Set to Kill: A Sean AP Ryan Novel (Convention Killings Book 2)

by Declan Finn

  He wanted this to be the end of it.

  Rachel Hartley was coming up the path to the doors. Sean nodded as she approached, and let her by. The sturdy, curvaceous woman strode past, her tactical umbrella used like a walking stick. Sean smiled briefly at the brunette.

  “Where do you want me to sit?” she asked in her heavy accent.

  Sean paused a moment, then asked, “Could you say 'Moose and Squirrel,' first?”

  Rachel looked at him like he was crazy.

  He shrugged. “Had to give it a shot. Have a seat on Gary's side of the room. Wherever you like, I just want to know where everyone I can trust is on one side of the room.”

  Rachel blinked at that statement. “Have you decided that none of us are guilty?”

  Sean shook his head. “I didn't say that exactly, now did I?” He waved her inside, and saw a familiar uniform coming up the escalator. “Come on, we're going to be starting soon enough.”

  Hartley moved inside, and Colonel George Bradley came up. The slightly graying army man with the bright blue eyes merely nodded at Sean as he passed by, clapping him on the arm as he entered.

  “Colonel.”

  Bradley grunted, his boisterous mood seemingly blunted that morning.

  Sean shrugged. Some people were not meant for mornings.

  He turned, about to go back in, when he was shoved from behind. He whirled, and was grateful for his restraint, otherwise he would have taken NKV Daalman and slammed her head through the wall. The thin black woman with the asymmetrical afro moved passed him, not knowing how close she had come to death.

  Her short, squat cohort, S. Typhoon Teacup toddled after her, also ignoring Sean.

  He shook his head, took a deep breath, counted to ten, and did not draw his sidearm.

  Maybe today isn't the day to be carrying a sword … and guns … and batons … I will not kill with witnesses. I will not kill with witnesses …

  “Why are his eyes closed?” came the gentle southern voice of Tom Knighton.

  “I think he's trying not to kill someone,” whispered back Matthew Kovach.

  Sean's eyes opened, and he smiled as the tall blond and the one who identified as a tank. “Nice to see you both.”

  Knighton shook Sean's hand. “Good to see you again. At least you're not killing anyone this time.”

  Kovach laughed. “Wait five minutes.”

  Knighton gave a deep chuckle. “No bet.”

  Kovach kept walking past Sean, and told Knighton, “Nice move with the tank this morning.”

  Sean shook his head, and kept standing at the doors, waiting for everyone else to show up. Athena and Brian would arrive only after they made sure everyone on the list was on the way.

  The next set of people he could see coming from down the atrium—Patti and Terry Smith-Smythe-Smits were coming towards him in a synchronized march. They were both back in their unisex outfits of brown leather bomber jackets, combat boots, and moving as one.

  Behind them was Charles RR Martinez, and he was still wondering why it was pronounced “Martin-ez.” This was the first time that Sean had seen him standing, and he was taller than Sean thought, though not by much. The short Santa Claus beard didn't help much, though. And the fisherman's cap on his head looked strange, but then again, some people needed a brand.

  Some people have kilts, some people carry blunt objects, Sean thought. I guess a hat isn't that bad.

  Behind all of them was the hunchback minion Fred Moshevsky. His appearance hadn't changed in days, due to what looked like a white lab coat draped over his frame.

  Sean kept the doors open, and moved back into the room, heading for the center … then stopped, noting that Omar Gunderson had already entered, sitting next to Rachel Hartley.

  This is what I get for choosing a room with too many doors.

  Sean noted the order. At one side, it was Gary, Jesse James and his wife, then Hartley, with Tom Knighton and Matthew Kovach in the row behind them, and “Crazy Cal” Y. Jefferson (who had apparently come in when Sean wasn't looking) sat in the back. On the other end, S. Typhoon Teacup and NKV Daalman typed away on their phones. The publishers Smith-Smythe-Smits came next, with Fred Moshevsky next to them. In the back of the room was Charles RR Martinez, who already looked like he was about to fall asleep.

  Cryomancer came in with a cup of coffee that looked bigger than she was, wearing a very modest, long-skirted Japanese schoolgirl outfit. Either that or she was just so tiny, the skirt had no choice but to come down to her knees, Sean couldn't tell. She pushed her glasses up her nose, looked at Sean, and said, “Why are we here so early? You know I'm on Australia time, don't you?”

