The Last Iota

by Robert Kroese

  “Clever,” I said.

  Keane nodded. “This is not a pipe,” he said.

  “Huh?” I replied

  “The Treachery of Images,” Keane muttered. “René Magritte. The symbol is not the thing.”

  I didn’t ask. Looking back at the book, I saw that below the picture was a paragraph of text:

  (Not One) Iota Coin. Minted 2033. Mint: Unknown. Composition: Titanium alloy. Limited edition, nine known to be in existence. Produced as part of a publicity campaign to promote the iota virtual currency. Pictured is coin with serial number 3. Current market value: $N400

  I frowned as I read the last part. “Four hundred New Dollars?” I asked. “Selah hired us to find a coin worth four hundred New Dollars?”

  Keane asked Kim another question, and Kim rattled off another flurry of syllables.

  “Says the price has spiked recently,” Keane said. “He had one in the store last week. Serial number 2. Somebody bought it.”

  They had another brief exchange.

  “Says the guy paid six hundred. Wishes he’d held out for more. Last week, two others—serial numbers 1 and 8—sold on eBay for eight hundred each. This morning he heard a dealer in Santa Barbara got a thousand for the one pictured in the book. Serial number 3.”

  “A thousand New Dollars,” I said. “Selah Fiore probably has that in her couch cushions.”

  “You’re missing the point, Fowler,” Keane said.

  “Which is?”

  Keane said something to Kim, and Kim barked something back at him. Keane replied in a stern but conciliatory tone. Kim sighed and grabbed a pen and paper. He jotted something down and handed it to Keane. Keane bowed slightly to Kim and then walked out of the store. I followed. Kim yelled something at me as I walked out. I just smiled and waved.

  “What’s with that guy?” I asked, as I caught up to him on the sidewalk.

  “Mr. Kim? He was one of my first clients. Hired me to find his wife. He’s still upset about it.”

  “You never found her?”

  “No, I did,” Keane said. “He can’t stand her. Only hired me because her family was haranguing him. She was perfectly happy shacking up with a car salesman across town. Now they’re stuck with each other. Some cases are better left unsolved.”

  “So it would seem,” I said. “Inside, you said I was missing the point about the coins. What did you mean?”

  “The point,” said Keane, “is that demand for those coins is increasing. Actual prices are a lagging indicator of demand. There is no way to know at this point just how great the demand is. Maybe one of those coins is worth killing over.”

  “How is that possible?” I asked.

  “That I don’t know.”

  My comm was chiming. The display read “Selah Fiore.”

  “What is it, Selah?” I asked.

  “Mr. Fowler?” I heard Selah say. “There has been a development in the case.”

  “What kind of development?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you over the comm. I need you and Keane to come to my house right away.”

  “Look, Selah,” I said, “we’re not going to—”

  The call terminated.

  FIVE

  I tried calling Selah back, but there was no answer.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “We go to Selah’s house.”

  “That seems like a bad idea.”

  “You’re only saying that because you think taking this case was a bad idea.”

  “Correct.”

  “Too bad. We’re committed now. Drive.”

  I sighed but pulled away from the curb and headed toward Selah’s house. Selah lived near the top of a ridge in the Hollywood Hills. It would have been a ten-minute ride by aircar, but we didn’t have that option. The sun was already setting; we wouldn’t get there until well after dark. I called April on the way to let her know I’d need her car a bit longer.

  The drive ended up taking almost an hour. I parked in the driveway and Keane and I walked to the front door. It was ajar. From inside, I heard a woman’s voice speaking in agitated tones, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  I held my finger to my lips and drew my gun. Pushing the door open, I stepped quietly inside, finding myself in a large foyer. Selah Fiore was standing across the room with her hands on her hips.

  “Excuse me,” Selah said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “The door was open,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “You can’t come in here,” Selah said. “Get out.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Selah,” I said. “We just drove an hour to get here. I rang the—”

  “Fowler,” said Keane behind me. “That’s not Selah.”

  “What do you mean?” I said. “Of course it’s…” But I saw now that this Selah was not the exhausted, hollowed out woman I’d seen in the dressing room, but the version I’d seen on the soundstage. It was Selah the way she’d appeared three weeks earlier, when she was still healthy. She seemed to be regarding me with fear.

  “The hologram,” I said. “But why…?”

  “I said get out!” Selah shouted. “Get away from me! You can’t—” She broke off and then turned to her right, as if facing someone Keane and I couldn’t see. “No, please!” she cried. “I’m not well. What do you want?” Selah’s form jerked backward, and suddenly she was sitting in an invisible chair. Her eyes darted back and forth, as if two people were standing over her. “I don’t know!” she cried after a moment. “No! That whole operation was shut down. He should know that. Please … no. No!” Her head turned to the side and her arms moved tightly against her sides, as if she were being tied to the chair. Her head jerked back and she winced. “Please,” she said. “This is a misunderstanding. Just call—”

  With that, the projection disappeared. I moved across the room, my gun at the ready. Was Selah in the house somewhere, trying to use the hologram to call for help? As I passed the spot where the hologram had been, I heard Selah’s voice behind me. “Excuse me,” she said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  I spun around to see the hologram once again. Selah was now facing away from me, repeating her lines from a moment earlier. “You can’t come in here,” she appeared to be saying to Keane, who was regarding the projection with interest. “Get out!”

