Box Office Poison (Linnet Ellery)

by Bornikova, Phillipa

  “Ah, so you checked them out.”

  “I did some research. Next step is to actually talk to them.”

  “So what do you need from me?” Qwendar asked.

  “Information on the Álfar. Any insights on how one might be … controlled or … something.” I met his impassive gaze. “You think I’m a nut.”

  “No, I think you are an unusual human, and I think you might be the face of the future. A human who accepts and is comfortable with the Powers. A thing that some view with great disapprobation.” I basked in the approval for a moment. Qwendar continued. “I will provide you with what information I can. And since you are willing to help us, I will return the favor and arrange a meeting with John.”

  There was a sudden tightness in my throat matched only by the feeling that my heart wanted to jump out of my chest.

  I cleared the obstruction out of my throat. “Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you.” He held out his hand. “Pact?”

  “Partners, definitely.” We shook on it.

  “Now, may I suggest that we stroll through the exhibits. They are quite impressive. And there is a very nice café. We can have tea afterward.”

  I did notice that he didn’t actually say we would talk about the Álfar.

  * * *

  Thank God they dress differently.

  It was the thought foremost in my mind as I faced the brothers across a table at Sompun, a Thai restaurant just off Ventura. The decor was upscale, with a blue vaulted ceiling and plants in the windows and mirrors along one wall that made the space seem larger. Scents of lemongrass, mint, and chili were so thick that they seemed visible in the air.

  The journalist twin stared at me with frank interest that bordered on rude. Maslin was dressed in blue jeans, a cotton turtleneck sweater, and sturdy hiking boots. A backpack was slung over the corner of his chair. Merlin was still in his suit from work. The difference in attire was the only way I was ever going to tell them apart. Then, as I looked closer, I realized that Maslin’s skin carried a ruddier tinge, the redhead’s version of a tan, and he had the first hint of squint wrinkles around his blue eyes.

  “Merl tells me you’ve got an investigation you need to run,” Maslin said.

  “Well, I think so,” was my cautious response, and for the second time that day I launched into my explanation of why I thought someone was targeting the Álfar.

  Unlike Qwendar whose expression had been one of sympathetic interest, Maslin’s expression was so neutral that I began to stammer, losing the thread of my narrative occasionally. I ended plaintively, “And now you probably think I’m bat-shit crazy.”

  He didn’t answer right away. Instead he opened the backpack and pulled out a laptop computer.

  “Qwendar didn’t,” I added rather desperately.

  “Who’s Qwendar?” Maslin asked while the computer powered up.

  “Old Álfar dude,” Merlin said.

  “Old Álfar dude with major clout,” I amended. “He’s been sent by some kind of Álfar Council to observe the arbitration.” I cocked a brow at Maslin. “I can’t really fill in details about the arbitration.”

  He shook his head. “Merl filled me in.” The computer was up and running, and the journalist started typing, fingers flying across the keyboard. “The first question is always, who profits? Well, obviously the folks who brought this lawsuit would profit. If the industry starts to believe that every Álfar is a potential time bomb likely to go off and kill people at any moment and without any warning, then they’ll stop hiring them. Human actors win. We need to take a look at every one of the humans involved.”

  “I can’t do that. I’m an arbitrator in this case. I’m just focused on the killings.”

  “Yes, you’ve been a good little lawyer. You haven’t violated any of your ethical—such as they are—standards.”

  “Hey!” Merlin interjected.

  Maslin grinned at his brother and then at me. “I give him shit all the time about being a shyster.”

  “Muckraker,” Merlin said affectionately to his brother.

  “Why, thank you. A title of honor.” They had turned to face each other, and with their identical grins it was like looking at mirror images.

  I waved a hand between them. “Look, back on the subject. I’ve got to maintain neutrality. If anyone discovered I was investigating the human actors—”

  “Which is why you won’t. I’ll dig into the background of the various parties.”

  “I think this Human First movement is a more likely candidate,” Merlin said. “Those people really are bat-shit crazy. And hateful,” he added.

  “Maybe you can answer a question for me,” I said. “Is this a home-grown group, because I thought California was the Left Coast, a liberal enclave, the epicenter of degeneracy that undermines American values.”

  “We are,” the twins said in chorus.

  “All of those things,” Merlin continued. “But we’re also the state with the screwiest political system in the entire country.”

  “Which is?”

  “The ballot proposition.” Again in stereo.

  Merlin continued. “Get enough signatures on a petition using the initiative system, and any crazy-ass idea can end up on the ballot at the next election.”

  Now it was Maslin’s turn. “It grew out of a good impulse back in the early days of the Progressive Movement. The idea that the citizenry should and could have an impact on legislation. A way to counter the influence of powerful, entrenched interests. It’s direct democracy by citizen lawmaking.”

  “Unfortunately the citizens are often idiots or bigots,” Merlin said. “The only check on the ballot proposition is the Constitution. And since the Álfar haven’t been declared a protected class under the U.S. Constitution if this proposition passes this ban will apply in California until somebody takes it up with the Supreme Court. Until then the state can violate the Fourteenth Amendment’s Equal Protection clause with impunity.”

