Con Job

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  Daniel sighed. “A young woman was found dead in a restroom yesterday. Looked like she’d been ill. We haven’t heard back on the autopsy yet, but as there was no reason to suspect homicide, we’re keeping it on the down-low for the moment. Not a cover-up, but just trying not to shout it down the halls, either.”

  Ryan rubbed a finger across his eye. “I hadn’t heard. Of course, I haven’t heard much of anything this morning, since I’m still trying to wake up and my stupid coffee hasn’t ever appeared.”

  “You can get some in the staff suite,” Rita sighed. “Two doors down, conference room B.”

  Ryan’s mouth twisted. “Somehow I doubt the staff suite stocks Starbucks Limited Auromar,” he said. “I make a living off my throat, you know. I have to be careful what I put into it.”

  “You should think a bit about what comes out,” Rita said, and before Ryan could respond she continued, “News guys, are you going to be here for a while, or do you have what you need?”

  The Times and the Herald exchanged glances. “We really ought to get some photos, at least. Maybe cover the con a bit until we hear back on, you know, the victim.”

  “Fine. Then you’ll need badges.” She pulled a couple of blank media badges from a box and grabbed a marker.

  “Not necessarily a victim,” Daniel added.

  “I guess we can do a local color angle,” said the Herald. “Show off the con a bit, if there’s nothing to the death.”

  “Could have been drugs,” suggested the Times in a low voice. “You know, it’s a whole hotel full of grown people playing games and dress-up. Not to generalize, but lots of losers here.”

  “Excuse me,” rumbled Daniel. “The man in the Imperial uniform can hear you.”

  Ryan looked around the room pointedly for a moment, but when no one seemed to notice, he sighed audibly and said, “I guess I’ll see what the staff suite has, then,” and opened the door again.

  As he exited, a woman came in, wearing a dark green pantsuit and her hair in an incongruous ponytail. “Is Vince Corleone in here?”

  It was the VP from MEGAN!ME, and she didn’t look any happier than the last time Jacob had seen her. He suspected that Vince wouldn’t be any happier this time, either. “He’s out for now,” he offered, “but I can give him a message for you.”

  She looked at him as if she’d just been surprised by a talking doorknob. “I don’t want to be put off by some unpaid volunteer,” she said, dripping disdain. “I want to talk to Corleone. People are talking about a death at the convention, and I don’t want MEGAN!ME associated with—”

  A tall, thin man sporting a goatee and a Season of the Dove t-shirt came in. “Hey, has anyone—” He stopped, startled as he nearly bumped into the power-suited woman.

  She turned on him. “I didn’t realize you were here, Christopher. Thought you’d still be in a basement somewhere below your mother’s kitchen.”

  “Um.” He blinked and then seemed to recover, and a corner of his mouth turned down. “That doesn’t surprise me much, Valerie. But if you’d bothered to check the program, you might have noticed that I’m a guest.”

  “Sorry you’ll have to disappoint your fans,” she answered. She turned back to Jacob. “Radio Vince and find out what he’s doing about this bad publicity.”

  “It’s not really bad publicity,” Rita said. “No one’s freaking out. A few people are talking, but it’s more rumor than panic. Even the press isn’t wigging out over it.” She gave pointed looks to the Herald and the Times.

  Valerie turned on them. “Are you media?”

  The Herald cleared his throat. “I’m—”

  “Never mind, I need Vince. Radio him and tell him I want to talk with him.”

  “What are we talking about?” asked the newcomer she’d called Christopher. “What bad publicity?”

  Rita sighed. “A young woman died last night at the con. Probably a medical thing, not any kind of assault, but sad all the same.”

  Christopher’s mouth dropped slightly open. “Oh, no.”

  “Which is why I need to talk to Vince,” snapped Valerie. “Somebody get him.”

  “I’ll get right on that,” Jacob volunteered. “Where should I have him meet you? It’s getting pretty crowded in here.”

  She considered. “The hotel bar will be fine; it shouldn’t be busy this time of morning.”

  “Got it. I’ll tell him.”

  She pushed past the goateed Christopher and shoved into the hallway, already full of attendees. Christopher pushed the door shut behind her.

