional rivalry with a cutesy animal.” She wrote more, flipping pages and drawing arrows.

“Any likely faces?” asked Daniel.

“Groene has money issues, and frankly, money’s a much better motive than a stuffed animal. Let’s look and see if he could have benefited financially from Kimberton’s death. Who knows, maybe she was bringing in a nephew to replace him as a voice actor, if that’s really how she was inclined to work.” She drew her phone and photographed her notes. She caught Jacob watching. “People talk more when there isn’t a recorder or when you don’t take a lot of notes,” she explained. “So take basic notes and fill them in after they’re gone. And an app which reads handwriting and makes them all searchable is worth its weight in good wine.”

“What about Tasha Kurlansky?” asked Daniel. “Even if someone had a financial motive to kill Valerie, killing an unrelated cosplayer wouldn’t help. It would just double the chances of being caught.”

“Maybe he thought it would be camouflage? Distract from the motive by looking like random killings.”

“In which case, he might not think two bodies is enough.”

They looked at the empty catering tables around them. “The food court staff were supposed to be checking their kitchens.”

“Do they even know what to look for?” Jacob put in. “Do we know what to tell them to look for?”

Daniel sighed. “A bag of white powder. Man, that could be anything, from cocaine to anthrax to MSG.”

“How soon will they have test results back on that baggie from this morning?”

“Not soon enough.”

Main Programming — a series of connected hotel ballrooms — had been modified for the auditions, with a black-curtained makeshift booth at the front of the room and a table and chairs on the stage. Within the curtains Sam could see an over-sized microphone, shielded by a filter, and a camera aimed down on the interior.

Lots of cons had acting or voice acting workshops or demos, and some had contests or “auditions,” but most of the latter were simply filler to occupy con attendees. This one was different, however. It was still a fun event for the con, but professionals Mickey Groene, Ryan Brazil, and Sandra Shark were commenting on each entry. Most significant, however, was that each participant’s attempts would be recorded, and the winner of today’s contest would have this mini-reel forwarded to TruCast, who would select one voice actor from the pool of winners, taken from a dozen such contests at cons across the country, to invite for a minor role and further auditions.

It wasn’t a traditional or likely path to success, but it was a potential shortcut, and the only risk was receiving an
American Idol
style dress-down in front of the con. Sam was willing to hazard that.

She had signed up for the contest almost the moment registration had opened, and she arrived a few minutes early, clutching a warm green tea and honey in a textured paper cup. She had brought the tea and honey from home and brewed it in the hotel room.

Two techs were tweaking the microphone and camera, calling back and forth from the AV station, and finally seemed satisfied. More hopefuls were filtering into the chairs, marked with a “reserved for contestants” printed sheet, and friendly, excited chatter began.

Sam eyed them. There were a few who looked serious, but about half she guessed were just here for some fun at the con, not intent on a career launch. She sipped her tea.

Onstage, the three voice actors were making their way to the table. All carried a beverage: Mickey Groene had a steel bottle, Ryan Brazil had a Starbucks cup, and Sandra Shark had a plastic bottle of water.

“You look pretty serious,” said a voice beside her.

Sam glanced to her left and saw a blue-green Mole, his multi-colored antennae curling forward over his head. “Sorta. That is, I’d like to actually go into voice acting, so I want to do well today.”

He nodded. “Me too. I’m majoring in theater, but they don’t have a voice track.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Katnak.”

“Sam. Samantha, really, but that takes too long to say.”

“Using your real name? Ooh, edgy.” He grinned.

Behind them, the ballroom was filling with spectators. Sam took another sip of her tea, its warmth radiating down her throat. Her phone buzzed, and she glanced down to see one more text from Jacob.
You can rock this.

Someone else was on the stage now. “Hi, everybody. If you’re here to see some great amateur voice acting, this is the place! Contestants, make sure you’re checked in with Mary there with the clipboard, and we’ll be getting started in just a short minute. In the meantime, let me introduce our professional panel.”

Katnak rose and went to speak to Mary, along with a number of other participants. Sam had been the first.

