by Tim Maleeny
When he was a child, the Sloth was diagnosed with a rare neurological disorder that put his world in slow motion. It could take him an hour to walk across the room, almost five minutes to finish a sentence. The doctors said there was nothing they could do. He moved within his own time frame. The other kids were unkind, as kids always are, and gave him a nickname after the slowest-moving mammal on the planet. But the Sloth didn’t care—or no one could tell if he did.
Years later, the Sloth came into contact with his first computer, and the machine revealed that his physical curse came with a hidden blessing. While his body moved like a glacier, his mind could travel faster and farther than a beam of light. The Sloth saw patterns in data streams invisible to anyone else. He could hear music in numbers and equations that baffled mathematicians for years. He was, quite simply, a genius in the truest sense of the word.
As Cape stepped closer, the Sloth looked up from his keyboard and smiled, an expression that would have looked pained on anyone else. The pale eyes were watery behind glasses, but the warmth in his gaze was unmistakable. It had been the Sloth’s sister that Cape found on his first investigation, an incident that forever changed the trajectory of both men’s lives. Cape started working with the Sloth while still a reporter, and Linda worked so closely with him that Cape never saw the Sloth without Linda at his side—interpreting for him, doing field work, or simply keeping him company.
His keyboard was a liquid-crystal pad set into the table. As Cape watched, its surface rippled with light. Words and symbols scrolled past, fleeting glimpses of thoughts that were literally at the Sloth’s fingertips. The keyboard was activated by touch, the sensitivity so high you could trigger it by exhaling. For the Sloth, it required a little more effort than that. As his hand twitched spasmodically across the surface, words appeared in glowing rows on the screens in front of Cape.
I FOUND SOMETHING.
“What do you mean, you found something? I just called this morning.” Cape turned from the Sloth to Linda. Talking to them together was almost like communicating with a single person, half the conversation verbal and the other half subtitles.
“While you kept us waiting,” replied Linda, “we were hard at work.” Her hair nodded in agreement.
Cape said nothing as more words flashed onto the screen.
DIDN’T FIND MUCH…TOO EARLY.
The Sloth’s hand moved sideways, conjuring a new set of words on the next screen.
EMPIRE PICTURES. FOR SALE.
“How can you know that?” asked Cape.
“It’s called reverse trend analysis,” said Linda. “Sort of a quantitative approach to rumor mongering.”
“In English, please,” said Cape.
Linda huffed. “You know how the news is always describing the latest trends. Bell-bottoms make a comeback. All-starch diet the new craze—pretzels the key to longevity. Fashion, cars, whatever?”
“Sure.”
“Well, they don’t just pitch trends arbitrarily based on some editor’s opinion,” explained Linda. “They track them—or, in most cases—they pay some consultant who tracks them.”
“How?”
“That’s what’s interesting. The most common method involves measuring column inches in newspapers and magazines across the country. That’s the amount of space given to a particular story.”
“Got it,” said Cape. “So if short skirts are getting progressively more space in the newspaper’s fashion section, then the trend analysts say there’s a good chance you’ll be seeing a lot of short skirts next season.”
“Right.” Linda nodded. “You add up all the space given to a specific topic in each publication you’re tracking, then sort it by subject matter. More space over time means a trend.”
“Sounds tedious.”
“It used to be,” agreed Linda. “That’s why consultants charged ridiculous fees to wade through all those papers with a ruler, adding things up. But now that everything’s online, all you need are the right software filters.”
Cape looked over at the Sloth. “And I imagine you’ve written your own.”
Linda walked over to stand directly behind the Sloth. “Sloth wrote a program this morning that scanned for any mentions of Empire across two hundred different publications currently online. He also scanned for mentions of the top ten media companies and expanded that search to five hundred publications.”
“Over what period of time?”
“The past six months,” replied Linda.
“That’s got to be an insane amount of reading,” said Cape. “Or filtering.”
“Not really,” said Linda, her hair bobbing with excitement. “Because there’s another filter to screen for stories related to Empire’s business model—words like ‘film critics,’ ‘art films,’ ‘asteroid’—that sort of thing. Then Sloth added a final filter to track the smallest articles related to the topic.”
“Smallest?” asked Cape. “I thought you were looking for the largest.”
Linda shook her head. “That’s for trends—we’re looking for rumors. Sloth reasoned that a rumor would get the least amount of space, because the editor would have little to go on—other than one source, and that might be unsubstantiated. A small mention in the back of Variety or The New York Times, for example.”
“Then what?”
“We looked for recurring mentions, but always on a small scale,” said Linda. “Under the assumption that a series of small articles might constitute a leak about an actual event. It hasn’t been substantiated, or announced, so it’s still only a rumor.”
“So it gets printed in a few different publications, but never gets a lot of space,” said Cape.
“That’s the theory, anyway.”
“Okay,” he said. “What did you find?”