  Sean shrugged. “Sorry about that. I just want this wrapped up and done with before people start to leave.”

  Cryomancer sighed, but nodded anyway, and took a seat in the back of the room. She looked like she was about to curl up in her chair and fall asleep.

  Finally, at long last, came Johnny Prada. He was decked out in tweeds, slippers on his feet. He looked like he was Cosplaying a college professor with tenure. He sat primly by the two publishers.

  Sean clicked his earbud twice, and then his people walked into the room. Athena and Brian took one door each—Athena at the back of the room near the SMURFs, and Brian near the Puppies. Terrence Boyle and Galadren took separate corners, Boyle behind the Puppy Punters, and Galadren behind the Tearful Puppies.

  Sean looked around the room, and smiled, and said, “You're wondering why I called you all together.”

  Castelo laughed, but quickly smothered. it.

  Sean nodded an acknowledgment. “We're going to have a conversation. All of us. When we're done, we're going to know exactly who killed Jerry Friedman. We will know for certain who killed Kendall Adler. And we will know who killed Yama Marshman.

  “And yes, we know exactly why they were all killed here. The location is the easiest part of this crime. They were all killed at WyvernCon so there can be the most amount of suspects gathered in one place at any one time. The murders were committed here in order for the crimes to happen amongst a crowd to hide in.

  “I'm going to tell you now, it's not going to work. I know who you are. I know what you did. And I know why you did it. And you're going to pay for being stupid enough to think that you could outsmart me.”

  Chapter 23: The Thin Man Effect

  Sean looked at those assembled and asked, simply, “So, why kill Jerry Friedman?”

  “He defied Agnes O'Day! And Gary Castelo!” Johnny Prada accused—practically shrieking.

  Sean paused, as though considering it. He nodded slowly, then shrugged, as if saying Why the hell not? “Sure, let's call that a possible motive. But there are plenty of people who seem to have disliked him. I mean, heck, go back to his first writing appearance.”

  Tom “His Tankness” Knighton casually stated, “He ripped off Heinlein. Jerry Friedman's furballs were just a Flatcats knockoff.”

  “Thcrew you!” Fred Moshevsky bellowed.

  Sean held up a hand to both sides. “It's a common belief,” he replied, sounding as calm and as reasonable as anyone. “So any fan of Heinlein who'd had enough of him living off of his fame from theft—real or imagined—might have decided it was time to put him out of his misery.”

  Gary Castelo raised a hand. It looked like a tree falling in reverse. “Also, anyone still alive from that show hated him. Sure, that single episode made his career, but he didn't even last past that season. Everybody on the crew hated him. He stormed off the lot because the Great Bird of the Galaxy didn't use one of his ideas, he had a temper tantrum, and never came back. Gotta figure that wasn't the last time he did that.”

  Sean nodded. “Point, Gary.” He looked to Johnny Prada. “Your turn now. You were Jerry's protege after your elevation from self-publishing, Johnny. Surely you can think of a reason to kill him.”

  Prada hesitated, confused. He had answered this question already, why was he doing it again? “He was gay?”

  Se
an shrugged. “Really? I didn't know that was a motive for murder.”

  “After all,” Prada sneered, “they are all white Mormon males!”

  “With a great rack!” screamed Rachel Hartley, Vile Yet Glamorous Fairy Princess, and Barbara James, Mistress of all things Goth. The gripe came in perfect stereo.

  Prada continued as though nothing had happened. “And they are all racists, misogynists and homophobes.”

  Sean rolled his eyes. “Female misogynists. Right. Whatever. As for Jerry being gay, sure, obviously. But he's been practically Cosplaying Oscar Wilde for—how much of his life?”

  “Over twenty years!” Colonel Bradley called, laughing.

  Sean nodded. “Exactly. So, why bother now? The first person to say Puppies will get their eyes kicked out of their head.”

  Johnny Prada, the Smith-Smythe-Smits, and Fred Moshevsky said, at the same time, “The racist South.”

  On the Puppy side of the room, Sean could almost hear “Crazy Cal” Y. Jefferson, Jesse James, and Tom Knighton roll their eyes.