“And Ryan will be voicing Nega Carson in the upcoming
Mega-Nega Racetrap
, which hits Playstation next — May, is it, Ryan? You don’t know? They just hand you a mic and send you checks, you don’t do the marketing, right.” The MC laughed. “And then we have Sandra Shark.”

“I do the girl characters,” she said with a wave.

Because “female” is a character class,
rang Jessica’s indignant voice in Sam’s head, and she smiled a little.

“Okay, are we ready to get started? For the audience, this is how it’s going to work: we’ll call a contestant into the booth. We’ll close the curtain for sound quality, since we are recording these for TruCast, but you see the camera over the top here? Everything will be projected live onto the giant screens behind me. So you’ll get to see every facial contortion, every blush, every tic these guys have to offer.”

The crowd chuckled.

“We’ll give them a character profile and a line, and they’ll each have several characters to read. Our professionals will comment, but you the audience are encouraged to scream and cheer for what you like, okay?”

Katnak was called first. He went up to the booth, his multi-colored antenna bobbing as he walked.
This is the only job interview where it doesn’t matter at all what you look like,
mused Sam with a private laugh.

Katnak took the page of lines and went into the curtained booth. The interior was projected onto the giant screens, and he waved at the camera.

“Okay,” said the MC, “your first role is… You are a high school student who has just discovered that you possess a superpower.”

Katnak looked at the sheet and laughed.

“Give it to us when you’re ready.”

Katnak took a breath, leaned toward the mic, and breathed in a perfect Keanu Reeves impression, “Whoa.”

The audience laughed and clapped.

“Okay, good! For your next line, you’re a mad scientist, just about to complete your world domination project when suddenly the doorbell rings. Play it for laughs.”

Katnak nodded, studying the page. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then he unleashed on the mic, one arm holding the page and the other gesticulating as he shouted. “What,
what?
Seriously, what now? Why do I even have a doorbell on a remote mountain stronghold? Memo, disable that thing.”

The audience liked this one, too. Sam clapped, trying to still the tendril of anxiety stirring within her.

“Nice, nice. Now, last one: you’re a Marine, and the helicopter carrying your childhood friend who signed up with you has just been shot down. You’re watching it fall and running toward the crash site.”

Sam tightened her fists. This was the hard stuff.

On the screens and inside the booth, Katnak appeared similarly anxious. “Okay,” he said, almost to himself, as he stared at the script page. He tested the words, running through them silently, and then he took a deep breath and licked his lips. “Nooooooooooo! Sam! Hold on, Sammy, I’m coming! I’m coming!”

It wasn’t great scripting, but that wasn’t Katnak’s fault, and his delivery had a rawness to it that appealed. The crowd cheered, Sam included.

Katnak exited the booth and waved to everyone, and then he went up to the stage to hear the panelists’ impressions.

They were brief. “Your first two, there was nothing really wrong with them,” said Mickey, “but they were a bit derivative.”

“That’s good when a director wants a riff on something,” said Ryan, “but you want to try for originality more.”

“But your third one,” Sandra said, “that had some potential. It wasn’t a great line, but you put a lot into it.”

The others nodded. “Third was your best, definitely.”

“Thank you,” said Katnak. “I appreciate your thoughts.”

He returned to sit beside Sam. “Sorry for screaming your name like that,” he whispered. “Especially as we’ve only just met.”

She cast a darkly incredulous look at him and turned back to the stage.

“Sorry,” he said again, “that was uncalled for. Really.”

“You’re right,” she said, “but apologizing helps.”

“Nervous energy,” he said. “I always get the shakes right after I get off a stage or something. Worse after than before. It’s weird.”

The next contestant entered the booth and was given the role of a cheery alien observing human children at play.

“I freak out before,” Sam said, “and then I spend three hours afterward rehashing everything I should have done differently.”

He laughed.

The reading contestant giggled through two of her three lines, and for the third, a parent looking down at a child’s grave, she broke off laughing and said she couldn’t do it. The next contestant, however, was pretty good, and the audience cheered her as she exited the booth.

Sam’s name was called about halfway through, by which time her hands were sweaty and her breath shortening. That was bad for voice work, and she tried to take slow, deep breaths as she approached the booth.

