"That's interesting. Do you know the specifics?" Finn asked.
"I love to know everything about everything, but I couldn't drag it out of her. She wasn't happy that I tried. It must have come with a nice payday because Emi got a high-end 3-D printer. Those things aren't cheap. And the furniture..." Mitzie rolled her eyes in mock envy. "Boco do Lobo and Fendi. My man made good money, but he would have had to work another lifetime to afford things like that. Emi let me in to see it, but it was obvious Enver wasn't happy. That was very unusual. Could be they were having some personal problems. Personally, I think he didn't want anyone around here to know how well he was doing. God knows. Relationships are weird, aren't they?"
Mitzie took a drink of her coffee and considered the question.
"You're preaching to the choir, Mitzie," Finn said. "Do you think there is a reason to fear someone here might rob him? Perhaps that's why he didn't want anyone inside."
"Well he sure isn't afraid of me, and he wasn't happy I was there."
Mitzie's tiny body rocked backwards and forwards again when she laughed. That smile of hers faded fast when she saw Finn's expression.
"You're serious? Well, that's an easy one. Nobody wanted his money or his things. Artists want recognition, they dream of fame. If Enver hit the mother lode either the people around here would want to know how he did it..."
"Or?"
"Or they would want an intro to his patron or the gallery that picked him up. Enver was pretty open before all this, but he withdrew of late. Even when I saw him out walking he looked edgy. Distracted."
"Did you ever see him angry or violent?" Finn asked.
Mitzie shook her head.
"Emi wasn't bruised, if that's what you mean. Then again, how would any of us know what goes on in these places? The walls are so thick you can't hear anything much less someone getting beat up."
Finn knew that to be true and sadly had no time for gossip. The day was getting on.
"Well thank you, Mitzie. I best be on my way."
Finn got up and started to take his mug into the kitchen, but Mitzie popped up and took it from him.
"Don't you dare," Mitzie said. "Artist though I may be, my generation didn't let men do the dishes."
"You're a treasure, missus," Finn said.
"Yeah, that's what my guy used to tell me. It's nice to hear it again." She saw him to the door, pausing before he left. "I am sorry about that crack. I feel for the person who died, I'm sorry for whoever killed her, but I don't think it could be Enver. I'm praying it's someone outside this community. These are good people despite the fact that some of them are kind of wacky."
"I hope you're right." Finn handed her a card. "But if you hear anything, even if it seems of no consequence, you call me."
"Sure will," Mitzie said. "And you remember where I live. Coffee is always on."
Before Mitzie closed the door, Finn took a step back to ask:
"Do either of them have any good friends here? Or did you see people from the outside going in and out on a regular basis?"
"I saw a young woman visitor over that way once or twice, but she could have been going to the places near the back fence. I remember it being in my consciousness that she was going into the Cucas’. You know how that can be?" She pulled a face. "I'd make a terrible witness."
"You're doing fine," Finn said. "Did you ever see her with anyone else?"
"No," Mitzie said.
"And her car?" Finn asked.
"If she came by car she would park in the lot. No cars allowed in the quads unless you're loading or unloading something," Mitzie said. "Now and again I saw men go into the Cucas’ unit. Clients I suppose. I didn't really see those guys more than once."
"Can you describe the girl?"
"She was young and white. Petite. Long hair. That's about it."
"Can you take a guess how often you saw her?"
"Really, I can't say." Mitzie shrugged her apology. "Regular around here is seeing somebody from the outside more than once. She could have been modeling for Enver. You know Enver and Emi take commissions right?"
"So if a gentleman wanted a doll to look like his girlfriend or his wife—"
"Which would be redundant, wouldn't it?" Mitzie laughed. "More likely he would have commissioned the woman of his dreams. If he traveled he could keep her at his apartment in Paris, away from the respectable ladies in his life. If you've got enough money you can hire a super model to pose, have Enver do his thing, and take her home forever and ever. She'd never get old. Imagine that."
