A Taste Fur Murder Page 8

 

  I was beginning to think Tango’s occasional cluelessness had less to do with ignorance and more to do with baiting me—but she’d provided some useful information nonetheless. “That branch you were on—would it support the weight of a person the size of Hana Kim? And is her window big enough for her to climb through?”

  Tango considered the questions.

  “Then I think that—after we locate ZZ—our first stop on the guest list is Hana Kim.”

  * * *

  I found ZZ talking to Shondra Destry in the foyer of the main entrance. Shondra gave me a cool but unreadable look when she saw me. “Foxtrot,” she said. “I was just talking to ZZ about what happened to Maria.”

  Her voice had that careful quality people use when they’re trying not to give away how they really feel. I’m used to it from harried wait staff or frustrated salespeople, but not from ZZ’s security chief; it looked like she’d reevaluated our earlier conversation in light of Maria’s death, and she didn’t like the conclusions she was coming to.

  “It’s terrible,” I said. “But we’ll get through it. We’re a family, right? We’ll just have to stick together.” I met her eyes as I said it, hoping she’d get the message.

  After a moment, her expressionless gaze slid from me to ZZ. “Absolutely. I was just telling ZZ we need to update a few of our security procedures for safety’s sake. Emergency protocols, evacuation routes, disaster preparation.”

  Normally, ZZ would brush off anything like that—but now she looked troubled. “I suppose. Will it take long?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Shondra. “I’ll walk you and the staff through them personally. We can all use a little togetherness today, right?”

  I nodded, relieved. “Yes. Safety in numbers, and all that.”

  ZZ frowned. “What an odd thing to say, Foxtrot. We’ve lost someone close to us, yes—but we’re not under siege, dear.”

  “Sorry. Bad choice of words. But that’s my point—numbers safe, words tricky. What with the sentence-making and the grammar and the proper mixing of the metaphors.”

  ZZ’s frown softened. “Yes, dear. Do you want to take the rest of the day off?”

  “What? No! I mean, no, I’m fine. And I think Shondra’s right—I’ve been meaning to talk to you about exactly that thing. Shondra, you stick with ZZ until you’ve got everything updated, okay?”

  “Oh, I’ll stay closer than her own shadow.”

  “Great, great. Well, I’ve got to go—”

  “Trot?” Shondra said, raising one eyebrow. “When you’ve got a minute, come see me, okay? We need to discuss a few details.”

  “Uh, yes, sure. Soon as I’ve got a minute, I promise.”

  I could feel Shondra’s eyes on my back as Tiny and I climbed the stairs.

  [She’s going to be trouble.]

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I muttered. But with Shondra keeping an eye on ZZ, I had less to worry about.

  Unless, of course, Shondra herself was the killer.

  All right, so it wasn’t the perfect solution. But it was the best I could do on short notice, and sometimes an all-or-nothing gamble was the only option you had. If Shondra was safe, so was ZZ; if not, then I’d just made a huge mistake. But I didn’t think I had—Shondra, like all of us, was too devoted to her employer. And frankly, if Shondra had wanted to off her, she wouldn’t have screwed it up. She’s ex-military, trained to kill in a hundred different ways.

  I found myself wondering, though, if she had any connections with the Russian army.

  Standing outside Hana’s door, I debated with myself whether or not I should just use my passkey without knocking. I might be able to catch a glimpse of whatever Hana was doing on her laptop that held so much of her time and attention. Ultimately, though, I couldn’t justify it to myself; it was a gross violation of privacy that would be hard to explain away. I decided that knocking first, the same way I had previously, was still the best option.

  But this time she called out, “Just a second!” and then opened the door. Behind her, the laptop was now closed. “Hey, Foxtrot. What’s up?” There was no trace of guilt on her face or in her voice—either she hadn’t been doing anything suspicious, or she was just a better actress when not caught unawares.

  “It’s about Maria—the woman who died?”

  “Oh.” Her eyes got a little wider.

  “We’re trying to figure out exactly when she—well, you know. So I’m going around and asking all the guests if maybe somebody heard something—a loud thump from upstairs, something like that.”