  Daniel looked at Jacob. “Where should he meet her? Brilliant.”

  “It seemed logical,” Jacob said. “And, well…. If he doesn’t get the message, maybe she shouldn’t have left it with some unpaid volunteer.”

  Daniel laughed. He pushed a button on the radio attached to his belt and spoke into the earpiece. “Chair, this is Con Aid. We have a Code SEP in the bar, repeat Code SEP in the bar.”

  Jacob fumbled his earpiece into place in time to hear, “Got it, thank you.”

  He looked at Daniel. “SEP?”

  Daniel smiled. “Know your Douglas Adams? That’s Somebody Else’s Problem. Something to ignore, and in this case to avoid.”

  “Um,” said Christopher. “With the, you know, are we still running full schedule and everything?”

  “Paul’s the programming DH,” Rita said, “and he’s grabbing breakfast in the staff suite, but I haven’t heard anything about any changes. When’s your stuff?”

  “Eleven, in Main, for the game show, and then at three and five after that.”

  “As far as I know, everything should be fine, but if you want to wait a few minutes, Paul will be back and we can confirm. And hey, I was really sorry to hear about your show. That was rough.”

  “Thanks. It was pretty frustrating.”

  Jacob looked at him again. “Wait — you’re Christopher Adams! I didn’t recognize you.”

  He laughed, a little bitterly. “Yeah, I’ll put it on for the game show, but the costume hurts a little right now.” He looked back at Rita. “I’ll just walk over and catch Paul at the staff suite. Thanks.”

  The Times looked after him, as if trying to decide whether he should be interested. “Who was that?”

  “Christopher Adams. He’s a BNF.”

  The Times looked blank.

  “Big Name Fan. Famous for being a famous fan, I guess.”

  “Like celebutantes,” contributed Rita, “but with more geek cred.”

  “He’s usually in this crazy costume, the Terra Vista Ranger. Hilarious sentai thing. He pretty much had a career of being a fan, had a really popular web site and was even getting his own web series. But it got pulled when MEGAN!ME bought out FunFilms, which was his primary sponsor.”

  The Times, who had been looking more intrigued, seemed to lose interest again. “Oh. Could have been a good human interest story there. Too bad.”

  “Is this where we get props and weapons checked?” called a cosplayer at the window.

  Jacob got up and checked the props, confirming that the fake firearms had orange tips and no moving parts and that the over-sized shuriken was less than four feet long, and he tagged them as approved. “Enjoy the con.”

  A girl in a Japanese schoolgirl fuku was next, but before she could speak Ryan Brazil pushed forward. “Oh, hello,” he said to her. “What a lovely costume. You did a fabulous job on that.”

  She smiled and blushed. “Thank you.”

  “Really, it’s very nice. Did you know I was in that show? I did the voice for Sato Kaname. Can I get a picture of you, when you’re done here?”

  “Sure.” She grinned, a little embarrassed but pleased.

  “You need your katana checked?” Jacob held out his hand for the mock weapon.

  The Herald was standing beside him. “You measure everything?”

  “Four feet or less, to keep hallway traffic safe and manageable. And we check all blades and firearms, to be sure they’re fake.
”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not really. Mostly a precaution.” He tagged the katana and returned it to the schoolgirl. “There was a case once, I think, of some sick jerk bringing a paintball gun to use on cosplayers, but that wasn’t here. And it got shut down in a hurry.”

  “And, what’s a cosplayer?”

  Jacob gestured. “These guys, people in costume. Cosplay is short for costumed playacting.”

  “Like, make-believe for grownups?”

  “My friend Sam calls it performance art. It’s about craftsmanship and character.”

  “He does this kind of thing?”

  “She does a lot of it, yeah. She’s good, she’s won some awards — but that’s not why people do it. Like she says, it’s more of an art for most people.” He nodded toward the media badge clipped to the reporter’s shirt. “You should go to the masquerade tonight. That’s where all the best stuff will be.”

  “I know cosplay!” The Times sounded pleased with himself. “I’ve never actually seen it before, but I watched this show on TV about cosplayers—”

  “No,” several of them said together.