“Multiple mentions over the past two months that a major media company was looking to buy another movie studio,” said Linda. “The last two specifically describe the acquisition as a mid-sized studio capable of producing both small films with critical appeal and commercially viable movies—they need the balance to hedge the purchase price against changes in the marketplace.”
“That could fit Empire’s profile,” Cape said. “But which media company are we talking about?”
“I’ll give you a hint,” said Linda, putting her hands on top of her head and waving them back and forth like ears. “Think of a massive entertainment conglomerate.”
“What are you supposed to be?” asked Cape. “The Easter Bunny?”
Linda dropped her hands. “A mouse. I’m talking theme parks, cartoons…ring a bell?”
“Oh, that media company,” said Cape. “Didn’t they buy a studio last year?”
“The year before, and they said at the time it was their first major acquisition in the film industry. Their first, not their last.”
Cape frowned. “They don’t strike me as the kind of company that would be too happy about negative publicity.”
“You mean like drug smuggling on the set of one of their movies?”
“Yeah,” said Cape. “Could screw up the whole deal and maybe cost the Berman brothers a lot of money.”
The Sloth’s right hand jumped like a frog.
SOUNDS LIKE A MOTIVE.
“As good as any,” said Cape. “What’s your confidence level?”
HARD TO SAY…EDUCATED GUESS
UNTIL I CAN ACCESS THEIR FILES DIRECTLY.
“You can do that?”
The Sloth smiled slowly, his mouth a little lopsided on the left, as if that side were struggling to catch up.
“Is it legal?”
The Sloth blinked, as if the concept of legality were new to him.
“Forget I asked,” said Cape. “Just let me know what you find.”
He turned to Linda, then back to the frail genius next to him. “And thanks.”
The screen lit up again, words dissolving and forming anew.
THE GIRL.
“Who?” asked Cape. “My client?”
Cape gave Linda a warning glance. “For her, or me? She knew the murder victim, if that’s what you mean.”
Sloth made no reply, and the words sat unblinking on the screen for several seconds until they changed again.
DON’T GET HURT.
Cape smiled and squeezed the Sloth’s shoulder. “Thanks, old friend. Anything else?”
It seemed to Cape that a playful smile appeared briefly at the corner of the Sloth’s mouth, then disappeared. He turned his head slowly, one degree at a time, glancing over at Linda. The words changed again.
BUY A WATCH.
Cape looked over at Linda, who was smiling broadly.
“That’s next on my list,” said Cape as he headed for the door. “Going to the airport now—after all, I don’t want to be late for my plane.”
Chapter Twenty-five
“We could always cancel our arrangement.”
The Major smiled and held the receiver at arm’s length to protect his hearing. When the shouting stopped, he brought it closer and fanned the flames he’d just lit.
“I’m sure it is minor investment for you,” he said slowly. “We can work together another time.” His arm uncoiled like a spring before the rebuttal screamed down the line.
As he talked on the phone, the Major watched Ursa through the glass window of the office, pacing around the empty warehouse. Even next to his giant companion the shipping containers looked big, each one eight feet square and capable of holding half a ton of laboratory equipment. Everyday shipments were made to hospitals all across the country, sensitive measuring devices and lab equipment packed in custom foam sized to fit the containers. The Major marveled at the precision of the operation, so different from the anarchy of his current venture.
“You sound committed,” said the Major soothingly. “Commitment is all I ask from business associates. We must share risk if you expect to share reward.” This time he kept the phone pressed to his ear, listening carefully for the grudging response. When it came, he rapped on the office window and signaled Ursa to join him. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his prints off of the phone, then cradled the receiver gently.
“Get the car,” he said to Ursa. “I want to go shopping.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Cape liked flying about as much as getting shot. Maybe less.
He and Sally caught the last flight on JetBlue from Oakland to JFK. The plane was full, but even Cape had to admit the flight was a smooth one. Sally pointed out that he was safer in a plane than crossing the street or, in his case, strolling on the beach at Ghirardelli Square.
“I know that,” said Cape. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“You hate situations you can’t control,” replied Sally. “Like turbulence.”
“Or aging aircraft.”
“This plane’s brand new,” said Sally. “This airline’s practically brand new.”
“Financially strapped airlines are a problem,” suggested Cape. “The first thing they cut is maintenance.”
“This airline’s making money. You told me so yourself when we bought the tickets.”
Cape said nothing, glancing out the window to make sure the wing was still connected to the fuselage.
“I’ve never known anyone who so actively courts danger but wants it to happen completely on his terms,” said Sally.
Cape turned away from the window. “I suppose you think that’s contradictory.”
“I think it’s very Western,” replied Sally. “You want to choose how and when things occur. But you can’t choose…all you can do is prepare.”
“Are you prepared?”
“Always.”
Cape looked out the window again.
“Face it,” said Sally. “You won’t be comfortable until they let you fly the plane.”
“You think I should take flying lessons?”