Someone was cheering from the audience, and she turned to see Lydia with her hands funneling a whoop. She smiled and waved. To the side, Zach and Jessica were clapping and shouting encouragement too.

Surely the script would grow damp and saggy in her wet hands. She took the page without looking at the MC and went into the booth.

She did most of her voice practice in her car as she drove, private and ever available. The makeshift booth wasn’t too different in size. Sam drew a deep breath, letting her diaphragm and lower abdomen expand.

“Okay, first up, you’re surprised by the appearance of your explorer friend who has been missing for months.”

Sam looked at the script. Seriously? How could anyone work with this clunker of a line?

But silence stretched outside the booth. She curled her fingers. “Tell us how you escaped from Devil’s Island, Randolph.”

There wasn’t much sound from the audience outside. She wasn’t sure if that meant that they didn’t like it, or if she wasn’t supposed to hear much of them inside the deadening curtains. But how could they have liked a line like that, no matter how it was read?

“Okay. Next up, you’re a successful actress, about forty, talking to a friend about your divorce.”

This one had more possibilities. Sam thought a moment, tested a breezy tone in her mind, and then loftily said, “Oh, Doug, I'm far too busy to be upset. I have my broadcasts, my fan mail, my detailed plans for how to dispose of Jeff's body….”

The audience liked this one, she could hear. She smiled and gave the camera a thumbs-up. They liked that, too.

“Very good! Now, for your final role, you are a parent who has just heard your child having a horrific nightmare. Come in and gently wake him.”

Sam’s stomach clenched. She had done lots of heroic voices in her car, lots of challenges, lots of sarcasm and snark. She hadn’t practiced much maternal.

She stared at the page, her thumb marking the third set of lines.
Come on, Sam. Think gentle
. The camera stared at her, waiting. Who could be a touchstone for this? Who had a kind, child-friendly voice, that wouldn’t sound all creepy and predatory?

Mr. Rogers. There was no one kinder and friendlier and more soothing than Mr. Rogers, and if they didn’t like it, well, she didn’t want to work in an industry which rejected Fred Rogers.

She closed her eyes against the camera and thought of a gentle man in a sweater. She opened her eyes and found the words marked by her thumb. “Wait, little one, hush. It’s all right; there’s nothing in the dark. Only me, and I’m here to sit with you and watch the night go by.”

It wasn’t the kind of monologue to inspire wild cheering, but they cheered anyway, if politely. Sam exhaled and opened the curtain, heading to the stage to hear the voice actors’ feedback.

Mickey spoke first. “Man, that first line, I felt for you. Who wrote this stuff? I’m sorry. But you did the best you could with it.”

“It’s totally a female line,” Sandra stage-whispered, and they all laughed. “Like, Ooh, hero-guy, tell me how you were amazing so I can be amazed.”

“I guess you could put a lot of sarcasm into it,” mused Ryan. “Lots of eye-rolling? Would that help?”

“Not really,” said Mickey. “But you pulled it through — what’s your name?”

“Sam.”

“Sam. You gave it what you had, which is all anyone can ask. After that….”

“After that is when she brought the snark,” said Sandra. “Which was good.”

“And it was at the opposite end of the spectrum from the last line, which was all warm and fuzzy,” Mickey said. “So that’s good range.”

“Good job,” Ryan summed up. “Keep working.”

“Thank you,” said Sam, and as she returned to her seat she wondered if she should have said more. It seemed kind of flat.

When she sat down, though, Katnak gave her a big grin. “I should probably hate you,” he said, “but that was pretty good.”

“Hate me?”

“Because I was figuring it was going to be me and that guy who did the goat-man, and now I’ve got to beat him if I want to be in the top two.”

Sam felt her face pull into a wide smile. “I don’t think it was quite that definitive, but thanks.”

Her phone buzzed with texts from Lydia and Jessica.
Awesome, you rocked it,
and,
Sweet pipes, girlfriend
.

She didn’t hear the next couple of contestants, as she was replaying her lines over and over in her mind.
Leave it alone,
she told herself.
Nothing you can change about it now. Just wait for it
. But her internal playback kept going.