  Matthew Kovach stood, looking around the room in frustration. He was clearly annoyed. From what Sean had read of the man's novels, he might have also been annoyed that he couldn't be leading the denouement. “Puppies have the ball now, Prada. And I've run out of patience.” He looked at both sides of the room. “You all know the man too well. So well, you haven't even seen it. What's the first thing you think of with Jerry Friedman?”

  Tom Knighton laughed. “You mean aside from the fact that he's an overrated hack that's running on the success of one thing he wrote half a dozen decades ago?”

  Kovach flinched, then facepalmed. “So close, yet so far … Doesn't anyone here read murder mysteries?”

  Sean smiled. He could at least count on Kovach for where he wanted to go. “What Matt here is trying to say is that Jerry was around for so long. If it's one thing I've learned about this community, there are lots of rumors and gossip, and news that's only whispered about. Tell me again about the author and her husband who molested their own daughter, and anyone else they could get their hands on?”

  “Those rumors were not proven,” came the loud, rambunctious voice of Terry Smith-Smythe-Smits.

  Tom Knighton smiled. “Funny, she didn't even wait to get the specific author. I wonder if she knew which one you meant.”

  Sean dismissed it all with a wave of his hand. “No matter the rumor, you can probably bet that Jerry had heard most of it over the last fifty years. He probably even had contacts.” He looked at both camps. “We can all say things about Jerry Friedman—the Puppies may say he's a liar and a hypocrite, the SMURFs may say he was a genius—but let's all agree that he probably knew where a few bodies were buried, okay? I'm sure he made one or two skeletons himself.

  “Now, I can't exactly go about reconstructing the crime like I'm in a Thin Man film,” Sean joked.

  “Why stop now?” Kovach muttered as he sat back down.

  “This crime was relatively simple,” Sean continued. “Someone came into Jerry's room, and they beat him over the head with a blunt object.”

  Kovach tilted his chair back and smirked, enjoying the show. He reached back for his backpack, and actually pulled out a bag of popcorn, then offered some to Omar Gunderson. “But that tells you something already, doesn't it?”

  Sean smiled. “Does it?”

  Kovach nodded, as did Gunderson. It was the latter who said, “It means he knew the guy and welcomed him in with a weapon.”

  He shook his head. “Except it was a blunt object that he himself had purchased earlier that day in the vendors' building.” Sean looked to the other side for a reaction.

  Prada laughed. “Oh, please. Those people probably have enough nerds to hack the locks on the hotel room doors. Or the key cards.”

  “Perhaps. Except there was no extra card reading that night. Just one entry was made. Now, a hack tricks the reader into thinking that it's had a card go through. According to my expert, who used to work for the NSA, the records weren't tampered with to erase an entry. So only one man used a key to go through the door that night, and it was Friedman himself. But it wouldn't have registered if Jerry had brought through a guest, or if Jerry had opened the door from the inside. So no, the only way Jerry had his killer in his room is if Jerry himself let him in. It's the only way it could have happened.”

  Sean no longer looked at the Puppy side of the room, only on the SMURF side. “Now, of all of you, who could have Jerry been a threat to?”

  “Prosecutions don't need a motive for the crime,” Colonel Bradley called out.

  “I know,” Sean answered over his shoulder. “I'd like to know, though.” He stared at them for a moment longer, then shrugged casually. “But, as the good Colonel says, we can wait on that. After all, let's go down the list a little. Let's start from the right, and work our way left.” He looked at the hunchback of ROT publishing, his body bent low as he sat in the chair. “Could Fred Moshevsky have done it? Not likely. Hunch or no, Freddy's too short, and the angle of the initial strike would have been wrong, as would the angle of some of the blood smears.”

  He looked to the publishing couple. “Patty and Terry Smith-Smythe-Smits? Could either of them have committed the murder? I don't see why not. Does anyone else?”

  “He wasn't going to be working with us much longer,” Patty Smith-Smythe-Smits whispered.

  Terry Smith-Smythe-Smits nodded vigorously and boomed, “He was going to leave us. Voluntarily. He wanted to dedicate everything to beating those people.” Terry looked at the Puppies menacingly—or what she thought was menacing.

