The ones with internet access could get some of the story, the comic book fan and news sites were already all over it. He had visited some of those websites for the first time to see what they knew. It wasn't much. All they knew was that Erica Cross was dead, the cops weren't talking, and there was nothing about any suspects, who found the body, or if the powers-that-be thought it was foul play or an accident. The regular media was slow to pick up the story, with only a couple of local reporters hovering around police headquarters waiting for a statement, but that was going to change soon. The Drudge, Breitbart and Huffington websites had picked up the story. That meant that in a matter of hours the big American and international media outlets were going to notice that something big happened at OmniCon. Of course they'd have to have someone do what he did and find out what OmniCon was and where it was located, then, maybe they'd be able to spare someone to send into this unknown and unknowable territory.

  He scanned the crowd and caught a face he sort of knew at the door. It was that skinny geek, the one TMZ identified as some sort of rich bastard, the one Erica Cross kissed Thursday night, the one called Baxter. Baxter was dressed in a dark blue t-shirt with some sort of bullshit superhero logo on the front, blue jeans and some sort of light khaki jacket that looked like it came out of an army surplus store.

  He stepped back, nestled himself between a display from a video game company and watched Baxter cross the floor in front of him. The geek's hair was still wet from the shower, and he hadn't shaved. He looked like he hadn't slept.

  Those cops can take up a lot of time.

  He watched Baxter walk between the displays, pause and look at the ever-shifting crowd in front of Room B, then turn toward the booths for the comic book companies. He left his hiding place and turned for the main entrance. He wasn't sure if Baxter knew who he was, or if he ever saw him where he wasn't supposed to be, but he didn't want to take that chance.

  "So it's just like the airport?" asked the recent graduate of the Ontario College of Art, her portfolio under one arm clad in a long fishnet and lace glove. The recent graduate's style was a little old school Goth meets Steampunk for Kevin's tastes, pale with lots of make-up and artificially ink-black hair, but she was a good enough distraction for this weird-ass morning. Cops were all over the convention centre, there was talk about someone dying in Room B the night before, Madden was keeping his distance and Ashmore was acting odd.

  "Yes," answered Kevin LaGuardia, managing to simultaneously take her portfolio, look her in the eye and check out the cleavage struggling for freedom against her black lace bustier. Truly a marvellous achievement in the art of eye-hand coordination. "But we're not related."

  "I loved your work drawing Answer Man," said the recent graduate, revealing her long memory while her smile revealed teeth that just barely beat her complexion in the whiteness department. "You really captured the essence of that character."

  "Thanks," said LaGuardia as he opened the portfolio on the table that lay to the side of the Atlantic Comics booth. Normally, he had a set time for looking at the portfolios of aspiring artists, but he made an exception for the recent graduate. Sure, he had more interest in the contents of her bustier than the contents of her portfolio, but he was an editor, she was an artist and she remembered those halcyon days, when she had to have been in junior high, and he was the working artist that she now wanted to be.

  The work itself was technically competent; the style was strictly imitation anime/manga with a dash of emo as big eyed characters with wild hair emoted their angst dramatically in the face of what looked like elaborate vampire, reptile and cyborg hybrids. One elf-type creature sort of reminded him of Molly Garret. The posing was a little melodramatic, but this was a business built on melodrama.

  "This is very promising," said LaGuardia as he flipped to a page showing two long limbed, androgynous humanoids in skin tight armour, kissing atop the ruins of some battle robots. "Very promising indeed. You really should leave me your email, because you never know when we might have some work for you."

  "Really?" asked the recent graduate, the hope in her heart making her chest heave in a way that put hope in LaGuardia's heart. "I'll write it down for you."

  "That's great," said LaGuardia, thinking this might be promising, and not only artistically. Then he managed to tear his eyes away from her cleavage for a second but that was just long enough to ruin his morning.

  "Shit."

  "What?" asked the recent graduate.

  "Just write down your email," said LaGuardia.