  “No … but I turn in pretty early. Asleep by nine, keeps me feeling fine.” She said the last part almost in singsong, the way you’d repeat a slogan—or something drilled into you by a coach.

  “So you didn’t go downstairs for a drink of water, anything like that?”

  “Nope. In my room, all night.” She met my eyes squarely, which was something I found people did when they were trying hard to impress you with how honest they were.

  I was searching for an excuse to invite myself into the room when Tiny shoved past my legs and through the doorway. Hana was wearing shorts, and Tiny began to lick her kneecap enthusiastically.

  “Ha! That tickles!” She giggled and took a step backward. Tiny lunged into the room and jumped up on the bed, then sprawled on his back and started to do that ecstatic, rolling-around-and-writhing thing dogs usually reserved for places where something died and rotted.

  “Tiny!” I said, trying to sound irritated. “That’s no way to behave! Get down from there!”

  [I shall, momentarily. Then I will make a circuit of the room and try to detect any traces of carfentanil.]

  He leapt down on the far side of the bed. I stalked into the room, saying, “Bad dog! Come back here!”

  [Please don’t say that. I know you don’t mean it, but it still hurts. Words have teeth, you know.]

  I stopped as he began to nose his way around the room, an apology halfway to my lips. “I don’t mean to step all over your feelings, Mr. Tiny, but you really need to come with me, okay? Or I’ll have to put you on a leash.”

  [You don’t own a leash. Almost done.]

  “Aw, it’s okay,” said Hana. “He just wants to check things out. That’s what dogs do, right? Come here, boy.” She bent down and offered her hand. Tiny, after one last sniff at her luggage, came over and butted his head against it. She scratched him behind the ears, a big smile on her face.

  [Ahh. Very pleasant. And no, I didn’t find anything.]

  “Okay, Tiny. That’s enough. Let’s go.”

  [Just a moment, please. This is most soothing.]

  Well, he was still a dog, after all.

  After a brief, blissed-out interlude, Tiny gave his head a reluctant shake and trotted out the door. “Bye,” said Hana. “Come back and visit anytime!” I could tell she was talking to Tiny, and not me. I tried not to take it personally.

  We continued on down the hall. “Nothing, huh?”

  [No. But that simply means the chemical was not in her room. Even if she handled it, she could have worn gloves and disposed of them later.]

  The next room on my list was Keene’s. He wasn’t in it, which made things much simpler—I just used my passkey. We were in there for a while; Tiny discovered traces of a wide variety of substances, most of which were illegal—but no carfentanil.

  “Well, it seems Mr. Keene certainly has access to exotic forms of chemical recreation,” I said. “And my research indicated that carfentanil, being an opiate, is sometimes used that way.”

  [That seems unlikely. Considering the drug’s potency, wouldn’t the chance of an overdose be rather high?]

  “Oh, yeah, definitely. But that would increase the attraction for some, not reduce it. The risk factor is a big part of the thrill for certain kinds of people, and Keene’s lifestyle is all about extremes. He’s been in rehab more than once.”

  Tiny’s ears sudde
nly perked up. [Foxtrot. Someone’s coming!]

  I froze, not sure what to do.

  And then I heard the key slide into the lock.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  My first impulse—crazy though it sounded—was to jump on the bed. Not under, on. I was pretty sure that image would cause whatever functioning brain cells Keene still possessed to seize up—long enough for me to talk my way out of there, anyway.

  But I didn’t do that, because it would be unprofessional, and give him the wrong idea. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust myself, or that I was afraid I might do something stupid, or anything like that. Really.

  So instead, I just stood my ground and smiled when he walked in. He smiled back. He was wearing a bathing suit, his tangled black curls were wet, and he had a damp towel slung around his neck. “Hello, Trots. Is it my birthday? Give me half a mo and I’ll change into something appropriate.”

  It took me a second to realize what he was talking about. “No, no. I’m just filling in for Maria. We’re one maid short today, so…”

  I hated to play the dead-body card, but it had the desired result: He nodded, the smile vanished, and he said, “Yeah. Sorry to hear about that. You two close?”

  “I’m … not sure, actually. We worked together every day. We liked each other. We were work friends, I guess. Now I wish I’d known her better.”