“I think you should go to sleep,” said Sally, closing her eyes.
Knowing sleep was beyond his grasp, Cape took out his notebook and turned to a clean sheet of paper. Down the center of the page he started to write the names and descriptions of all the people involved in the case so far. After he’d written a description of the guy at the beach, he scanned the list to see if he’d overlooked anyone. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he added Grace to the list.
By the time the plane started its descent into JFK, the page looked like a child’s drawing—lines, circles, and boxes connecting the names. Many had been erased and redrawn as Cape tried to establish links between various people and events. He squinted at the paper, hoping to see a pattern emerge, but his eyes were tired and all he could see was a jumbled mess.
“I see you’ve solved the case,” said Sally, stretching herself awake.
“Absolutely. It was Colonel Mustard in the park with an AK-47.”
“I thought he favored the candlestick.”
“Times change.”
“So tell me again why we’re about to land in New York,” said Sally. “You really think the studio is involved?”
Cape shook his head. “No, I don’t. Why would they fuck with their own production?”
“So?”
“I think the Russians have something to do with the drugs, and the movie happens to be in the middle of it. I think the movie provided some sort of cover for moving the drugs, but whether Tom—the dead producer—acted alone or worked with someone else from the studio, I couldn’t tell you. I asked the Sloth to dig into Tom’s finances before I left. If he finds a money trail, we can follow it back to the source.”
“Then isn’t this trip pretty much a waste of time? I get that you want to talk with the brothers running the studio, but you could do that over the phone.”
“True.”
“And even if they know something,” continued Sally, “I doubt they’ll want you to know.”
“You forget how persuasive I can be.”
“You forget they’re the ones paying you.”
“Also true,” said Cape, shrugging. “But I can’t think of anything else to push against, and I needed to get out of San Francisco for a couple of days.”
“So we’re hiding?”
“I prefer to call it laying low,” replied Cape. “Aren’t you the one who told me to keep a low profile?”
“Yeah, but I know you—you’re like a dog with a bone. There must be something else to this trip.”
Cape smiled. “You must be a detective.”
“Not me,” said Sally. “I’m just the girl from the escort service.”
“I’m meeting a cop.”
“What cop?”
“Guy named Michael Corelli—Beau hooked me up.”
“NYPD?”
Cape nodded. “Their Organized Crime Unit—OCU if you prefer acronyms. In Corelli’s case, that’s mostly involved La Cosa Nostra, the nice old men sitting in the supper clubs watching The Sopranos on DVD.”
“Corelli’s an Italian name.”
“Yeah,” said Cape. “Beau says Corelli has a chip on his shoulder about the whole thing, takes it very personally. When he was growing up, his dad had to pay extortion money to keep his store open. Some of the guys collecting the money were his friends’ fathers. Corelli decided to chase the mob before he was old enough to ride a bike.”
“You think he might know something about our Russian friends?”
“Not specifically, but he’s bound to know a helluva lot more about the Russian mob than I do.”
“We don’t know they’re with any mob.”
“Gotta start somewhere,” said Cape. “Someone tries to kill you with a sniper rifle, it’s usually not their first offense. And I could use a few pointers.”
“Like how to say ‘hello’ in Russian?”
“Or ‘please don’t shoot me’.”
“How about ‘fuck off or I’ll kill you’?” asked Sally. “I think I’d like to know that one.”
“If it comes to that, I don’t think you’ll need a translator.”
Cape felt his ears pop as normal gravity returned. The flight had landed on time. He looked at his writing pad one last time before stuffing it into his bag, frowning at the illegible scribbles and overlapping lines and boxes. He took a deep breath and blew out his cheeks.
“What a mess,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Somewhere deep in her subconscious, Grace was struggling to choose between crying or masturbating.
She stared at the ceiling and watched the reflected light from her alarm clock, her hands resting lightly on her abdomen. A moment ago she’d been thinking about Tom, his crooked smile and gentle touch, the wounded expression on his face when she’d told him it was over. The sweetness of the man even after she’d pushed him away, his undying support of her at every turn. Only now, over the past few days, had she realized that he must have loved her.
Grace felt the tears welling up as she faced the awful truth that she never felt the same way he did, and she never would. She wanted to give him that, at least, a confession of love to his ghost and his memory, but no matter how much she wished it had been true, the feeling wasn’t there. Her feelings ran deep, but not deep enough.
She closed her eyes, then blinked them dry, letting her thoughts drift. From Tom to the movie. From giant asteroids to Empire Studios. Harry and Adam, the cast and crew. To the detective she’d hired impulsively, a man she’d just met but trusted as if she’d known him forever.
Must be those eyes, she thought, laughing at herself. She was a sucker for blue eyes, and his had that touch of gray near the center. She wondered how old he was, decided he was probably her age. The eyes made him look older, but the rest of him looked about right. The sandy hair would hide the occasional white strands, so that was no help. Did it matter?