"'Tis a thought," Finn said. "Though none I would ever have."
"Even if you had that kind of money, I doubt you'd throw it away on one of those things. I bet you'd have better things to do with your hard earned dollars."
"I doubt I'll ever have that problem," Finn said.
Mitzie smiled, and Finn did too. Both knew money was not the root of all evil; it was the root of dissatisfaction, arrogance, and boredom. Once anything could be bought, nothing had value. With one of Enver's dolls a man could have the perfect woman, but never have to wonder if she loved him for his money or himself. There was no real intimacy in that, only an odd sort of insanity.
Finn took his leave, walking only as far as the end of Mitzie's building. The morning had turned to afternoon, and he could feel the fatigue of the long night. Mitzie had gone back to her loom. The compound was quiet as people attended to their work. He leaned against the cool concrete wall, and it felt good against his back. Finn flipped a page in his notebook and wrote: how would we know? Commission? NDA??
The latter he underlined twice. He flipped the book closed and let his eyes wander from one block of buildings to another. Finn thought of what Mitzie had said. No one could know what went on in any of these units and especially in the Cucas’. The building was huge, sound proof, and constructed like a fortress. It was difficult to see through the high windows from ground level. The man who had called 911 had only seen something strange up there. What he saw was indistinct. He seemed surprised that a crime had actually been committed. Upon questioning, he admitted that he didn't like the people going into the Cucas’ place. He didn't like any outsiders on the premises at night. What he saw in the window was excuse enough to call the police. He figured they would get rid of everyone inside.
Finn pushed off the wall. He checked his phone, saw no text from Cori, and decided to soldier on. The sun was high in the cloudless sky. While it was a pretty to look at, Finn often grew tired of the endless sunshine. His memories of his village's gentle rains and green fields intruded on days like this. He could only imagine how his parents missed their homeland. Now his father was gone. One day he and his brothers and sisters would send his mother back for a visit and Finn would go with her.
Setting aside his plans, he started for the next building only to turn and look at something that gave him pause. It was a small thing that would have gone unnoticed had his mind not wandered. Finn took a step and then two into the common area. He shaded his eyes with both hands to make sure he was not mistaken, and then he smiled.
"Thank you Mother Mary," Finn mumbled.
He dropped his hands, pocketed his notebook, and went on with a spring in his step.
10
"Can I help you?
Finn turned at the sound of the voice. He turned again, and once more as the question was repeated. The voice seemed to come from different parts of the warehouse. He looked up, down, over, and under as he tried to identify a human being amongst the 'things' that crammed the space. He found none. There were boxes that stood higher than three men, and plasma screens wider than ten more. A Foosball table the size of a living room was pushed up against one wall. It would take giants to turn the handles and make the wooden teams move. This place gave Enver Cuca's workroom a run for its money in terms of oddities. Finn couldn't identify the person speaking, so he assumed he was being tracked by a camera and spoke to the ceiling.
"I'm trying to get to the roof of this build
ing," Finn said. "Can you direct me to the stairs?"
"No can do, bucko. It's private up there," the voice answered.
"I'm thinking, you'll make an exception." Finn lifted his credential. "LAPD. Detective O'Brien. 'Tis been a long morning. I'd be obliged if you would show yourself, and keep me from having to hunt you down."
When the voice didn't talk back, Finn waited. Then he heard:
"Here I am."
Finn looked over his shoulder as the door to a glass booth opened only a few feet from him. He turned and faced the curious thing that emerged. Finn assumed there was a man inside the silver jumpsuit. He hoped there was a human face behind the darkened glass faceplate of the head gear. He imagined normal hands and feet under the heavy gloves and big, sturdy shoes but he could be wrong.
"Have we been invaded, then?" Finn asked.
The face mask flipped up. Beneath the dark glass and the glittering silver was a mischievous young man, no older than twenty or so.