  I leaned back in my chair and considered. “They might not have to be declared a protected class.” I quoted Section one of the amendment. “All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the state wherein they reside. No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.”

  “Well, there’s a question,” Maslin said. “Are the Álfar citizens? Were they born in this country?”

  “The due process and equal protection clauses use the word person rather than citizen,” I pointed out. “And courts have ruled that marriage is a fundamental right. It would certainly fall under the rubric of privileges. Bottom line: you can’t just single out a group of people, be they African-Americans or gays or women, and arbitrarily deny them their rights. Civil rights should never be subject to the ballot box.”

  Merlin laid the tip of his right index finger on the end of his nose and pointed at me with the left. A young waiter and an older woman (I was betting she was his mother because of their body language) came to the table with our appetizers. We sat silent for a few minutes, munching on rice paper–wrapped spring rolls, pork satay, and mee krob.

  I played with my fork, tapping it against the edge of my plate, and said, “I’ve been getting a lot of weird hang-up phone calls. Then it progressed to a couple of nasty phone calls. I think the Human First movement, or at least some member of the group, is behind the calls, though I can’t prove it.”

  Identical pairs of blue eyes focused on me. “That’s kind of scary,” Merlin said.

  I shrugged. “As long as it doesn’t escalate beyond phone calls I’m not worried.”

  “Good woman,” Maslin said, and then punched his brother on the shoulder. “You are such a wimp.”

  “Better than being a mac
ho asshole.”

  I jabbed my fork at them. “Hey! No sibling rivalry bullshit. I have enough of that with my own brother.” I pinned Maslin with a look, and drawled, “And aren’t you a little short to be a macho asshole?” I wanted to kick myself. I’d been complaining about the constant movie quotes, and here I was doing it. I decided the habit must be catching. Something in the water of California.

  “Precisely why I have to be a macho asshole. And you should talk, shorty,” he said with a grin.

  “But back on the subject, guys. Kerrinan said Human First protestors were on the sidewalk in front of the driving range, and they were certainly outside the studio after Jondin’s … episode.”

  Maslin typed on his netbook. “Okay, so we have possible suspects. The real question is, how? How in the hell do you drive an Álfar to murder?”

  “Well, that’s why I went to talk to Qwendar.”

  “And what insights did he have to offer?” Maslin asked.

  I opened my mouth and realized that while we’d talked for a number of hours, and I enjoyed the conversation I didn’t have a lot of specifics. “He said Álfar physiology differs from human in terms of blood types and blood chemistry. He told me a lot about their pride and love of beauty.” I frowned.

  “Not very helpful,” Maslin said.

  At that moment our food arrived. I had ordered the pad thai, but the aroma of Merlin’s garlic beef and Maslin’s mint noodles with chicken was seductive. I saw them eyeing my noodles.

  “Family style?” I suggested. Smiles broke out all around, and we quickly passed the plates.

  We ate for a few minutes, then Maslin pulled his Apple Air back in front of him and started typing. “Okay, following up on what we do know. Different physiology … maybe drugs? Something like angel dust that can cause a murderous rage but in Álfar.”

  “Hypnosis. Manchurian candidate stuff,” Merlin suggested.

  “You watch too many movies,” Maslin said. “Blackmail. They were forced to do these things.”

  “Because somebody can threaten them with something worse than a first-degree murder charge and life imprisonment?” Merlin asked. Once again the snark was on the rise between the twins.

  They fell silent. I gathered my courage and said, “There’s a reason the Powers are called the Powers, and it’s not just because they’ve had their hands on the levers of power in the world for millennia.”

  “What are you saying?” Merlin asked.

  “Well, for lack of a better word—magic. That’s what I really wanted Qwendar to talk about, but he stayed pretty mum.” They both stared at me. “Look, I know it’s the twenty-first century, and we’re all about science and being rational, but let’s get real.” I pinned Merlin with a look. “We work for a bunch of immortal dead guys. I was raised in a vampire household, and I don’t have a full understanding of their abilities. They’re careful about what they show humans.” I turned my attention to Maslin. “You wrote a piece for Time last month. That means a werewolf authorized your paycheck. Hounds are stronger than normal people, heal faster, live longer, and they can turn into a wild animal at will, and that’s what we know. What other powers and abilities might they have? We know the Álfar live in a slightly skewed reality. Legend has it that they are irresistible to normal people. My vampire foster father was always warning me about the Álfar. Once again, we have no idea the range of their powers and abilities. And it’s not like they share this information with each other. Despite what people … real people … human people think, the Powers aren’t united in their interests or their methods. They’re just united when it comes to dealing with us.”

  The men seated across from me sat silent, but their expressions betrayed their discomfort.

  “Okay,” Merlin said. “That gave me a shiver.”

  “So if they’re secretive with each other, how the hell do we find out about these powers?” Maslin asked.

  “We hope our ally proves to be more forthcoming,” I said brightly.

  Merlin pulled his brother’s laptop over, and his fingers flew across the keyboard, the click of the keys like bird pecks on glass. “Looking for authorities on the Powers. Wow, lot of cranks out there … a few university papers. I’m going to have to do some research.”