  The recent graduate looked over her shoulder.

  "Isn't that Kirby Baxter?" she asked.

  "Yes," said LaGuardia as he nudged her away from the table. "I'll have to see you later."

  "Hello," said Kirby.

  "Hi," said LaGuardia, trying to sound casual. "You don't look so hot." In fact, he looked like a drowned rat with his wet hair, dark circles under his eyes and a jaw line dotted with patches of stubble. He had that crazy bag he always took to cons slung over his shoulder.

  "I spent the night with the police," answered Kirby.

  "Really?" asked the recent graduate.

  LaGuardia turned to the recent graduate. "Are you still here?"

  The recent graduate gave LaGuardia a slip of paper, then slipped away, but not before saying: "I really liked your work," to Kirby before she left.

  "So you were involved in all that business last night?"

  "I guess you heard what happened," said Kirby.

  LaGuardia nodded. "Yeah," he said, "I heard there was some sort of an accident or something, and someone died."

  "Or something," said Kirby, and LaGuardia could see that he wanted to say more but couldn't. Baxter than looked around to see if anyone was listening in on them, and then he said: "I need to talk to you about something."

  "About what?" asked LaGuardia.

  "Business," said Kirby. "What's going on with Atlantic Comics?"

  LaGuardia shook his head.

  "I'm just an artist posing as an editor," answered LaGuardia. "All the business decisions are handled by Ashmore."

  "But the company does have a lot of valuable assets?" asked Kirby.

  "Like original art?" asked LaGuardia, hoping to all that was holy that he wasn't talking about original artwork.

  "That could be part of it," said Kirby, "but I'm talking about all the attention the movies are bringing to the company."

  "There are a lot of comic book movies coming out these days," said LaGuardia, not sure where this was going, "I'm sure Atlantic's overdue for some of that movie money."

  "But you don't know any details?" asked Kirby.

  "That's Ashmore's department," said LaGuardia, wondering what the hell this guy was talking about. "Why are you so curious?"

  "I'm just trying to figure some stuff out," said Kirby, "it's good seeing you. We missed you at the Luau Room last night."

  "Oh," said LaGuardia, "I was really tired yesterday; I hit the sack as soon as I could. I must be getting old."

  "Aren't we all, if we're lucky," said Kirby. "I'll talk to you later."

  LaGuardia watched Kirby Baxter saunter off into the crowd. He then pulled out his cell phone and hit speed dial.

  "Madden," said LaGuardia, "check your damn voicemail, I think we have a really big problem that you really have to take care of quick."

  "Hey Teddy," said Kirby as he came to Ricci's booth. Teddy Ricci and Keith the regional manager were trying to keep business going as normal. The spinner racks and shelves were all still outside Ricci's cubicle, forcing the men and customers to bob and weave to get around them.

  "They let you out," said Teddy.

  "Yeah," replied Kirby, "mind if I borrow your laptop for a second? I left mine in my room."

  "Mi casa su casa," said Teddy, "follow me."

  Kirby followed Teddy through the chains of linked bamboo into what was the Luau Room the night before. It was sort of halfway between its daylight identity as a temporary shop, and its secret identity as a nocturnal drinking spot.

  "We barely had any time to get things back to normal," said Teddy. "How long did the cops keep you?"

  "I got out about four hours ago," answered Kirby.

  "Sheesh, I wonder what they'd do with a suspect?"

  "I'd rather not know."

  "There won't be any Luau Room tonight," added Teddy as he took his laptop out of his bag. "It just doesn't seem right."

  "That's understandable," said Kirby. "Maybe some of us can get together at my suite some time. Just a few of us talking about better times."

  "That's a great idea." Teddy booted up his computer, and clicked on his browser. "There you go, the world is at your fingertips though the WiFi here is a little pokey. What do you need?"

  "Do you know who Jackie Paine is?"

  "You don't?"

  "I think that's obvious," said Kirby, "I've never really given much thought to Hollywood."