"Wouldn't that be cool?" He had the huge grin and the wide-eyed wonder of an eight year-old. And, like an eight year old, he was as easily dismayed as he was delighted. "Who called the cops on us this time? I swear, this is all above board. Everything's got a permit."
"Do your neighbors complain often?" Finn asked.
"Not too often. It's annoying when they do," the man said. "You wouldn't think people here would freak out at what we do. Some of them make way weirder stuff."
"And what is it you do?" Finn twirled his finger as he talked. The man did a three-sixty, happy to show off his outfit.
"Today I'm burning myself up," he said.
"And why would you want to do that?" Finn asked.
"Fun and games," he said. "We make bigger, better, awesome, over-the-top games and stuff. Want to see? We're in the last testing stages on this one."
"I admit, I'm curious," Finn said.
"Great. I'd love to get an outsider's reaction. Come on. Over here. How are you with a baseball?"
"Better with a soccer ball, but I can manage," Finn said.
"Good enough."
The man's arms were akimbo as he walked back to the glass booth. The puffy suit crinkled and skritched with each step. He flung out a gloved hand.
"So we make big fantasy games for anybody with enough money to buy one. Mostly we sell these things to corporate events or theme parks. Sometimes people buy games for themselves, but those people have big bucks. We are talking no-holds-barred, sky's-the-limit. You imagine it, and we figure out how to make it. If you can't imagine it, we do that for you too."
He handed Finn a softball.
"But I'm kind of a sucker for tradition. This one's my baby. So this is like an updated dunk tank. Ever seen a dunk tank?"
"I've fond memories of dunking the principal at our school's festival when I was in fifth grade," Finn said.
"Then we're on the same page," he said. "So I get in here..."
He pointed to the glass booth from which he had recently emerged. It didn't look much like a dunk tank to Finn. There was no water, but there were metal grommets running up and down the two solid walls that faced one another. The grommets anchored hollow copper tubes. There was no plank for the man to sit upon, but before Finn could ask about any of this, he was being given directions.
"You stand here." he pointed to a mark on the floor. Finn obliged. "As soon as the door closes and I put my arms above my head you throw the ball at the target, okay?"
"Got it."
Finn palmed the ball with both hands as the young man waddled inside and closed the door behind him. He turned laboriously. When he was finished, he pulled his mask down, secured it, and then held his arms up.
"Okay, boyo," Finn muttered. "Prepare yourself."
Finn wound up, threw the ball, and hit the pin. The minute it made contact Finn fell back, cursing. Fire shot out of the grommets. It burned so hot it was blue at the heart of it; it was propelled so furiously it sounded like the roar of a jet engine. The flames engulfed the man inside. Finn froze, but the blast only lasted seconds before the flamethrowers embedded in the wall clicked off. Finn lunged for the door thinking to rescue the man, but there was no need. He opened the door, waddled out of the booth, and when he snapped up his face mask he was laughing.
"It's okay. It's okay," he said. "Awesome, isn't it? I mean, did your heart stop or what?"
"'Tis a heart attack you'll be giving everyone if you don't warn them what's coming," Finn said.
"It takes a lot to get people excited this days," he said. "Anyone who sees this at a Comicom or something is never going to forget it. And this suit is incredible. I could get burned up all day, and not feel a thing. You don't even get hot."
"I'm going to be having nightmares." Finn ran a hand over his head and tugged at his jacket to compose himself.
"I didn't even scream. I've got resonators, so when I scream it makes everything super horrifying. Do you want to do it again and I'll scream?"
"I've enough horror, thanks," Finn said.
"Yeah, you're right. I've been playing around with this all morning." He peeled off his suit and tossed it on top of something that looked like a helicopter with hair. He rotated his shoulders under a T-shirt that had a cat with a knife through its head on the front. He held out his hand. "Peter. O'Brien, right?"
"That's it," Finn said, noting the man's skin was cool to the touch.