  “That’s right, you’re the research guru,” I said. I looked at Maslin. “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Back to the basics. Meet people, ask them questions. We’ll talk to the Human First people and retrace Kerrinan’s steps on the day of the murder.”

  “Won’t that alert Human First?”

  “Yeah, but when people get nervous they make mistakes,” Maslin said breezily.

  “You know, last summer I said almost the same exact thing to a friend—about how desperate people make mistakes.” For an instant John’s face was before me, and I was back in his apartment. The sudden memory brought a heavy lump into the back of my throat. “He said sometimes they made mistakes and sometimes they didn’t, and if they didn’t you ended up dead. He was right—I damn near got killed.”

  “So, you think we shouldn’t talk to them?”

  “No. I just think we should be careful.”

  * * *

  I had started sleeping with my cell phone under my pillow. That way if there was an earthquake, and the roof fell in I could call out to the rescuers digging for me. Of course that was predicated on the assumption I wouldn’t be thrown from the bed, and lose track of said cell phone. But I wasn’t much paranoid about earthquakes … oh, no.

  So when my ear started vibrating and the theme from Star Wars came muffled through the pillow, it levitated me right off the mattress. I jammed my hand under the pillow with enough force to send the phone skittering to the other side of the bed. The music was now below me. It must have slid right off the bed. I flung myself in a belly flop across the mattress, and groped for the faint glow of the phone.

  “Hello? Hello!”

  “Linnet Ellery?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Sam with Equine Transporters. I just wanted to let you know that I’m about thirty minutes out from the Equestrian Center. I’ve informed the trainer, but the shipper thought you might like to be on hand to help unload the horse.”

  “Right. Yes. Absolutely. I’ll be there.”

  Sam hung up. I scraped the hair off my face, and peered at the time. Four a.m. It was a law of nature that haulers either picked up or dropped off a horse at ugh o’clock. I snapped on a light and realized that water was washing down the outside of windows. And it was raining. Perfect.

  I scrambled into jeans, boots, and a hoodie and headed out to the car. Horrifyingly, there were already a few people getting into their vehicles, and judging by the clothes and briefcases they were heading to work. They had to have the commute from hell. I got into the car and headed down rain-slick streets toward the Equestrian Center. I hadn’t actually gotten to the facility since Jolly’s call had come, but a Google map gave me what I needed.

  What I hadn’t expected was to drive past the Disney Studio on my left and a weirdly shaped building on my right. It was all glass and wood like the gondola of a dirigible. Above the entrance to the building was a giant blue wizard’s hat covered with stars and a moon. I recognized it as the hat Mickey Mouse wore when he was the sorcerer’s apprentice in Fantasia. A sign informed me that this was the Animation Building. I tried to imagine having enough money and cultural relevance that architecture matched your dreams.

  Then I was a few blocks past the studio. I entered into a pretty residential neighborhood. A street sign showed the outline of a horse and rider, which I thought was encouraging. The road curved lazily along and then on my right the large white gate of the LA Equestrian Center appeared. Turning in I drove past a grass jump arena on my left, then what looked like retail space and a clubhouse. Behind the low buildings the darker shadow of an indoor arena showed against pale clouds. On my right was more grass, a little house, a dressage arena, and then three barns with parking out
front.

  There weren’t a lot of cars. There was the familiar shape of a vet’s truck parked near one barn, and I knew someone was having a stressful night. I shivered with sympathy. There was nothing worse than needing a vet in the wee small hours for your horse. The only other vehicle was an SUV. The interior light was on, and I saw someone inside. She appeared to be texting. I pulled up next to her and cut the headlights. We eyed each other through rain-washed car windows.

  What I saw was a young woman around my age with a mane of thick black hair. We both stepped out of our cars and pulled up our hoods against the persistent rain. She was taller than me (of course), with really long legs. No matter how you sliced it I was short, and short is hard when you ride dressage.

  “Why don’t we wait in the breezeway?” she suggested and pointed at the wide doorway into the first barn.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We ran inside. There were the sounds of shifting hooves in sawdust, a soft chussing sound. Down the line of stalls a horse coughed, and another blew out air in a gentle whuff. The air warmer than the damp chill outside, thanks to forty or so hay burners. The air was rich with the scents of dust, stall shavings, leather, hay, manure, and horse, a smell that for me was the embodiment of love and comfort.

  “Hi, I’m Natalie Ogden. You must be Linnet.”

  “Yep.” We smiled at each other.

  “Well, at least he didn’t arrive at two a.m.,” Natalie said. “I’d be getting up at five anyway, so this wasn’t too bad.”

  “Wow, you’re hard-core. I get up at six,” I said

  “I’m at the gym by five thirty because my first lesson is at seven.”

  “So, what is the plan? What did Jolly … Mr. Bryce arrange?”

  “I’ll work the horse when you can’t, and if you want coaching that’s included,” she said.

  “Oh, that would be great. Eyes on the ground.”

  “What level do you ride?” Natalie asked.

  “I’ve ridden the Grand Prix, but then I lost my horse and just haven’t had much heart for it. Vento is a joy. He’s third level right now, but he’ll go up the levels really quickly. But you’ll see.”