  "I have her old site and her new site bookmarked," said Teddy clicking the link. "There you go."

  "Thanks."

  "I got to get back to the front," said Teddy, "let me know when you're done."

  Kirby put the laptop on the improvised bar and pulled up a stool. Jackie Paine's top story of the day was the death of Erica Cross, and how Sandra Doyle was now campaigning to replace her freshly deceased co-star. So far the site only had the bare bones of the story, but it promised more info later. The bottom of the piece had links to related stories. Kirby clicked each one into another tab and started reading them, starting from the earliest to the most recent.

  The other stories were basically built on the same basic themes:

  1. Unhappy investors, creditors and more than a few litigators had MaxCo Films under siege. It was also a possibility that MaxCo may not have enough money to complete The Vengeance Sisters movie.

  2. Molly's story about MaxCo screwing Atlantic Comics by rushing into production with The Vengeance Sisters was true.

  3. Jackie Paine was really, really fond of saying: TOLDYA! in big bold letters whenever she was proven right.

  4. The producers of Sandra Doyle's TV show had just fired her for physically assaulting a co-star, the final nail in a coffin made from years of bad on-set behaviour.

  So that's why she showed up a week early, thought Kirby, and it also said a lot about her behaviour around Erica at the publicist's Thursday night party. Kirby only caught a glimpse of her at the beginning of the opening night bash, and then no more, did she leave early, if so, where did she go?

  Kirby made mental notes of everything. He wasn't sure if Spasky would be interested in this information. He was sure that he wouldn't react well to Kirby's meddling, but he thought that Darling might be a bit more open-minded. She seemed more impressed than annoyed by Interpol's file on him.

  Besides, he wasn't meddling; he was just looking up some publicly available information. What was the harm in that?

  "Things have become a little complicated," said Karl Weatherby into his cell phone. "It's good to know that you're aware of my situation, but someone is dead." Having been questioned by the police, his boss Max Cooperman, had popped open the suite's minibar and retired to his room with a handful of overpriced liquor bottles, potato chip bags and candy bars. Weatherby had seen such moods before, but only in situations where his status as a Hollywood player wasn't enough to buy him a pass for one of his epic temper tantrums. The time Cooperman spent in the jaws of his personal black dog never lasted more than a few hours, and then he started broadcasting his rage outward again.

  That bought Weatherby a little time to handle some of his more extracurricular duties.

  "You want to know where he was after the party?" asked Weatherby. "As far as I know he was in his room either asleep or watching pay-per-view porn... Yes, that's all I know, I'm his assistant, not his babysitter, I can't be by his side twenty-four seven... What? Sure, it probably has something, but I'm not going to risk my ass at this stage to get it... We have to stick with the plan and act like this whole stinking business never happened... Damn, why am I the one who has to tell you how to run a goddamn railroad? ... Okay, we're agreed. I got to go."

  Weatherby clicked off and sat down on the plush lounge chair and took a little time to study the lobby's inlaid marble floor, ignoring the conventioneers mingling with the hotel guests and staff. An elegantly sculpted foot appeared on the floor in front of him, clad in an extremely expensive red Prada shoe.

  Weatherby tilted his head and his eyes ran up an equally elegantly sculpted leg, then a very short, very black skirt, a tight electric pink t-shirt, baring just enough belly and promising just enough cleavage, and finally a coldly beautiful face framed in blonde locks. Sunglasses hid her eyes, but he knew she was staring right at him, he could feel them drilling right through him like a pair of sharpened icicles.

  "Hello Miss Doyle," said Weatherby, not bothering to fake a smile. He didn't let her beauty confuse him the way it did others, he was immunized by cold hard experience with her type, who felt entitled to their entitlements just for showing up looking pretty and not for their talent or work ethic. "What can I do for you?"

  "I need to see Cooperman," said Sandra Doyle with a flip of her hair. "There's a way we can save The Vengeance Sisters."