"So what can I do you for?" Peter said.
"I need to get to your roof. It's about what happened last night, " Finn said.
"What happened last night?" By his reaction, Finn chalked the young Peter off the list of those who had a personal interest in the woman in the loft.
"A woman was killed here early this morning." Finn said. "I understood that news didn't take long to be shared at The Brewery."
"Depends on the news," Peter said, only to be distracted by a hat with big goggles attached. He offered it to Finn. "Total virtual reality. Want to try?"
"Not unless it's a time machine and will take me back to the wee hours of the morning," Finn said, all the while thinking how difficult it would be to deal with children if he could not keep this man's attention. "How is it you didn't hear about the murder?"
"Because I don't live here, which means I'm not a part of the whole artist community thing. There's kind of a weird split at The Brewery."
He walked through the warehouse. Finn followed, feeling like he was on the back lot of a carny. His eyes were everywhere, even though he concentrated on Peter's steady stream of conversation.
"You've got the real artists in the low rent buildings. Those guys are literally hand-to-mouth. They live and work in the studios, and spend more on raw materials than they do on food. They are the true believers. Most will never be successful, but when they are they move out."
Peter raised his arms and waved them over his head. A garage-size door opened. He never stopped talking.
"Biggest artist colony in the country, subsidized by the city. It's fantastic concept. Great PR for L.A." Peter said. "Take a load off."
They were in an office. The door closed automatically, rolling down from the ceiling, and landing on the floor like a vapor lock. Air conditioning kicked in. Lights shined softly at the end of the room. Finn sat down on a plastic chair shaped like a large hand. The upturned palm was surprisingly comfortable.
"Want some water?"
Peter didn't wait for an answer. The bottle he handed Finn looked like it should hold wine.
"So you've got the starving artists," Finn said as he pulled out the glass stopper. "What else?"
"Past the park, you've got the nice lofts with windows and separate work areas. Lots of furniture makers, interior designers, jewelry artists. That group has a market; they make a living from their art because they make useful things. And then there are a few like me and my brothers."
Peter grabbed a bottle for himself, and perched on the edge of a long table.
"Me and my brothers get paid to play. Best job in the w
orld." He chuckled, thinking fondly of his oversized toys, only to sober a minute later. "We work long hours, but we don't live here. Sometimes we stay over if we're on a tight deadline, but this isn't home."
"From the look of things you're successful," Finn said.
"We are because we're businessmen first and creative second. We make a lot of money catering to a specific high-end market. One of my brothers is a special effects expert, my other brother is an engineer, and I'm the imagineer. My sister-in-law does the marketing."
"Sure, you're like Disneyland," Finn said.
"Pretty much. I think it up, my brothers figure out how to make it, and we sell our games to whoever can afford them. We used to have a huge business with conventions and corporate events. The market's down a little, but it will come back. Still, we're better off than most."
"Are you here every day?" Finn asked.
"I come in every day. We have other spaces where we test small models. We do the final construction and real time testing here," Peter said, tiring of his tutorial. He was curious about Finn. "So, what exactly are you looking for?"
"I'm talking to people in the complex to see if they remember anything unusual last night. This went down in the three story building on the other side of the park—"
"Oh, Enver and Emi. It wasn't Emi that got taken out was it? I'd feel awful if it was Emi," Peter said. His response wasn't personal, it was sympathetic.
"No. She's fine," Finn said. "We are trying to identify the victim."
"Doesn't Enver know who was in his own place?" Peter asked.
"It would seem not," Finn said, not wanting to go into the particulars of the party.
"You sure it was a human?" Peter laughed and then held up a hand. "Sorry, I'm not joking about a dead person. It's just that Enver and Emi, well, you know what I'm talking about. Companion doll is a nice name for making a hunk of plastic a person can screw. It is totally weird."
"So you know the Cucas well?" Finn said.
Intimate Relations: A Finn O'Brien Crime Thriller Page 8