  The Times looked around at them, startled. “You — you don’t like it?”

  “It’s safe to say that for the most part we didn’t view it as a fair and accurate representation of our community,” Daniel said in a crisp, professional tone.

  The Herald was typing into his phone. “So we should check out the masquerade tonight, get a real feel for it.” He looked at Jacob. “Anything else I should know?”

  “About the con? Man, I can’t cover it in a sentence or two. You want me to walk you around a bit later, if I’ve got time?”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  A man came in with a half-full coffee and an air of frustration. “What is wrong with people?” he demanded of no one in particular.

  “Paul, did Christopher find you? Are we still on schedule with everything?”

  “What? Oh, sure. As long as we can keep an eye on everything. Someone’s swapping discs to be funny, and I don’t have enough staff to babysit all the viewing rooms.”

  Jacob’s stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”

  “Two more viewing rooms this morning, running some old reality show instead of the scheduled episodes. And a couple of panel rooms, first thing this morning, and people walked in to find it playing. I mean, I guess I should be glad it’s not porn or something, but it’s annoying.”

  Jacob knew, but he asked anyway. “What show?”

  “Something older, Cougars and something. Does it matter?”

  He shrugged over his stomach twisting. “Guess not.”

  But it did.

  Chapter Seven

  “Her name was Tasha Kurlansky,” Daniel said. “They found her key card in her bra when they took her to the morgue, and the hotel was able to look up her room info. She was sharing with someone who says they met on the forums and had roomed a couple of times, but they didn’t know each other well.” He shook his head. “Which is admittedly a little weird, outside of a hostel, but on the other hand, roommate murders don’t tend to be bloodless and in a public restroom, so it’s pretty unlikely that anything came of that.”

  “Was it murder, then?” Jacob asked.

  “Oh, no, not necessarily. Autopsy’s going on now, most likely, and we’ll hear if they learn anything.”

  “It feels so wrong to say I hope it was a food allergy or something,” Rita said, “but you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah,” Daniel said, “I do.”

  “Hey, Jacob,” called Sam from the pass-through. “Can you tag my glaive for me?”

  “What the heck is a glaive?” Daniel stood to see the prop.

  “It’s what the toughest knights wield in the toughest battles, of course.” Sam held it up and gave it a little twirl in her hand. “Seven feet of pure evil-smashing kick-assery,” she said, “and then — poof! — it breaks down into two conveniently hallway-approved economy-sized components.” She twisted the weapon’s long pole and it came apart. “I’ll be carrying it tomorrow with my Spellknight.”

  “Nice,” Daniel acknowledged. “Tag it, Jacob.” He looked back at Sam and nodded toward Jacob. “You know this clown?”

  She grinned. “He’s my BFF. And I keep him put together. Here.” She reached into the faux leather satchel at her waist. “I found your energy bar in the room where you forgot it.”

  “Thanks.” Jacob took it.

  “An energy bar? For serious?” Daniel assumed an overly-skeptical scowl. “Jacob, did you have breakfast?”

  “Not after I walked out and forgot it.”

  “That’s no good. Take advantage of the lull and go grab some real food. You’re up to take care of Greg Hammer later, and it’ll be embarrassing if your knees buckle and drop you in the middle of his autograph table.” He grinned and added, “Seriously, three hot meals a day. Con rules for staff.”

  “I’m not staff, I’m a volunteer.”

  “Do not bother me with trifles,” Daniel quoted. “After twenty years, at last my father’s soul will be at peace.” He nodded toward the door. “What’s your name, girl?”

  “I’m Samantha, but Sam is fine. Are you Daniel?”

  “I see he’s been talking about me behind my back.”

  “He told me about the ride-alongs and stuff.”

  “Yep. Sam, drag your BFF out for some real food. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a long day, and a man needs some protein.”

  “Yessir.” Sam saluted and came around to the door. “Let’s go, Jacob.”

  They’d made it halfway across the lobby when Sam stopped dead. “Oh, wow,” she breathed. “Look at that.”