  “It’s a recording,” I said. “Stuck on a loop.”

  “Yes,” said Keane. “Curious.”

  I made my way down the hall until I came to the open door of a study. Behind me, Selah continued to plead with invisible intruders.

  “I said get out! Get away from me! You can’t—”

  Peering inside the study, I saw the body of Selah Fiore, duct taped to a chair, her head hanging limply on her chest.

  “Keane!” I said. “Help!” I ran to Selah, holstering my gun. I felt her neck: no pulse. She didn’t appear to be breathing, either. The Selah in the foyer continued to protest. “No, please! I’m not well. What do you want?”

  Keane came into the room and rushed to my side.

  “Forget it,” I said. “She’s dead.”

  “Still warm,” he said, feeling her neck.

  “Look,” I said, pointing to her neck. “Syringe mark.”

  Keane nodded.

  “I’m going to check the rest of the house,” I said. “Stay here.”

  I went through the house, gun drawn, but it seemed to be empty. Eventually I reached a pair of French doors looking out on a covered patio. Lying on the pressed concrete floor, in a pool of blood, was a large man in khaki pants and a green polo shirt. An HK automatic rifle lay next to him.

  I exited through the doors and crouched down next to the man. He had a bullet hole in his forehead, and his eyes were open and fixed in place. A few feet away, lying in the fetal position in a corner, was another man, similarly dressed and armed. He was pretty clearly dead as well. Abrasions on his neck indicated he’d been strangled with some kind of cord.

  If I had to guess, I
’d have said the first guy was shot in place from somewhere on the ridge overlooking the back of Selah’s house. The second guard was killed later and dragged out here with his comrade—quietly enough that Selah had been surprised when she finally laid eyes on the assassin. These guys—assuming there was more than one—were pros.

  I went back into the house and found Keane studying the hologram, which was going through its script for the umpteenth time:

  I said get out! Get away from me! You can’t … No, please! I’m not well.

  “The projector control is on Selah’s desk,” Keane said. “It’s locked.”

  What do you want?

  “Meaning what?” I asked, coming up next to him and holstering my gun.

  “Meaning that someone seems to have intentionally set her little speech up to repeat. Selah must have set it up to greet visitors, but her killers programmed it to endlessly repeat the last few seconds before she was subdued.”

  “To lure us into the house,” I said. “We see an open door, hear Selah’s voice, and go inside. But why? There’s no one here.”

  I don’t know!

  “Security cameras,” Keane said, glancing at the ceiling. “Somebody wanted to record us walking into Selah’s house.”

  No! That whole operation was shut down. He should know that. Please … no. No!

  “To frame us for her murder.”

  Please, this is a misunderstanding. Just call—

  “Perhaps,” said Keane.

  “Then who called us?”

  “Could have been Selah,” Keane said. “She hasn’t been dead long.”

  “She didn’t sound like she was under duress.”

  Keane shrugged. “She’s an actress. But maybe it was a sim, or someone using a voice modulator.”

  “Using Selah’s comm.”

  Excuse me. What do you think you’re doing?

  “Yes.”

  “Well, whoever did this, they’re professionals,” I said. “Took out two trained bodyguards before Selah even knew they were here. Maybe somebody else who wants those coins?”

  You can’t come in here. Get out.

  “Could be,” said Keane. “Seems like a bit of an overreaction, though, considering our progress on the case so far. What interests me, though, is how they killed her.”

  “Poison?” I asked, thinking of the syringe mark.

  I don’t know!

  “I don’t think so,” said Keane. “No signs of poisoning. Eyes are bloodshot. I think she was asphyxiated.”

  No! That whole operation was shut down. He should know that. Please … no. No!

  “Then why the syringe?”

  “Interrogation,” said Keane. “They were trying to get her to tell them something. And they were at it awhile.”

  Please, this is a misunderstanding. Just call—

  “How do you know that?”

  “Selah’s office window faces west. Come here and look at the hologram.”

  The form of Selah reappeared in front of us and began its spiel again. Keane and I walked around to view it from Selah’s right side. Something had looked a little off about the projection, and now that I really looked, I saw what it was: Selah had a slight orange glow on her right cheek.

  “Sunlight,” I said.

  Keane nodded. “Late afternoon. The sun set about an hour ago. Selah’s been dead not much longer than that. They had her in that chair, alive, for at least two hours. Presumably they got what they wanted, suffocated her, and then faked that call to us. The question is, what ‘operation’ was she talking about?”

  “The cloning program, maybe,” I said.

  “Or Maelstrom,” Keane replied.

  My heart sank. What if Selah had told the killers about Gwen? Don’t panic, I told myself. Selah didn’t know where Gwen was. Did she?

  “Should we call the police?” I asked.

  Keane shook his head. “Whoever set up that hologram probably hacked the surveillance system, too. If they intend to frame us for Selah’s murder, they’ll doctor the recording to make it look like we killed her.”