  "I know where you're going," said Weatherby as he sat back in the chair. "I've been taking messages from your agent all morning telling me that the show must go on."

  "That's one way to put it," said Sandra, "I need to see Cooperman."

  "Let me guess," theorized Weatherby, "you think you can take Erica Cross' part?"

  "Like you said, the show must get going," said Sandra. "The redhead is dead, but we shouldn't let that stop this movie from getting made. You've already scheduled everything to shoot around my old part for the first week, so why don't we just stick with that plan and find someone to take over that part. It's so simple there's no reason why we can't do it."

  Weatherby took a deep breath and caught a whiff of her perfume. Like her it appeared sweet at first, but grew harsher with time. While part of him wanted to laugh in her face, his recent telephone conversation put some crazy ideas in his head that kept him from doing that. He had told his 'friend' that they should act as if nothing had happened, and let everything take its course. Here was an opportunity to get their original plan back on course.

  "All right," said Weatherby, "I'll talk to him. I think he might go for it." In fact, he knew that Cooperman was going to go for it, he had no other choice.

  "That's all I ask," she said, trying to be coy, but there was just a hint of demand in her voice, then she turned and sashayed away. Weatherby took a second to enjoy her exit on a visual as opposed to an intellectual level, then started going through his notes.

  "You're Karl Weatherby?" asked a voice behind him.

  Weatherby looked over his shoulder and saw Kirby Baxter standing by his seat, looking a little worse for wear. In fact, he looked like he could use a good night's sleep, or some sort of chemical simulation of one.

  "Right," said Weatherby, "and you're Kirby Baxter."

  "Did I just hear that Sandra Doyle was getting Erica Cross' part?"

  "Were you eavesdropping?"

  "Unintentional," answered Baxter, "these big ears tend to hear everything. If they were any bigger, I'd be getting satellite signals from China. If I don't deliberately tune things out I end up hearing things like that couple behind you arguing about getting a divorce."

  Weatherby turned his head to see a middle-aged couple pointing fingers at each other while their mouths moved, but the most he could make out were the occasional hiss and gasp.

  "She's accusing him of sleeping with her sister," continued Baxter, "he's accusing her of running around with his law partner. I think his name is Edgar, or Igor, but it's most likely Edgar."

  "That's incredible."

  "It's more of an annoyance than anything," said Baxter. "My sense of smell is even stronger; in fact, someone in this room is using way too much cologne."

  "I was thinking that too," said Weatherby. "Well, since there are no secrets from you, I have to say that we are only considering the option of giving Sandra the part, because there is a lot of money and jobs relying on this movie getting started."

  "Yeah," said Baxter, seeming a little out of sorts. "I really need to get some sleep, those cops kept me up all night. That's why I can't really think straight."

  "They came to us after they were done with you," added Weatherby. "That was after dawn."

  "Listen," said Baxter, "I'd like to talk to you later. I need some information on your movie."

  "Why?" asked Weatherby, wondering where this was going.

  "I just have some questions that need answering," said Baxter, "but I can't do anything coherently until after I get some sleep. I'll see you later."

  "Sure," said Weatherby. Then Baxter headed for the elevators.

  Weatherby hit redial. "Yeah, it's Karl here," he said, "I think I got rid of one complication and replaced it with another."

  Kirby had the elevator to himself, so he slumped against the back wall and stopped trying to hold up the immense weight of his eyelids. The shower had given him a bit of a wake-up, but the effect was short-lived as the need for sleep came back to smack him hard across the head. It was a mistake to go sleepwalking around the convention, asking stupid questions and not knowing what the hell to do with the answers. A little imp in the back of his sleep-deprived head second guessed his idea about telling the police about what he found on the internet, telling Kirby that it was just pointless Hollywood gossip, and suspicions based on personal dislikes. It couldn't possibly be usable evidence.

  The elevator chimed and Kirby forced his eyes open. It had arrived at the Excelsior floor and the door slid open. A thumping sound was coming from down the hall.

 

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