  Jacob followed her eyes and saw a woman in breathtaking costume, where the hotel lobby opened onto the sunlit conservatory. “Oh, wow.”

  She wore something inspired by Chinese or Japanese history — Jacob wasn’t knowledgeable enough to tell which — and probably at the level of imperial court finery even before it had been tricked up for stylization. Schooled by friendships with enthusiastic cosplayers, Jacob counted at least ten distinct layers of pastel color in her sleeves, and her outer layers spread wide about her in stunning pattern and color. The topmost layer was solid white, with white and silver embroidery over all the torso and down the sleeves. The sleek, dark wig was elaborately styled, high and twisted and smooth, and a riot of intricate jewelry and sashes ran over the entire thing, rather like a cage dress in semi-precious stones.

  “That has got to be something from CLUTCH,” Sam said. “I don’t recognize it, but that amount of crazywork makes it a good bet. Probably something from one of the artbooks. Look at the sheen on it! Those under-layers have got to be silk, and I’ll bet hand-dyed to get that kind of color.” The cosplayer raised an arm to spread the sleeve for the crouching photographer, and Sam gripped Jacob’s arm. “Oh — look at that lavender to pink gradient!”

  “You need professional help,” Jacob told her. “I wonder if there’s a cosplay rehab clinic or something.”

  “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me that isn’t gorgeous.”

  He conceded. “No, I can’t.”

  The photographer, a young black woman Jacob recognized, shifted slightly and waved an assistant to adjust the external flash he held. She had a real name, but Jacob could only recall that most people knew her as Laser, for her Laser Focus Photography. She shot several more photos, spoke to the cosplayer who moved her chin a half inch to the left, and took two more.

  “I really want to talk to her, but not while she’s in a shoot,” said Sam. “I’ll try to catch her afterward. Because that’s amazing.”

  “After food,” Jacob said firmly. “I have to eat now, or I won’t be back in time to escort Greg Hammer, and I’m not missing that.”

  “Right.” She started forward, but she kept looking back over her shoulder as the cosplayer knelt and spread the outer layers.

  “Come on,” Jacob prompted. “May
be she’ll get lunch after she’s done.”

  “Are you kidding? That thing’s not going within a hundred yards of the food court. She’s probably got a restraining order against ketchup.”

  The food court lines were already long, though the lunch wave wouldn’t hit for another hour or two, and they chose a counter offering something called “breakfast gyros,” mostly because its line seemed to be moving most quickly. “Any word yet on, you know, last night?” Sam asked.

  “Nothing yet. But I don’t know if there will be, either. I mean, it’s not like they have to notify us if she died of a food allergy.”

  “That’d be sad.” They shuffled forward in line. “But man, I hope that’s all it is. Can you imagine if it were murder?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This would be the worst place ever for a murder! For investigating, I mean.” She put on a stern, deadpan voice. “Who were the last people seen with the victim? Eren Jaeger and a Star Wars stormtrooper? Quick, men, look for Eren Jeager and a stormtrooper! There are only twelve hundred or so here at the convention.”

  Jacob laughed. “We’ll just have to hope that it’s a more standout costume then, like your CLUTCH piece.”

  They had picked up their breakfast gyros, which turned out to be just scrambled eggs and salsa in a pita, and were searching with increasing pessimism for an empty table when Jacob’s phone rang. He balanced his food in one hand and pulled it from his pocket. “What’s up, Daniel?”

  “You aren’t answering your radio.”

  “I’m on break, I don’t have my ear in.”

  “Get back here. We got the autopsy results, and it’s not good.”

  Chapter Eight

  Daniel gestured Jacob into the staff suite and closed the door. Without a pass-through, this room was much more private, and Jacob guessed at the news. “So it wasn’t a food allergy.”

  “Poisoned,” Daniel confirmed.

  Jacob shook his head. “But — why? She wasn’t here with anyone…. Was it some date rape drug gone wrong?”

  “No, and that’s the weird thing,” Daniel said. “She was poisoned with arsenic, and that hasn’t been a murder tactic since it was a cliché. So it could be accidental, just because it’s so weird and people do sometimes get accidental exposure. But it means we’re now officially investigating a potential homicide.”