  “That’s a pretty big assumption.”

  “And if they don’t, then the recording will exonerate us. Either way, there’s no reason to involve the police, unless you think they’re going to be of some help to us in solving this case.”

  “Good point,” I said. “We should get out of here.”

  “Agreed.”

  Selah was still pleading with her killers when we left.

  * * *

  The road back into the city from Selah’s was a tortuous series of switchbacks in the Hollywood Hills. Ordinarily I would have enjoyed the drive in April’s Mustang, but all I could think about was Gwen. If the people who killed Selah were the same people who had eliminated the task force members, then it made sense that they would have interrogated her to find out where Gwen was. The only question was whether Selah actually knew where Gwen was. It seemed unlikely, but it was hard to assess the situation objectively in my present state. I managed to send Gwen a quick text message before getting in the car, but she didn’t reply. She had an anonymous comm, but I tried not to contact her unless absolutely necessary, in case Keane went through our records and got suspicious.

  I dropped Keane off at the office and then called April to tell her what was going on. Well, I didn’t have time to tell her everything, but I figured she had a right to know where her car was, at the very least. I told her I was going to check on Gwen, and then I’d bring her car back.

  “You’re coming from your office?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Just dropped off Keane.”

  “Pick me up on the way. I’m at La Pirata.” La Pirata was a bar on Alhambra, near downtown.

  “What are you doing at La Pirata?”

  “I’m drinking, Blake. It’s a bar. People go to bars sometimes.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work,” I said.

  “Come on, Blake. I was going to get a ride with the friend who brought me here, but she left with some creep. If you pick me up, I don’t have to get a cab.”

  “Not a good idea,” I said. “I’ll just be a half hour or so.”

  “If I stay here another half hour, I’m going to end up leaving with some creep, too. Is that what you want?”

  I was pretty sure this was an idle threat, but she did sound pretty drunk.

  “Look,” she said, “you don’t have to worry about your girlfriend seeing me. I’ll just nap in the backseat. I won’t make a peep.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Two minutes. Be out front.”

  Two minutes later, I pulled up to the curb in front of La Pirata, just as April emerged onto the sidewalk. She got in the car and I pulled away from the curb.

  “You all right, Blake?” she asked.

  “I will be, once I make sure Gwen is safe.”

  “Did something happen?”

  I wasn’t sure how much to tell April at this point. Probably better to err on the side of discretion. “I messaged her earlier and there was no response. I just want to make sure she’s all right.”

  April nodded soberly and didn’t press the issue.

  Ten minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of the motel. I parked several units down from Gwen’s and got out. “Stay here,” I said to April. “If I don’t come back, call Keane.”

  “If you don’t come back?” April said. “Fowler, I thought you said—”

  I slammed the door and walked briskly to Gwen’s door. I knocked, but there was no reply. The room was dark. I stepped back and gave the door a solid kick with the base of my shoe. It gave.

  I drew my gun and reached in to turn on the light. The room appeared to be empty. I went inside.

  Gwen’s personal belongings lay strewn about the room, but she wasn’t there. I was beginning to think I had overreacted. I holstered my gun.

  “Left in a hurry,” said a voice behind me.

  I spun around. “Keane,” I said, seeing him standing in the doorway. “What the
hell are you doing here?”

  “Wondering how long Gwen has been back,” he said, walking into the room. He made a circuit of the room, glancing this way and that. “By the looks of things, about three weeks. But she left today, a few hours ago. Expects to be back in a day or two.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  Keane sighed. “Pizza coupon on the dresser expired two weeks ago. Travel-size toothpaste tube in the bathroom is almost empty. Dust in the corners indicates the room hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned for a while. All of that suggests that Gwen’s stay at this motel began about three weeks ago, when Selah told you about Gwen, you stopped asking me about her, and you generally started acting weird. Additionally, her luggage is here, but her purse is not. Makeup bag on the bed is open, as if she took a few items and left the rest. Coke can on the dresser was cold a couple hours ago, judging from the ring of water at its base, but is now warm, judging from the lack of condensation on the can. Dresser drawer is partially open and the contents are in disarray. ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign was on the door, although the maid isn’t likely to come by until tomorrow morning. So: She has been here three weeks, left between one and three hours ago, and plans to return tomorrow, or the next day at the latest.”

  “He’s right,” said a woman’s voice behind me. April. “She took just enough stuff to last her for a day or two.”

  “Damn it, April,” I said. “You were supposed to stay in the car.”

  “You kicked the door in, Blake. You didn’t expect me to come after you? Hi, Keane. Did you know all along, or did you just find out?”

  “I suspected,” said Keane. “Figured it was none of my business.”

  “And yet,” I said, “here you are.”

  “Now we’re on a case,” Keane said. “And you’re distracted. That makes it my business. April, start packing.”

  “Excuse me?” said April from the doorway.

  “We need to get out of here,” Keane explained impatiently. “Somebody will have heard the racket Fowler made kicking in that door. The police will be here soon. They’ll confiscate Gwen’s belongings. We have a better chance of figuring out where she’s gone if we have her stuff.”

  “Why do I have to do it?” April asked.