  Sean nodded. “Point taken. Can't imagine too much motive there. And yes, Colonel, it does narrow down things for us. In this case, what reason could Jerry have had to let either of them into his room? Nothing. No personal or professional reason. It was almost midnight when Jerry was killed, remember—tie undone, buttons undone, jacket hung up for the night, belt loosened. He was a man done for the day. At that hour, if either of these two had showed up at his door, I can only see a 70-year-old man barking at them across a door chain.”

  The hunchback jabbed his finger across the room. “They did it,” Moshevsky bellowed.

  Sean shook his head. “Who? Puppies? Really? Let's be sensible. Sure, I can see Jerry letting them in at some point. But can you really see Friedman letting them in at that hour? No. I don't think so.”

  “Then who?” Patty Smith-Smythe-Smits cried.

  Sean turned to Johnny Prada. The two of them exchanged a long look. Sean's was amused and smiling, Prada not so much. “Hello, Johnny.”

  Prada looked to his right. NKVD and S. Typhoon Teacup hadn't even looked up from their iPhones since the conversation started. He could read NKVD's screen, she just published a tweet that read “White Boy's about to accuse me of murder. Just wait. Racist prick.”

  Prada looked back to Sean, and gave his academic smirk. “Well, as I've seen The Thin Man movies, you're obviously not going to accuse me, I'm not positioned properly.”

  Sean bent over at the waist, and leaned in close, his face getting into Prada's. He gave a big broad grin. “If I saved the killer for last, we'd be here all freaking day. I'm not that patient.”

  Sean straightened. “Now you, Mister Prada, are a pain in the ass, you realize that? You can't even work with me to solve your own mentor's murder.”

  “He wasn't my mentor per se,” Prada sneered. “He helped when I made the transition from self-publishing to real publishing.”

  “Indeed?” Sean made a show of looking all the way up and down the line of SMURFs. “I guess that makes you the closest human being to him, Johnny. In fact …” He looked at Teacup and NKVD, as Prada had, then back over the people he just discussed. “I would say that you're the only person in this entire convention he would have opened the door for.”

  Prada pushed on the floor, sliding his chair back. “I don't know what you mean.”

  Sean rolled his eyes. “I mean you went to his room
, he let you in, you killed him. What part isn't clear? In fact, at first, like Omar, I thought the weapon was something brought to the apartment by the killer. I was wrong. Jerry himself bought it. Then I considered something. Jerry liked playing games, didn't he? I mean, look at when he emceed the Hubbles last year? He liked his props and his gimmicks. So it occurred to me: the killer had Jerry bring it in. Someone set up Jerry to purchase his own murder weapon.”

  Prada's eyes narrowed. “You can't prove that.”

  Sean smiled. “Want to bet? When it occurred to me that the tetsubo in the room wasn't just a weapon of opportunity, I had to wonder if we had been asking the vendor the wrong question. You know, the guy who sold the murder weapon? When I asked about who bought it, Jerry was the only name I knew, and I didn't press too hard. After all, there were hundreds of people there. Any of them could have bought it in cash. No problem, and no records.

  “However, Jerry Friedman's fingerprints were on the weapon. They were smudged, which is why they were hard to ID, so you can understand why the confusion. He couldn't crack his own head open, now could he?”

  “But we all touched the weapon,” Prada objected.

  “But your fingerprints were smudged, Johnny, just like Jerry's. Now, why would they be smudged? You gripped it like everyone else, right? And your publishers both left crystal-clear prints. But maybe if you used it to bash someone's head in…”

  “That's flimsy as all hell and you know it,” Prada insisted.

  Sean nodded. “Oh, very true. However, when I went back to the vendor, and asked about the people who didn't buy, but inquired, you're the only one who both asked about the quality of the wood, if it could break under impact, and who looked like he had trouble picking it up. You were there, and you had Jerry buy the weapon for his own murder.”

  Prada coughed. “You can't prove that.”

  Sean's mother the FBI agent had raised him to laugh at lines like “prove it,” because she had always considered it as good as a confession.

  “Maybe not, but it's the only thing that makes sense, Johnny. You helped him with his cheap theatrics last time, during the Hubbles, so you had the input. You're the only one who could have gotten into the room at that hour. You're the only one he could have been that relaxed around. And you were merely 'in your room' as an alibi.”