  “Isn’t that always the way? Too many friends of mine that I can say the same about. Don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone, and all that.”

  “I suppose we’ve all lost people.”

  He gave his head a rueful shake. “Oh, I haven’t lost ’em. Know exactly where they are, in most cases. Various plots or urns, usually—though I know one bloke had his ashes scattered from a plane. He could be a little hard to locate, if I needed to find him in a hurry.”

  “You don’t think there’s an afterlife, then?” I really shouldn’t have asked that—his personal beliefs were just that, personal—but recent circumstances had altered my own views on the subject in ways I hadn’t even had time to consider.

  “How the hell should I know?” He grinned. “I’m sorry, that was rude. I just get tired, sometimes, of people asking me important questions as if my answers actually mattered. I sing songs and make an idiot of myself on stage—I don’t have any deep insights on philosophy or economics or politics. I had one journo inquire as to whether I thought capitalism was still a viable model in a post-kleptocracy world-state. I told her sure, as long I didn’t have to pay taxes on my private army of robot ninjas.”

  “I hear they’re expensive to maintain.”

  “It’s the dry-cleaning costs, really. You’d think black would be good at hiding stains, but all the really posh models of android bleed white. Bad design, that.”

  “I can see why it annoys you when people take you seriously.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, well. It’s a bit of a reflex, now, innit? So, to answer your question seriously: I believe in Mystery. Capital M. Things that are unknown, but powerful. Things that affect us, always have and always will, but can’t be defined.”

  “Some things man is not meant to know?”

  “That’s not it, really. I don’t think there’s some cosmic list of facts we aren’t allowed to read; more like there are some things that are—by their nature—unknowable. Quantum physics, right? You can know the velocity of a particle or its position, but you can’t know both at the same time.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “Careful. That sounded awfully close to a serious statement. You’ll ruin your reputation.”

  He shrugged. “You try to quote me, I’ll sic my lawyers on you. I have them specially bred and fed a regular diet of paparazzi.”

  “They must have strong stomachs.” I paused, wondering how to phrase the question I wanted to ask. “Sorry about waking you up this morning. I know you’re a bit of a night owl.”

  “No worries. I turned in around three—early for me, really.”

  “Not much to do around here at three AM, I guess.”

  “No, but it’s a lovely time to take a stroll in a graveyard. Which my gracious host has located right next door.”

  I stared at him. “You were in the graveyard? Last night?”

  “Yeah. That a problem? ZZ told me it was open to the public.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I just wondered … I mean, why?”

  “You kidding me? Inspiration, darling—rock and roll is all about sex and death. Not much sex in cemeteries, granted, but lots of Grim Reapery.”

  “But—they’re all animals.”

  “Even better! Some of the epitaphs I read were brilliant: HERE LIES GERALD, MY HAMSTER. HE ATE MUM’S COOKING. Not sure how Mum feels about that, but Gerald’s probably having regrets.”

  I had to admit I’d done the same, many times. “Yeah, there are some good ones. You out there long?”

  “A few hours. Left when it started to get wet. Rain adds to the atmosphere, but I prefer my water in a pool or hot tub, not falling from the sky.”

  “Which reminds me.” I held out my hand for his towel. “Let me take that. I’ll go get you some fresh ones.”

  “Cheers.”

  I tried not to stare as he slipped it from around his neck and gave it to me. His body was long and lean and muscular, with Celtic knotwork tattoos around his upper arms and some sort of mythic beast on his chest. I resisted the urge to ask him about it; Tiny and I needed to make a graceful exit, the sooner the better.

  “Hello, pup,” Keene said, looking down. He got down on his haunches and regarded Tiny quizzically. “Enjoying your new digs? Quite the place, eh?”

  To my surprise, Tiny answered. [It’s an interesting and stimulating environment, that I can’t deny.]

  “Is that so?” said Keene. He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, then, I won’t keep you. Off you go.”

  Tiny got up and trotted toward the still-open door. Keene straightened and said, “Ta.”

  I followed. When I’d closed the door behind me, I said, “He didn’t—you didn’t—I mean, that wasn’t—”

  [Don’t worry, Foxtrot. You’re the only one who can hear me talk. But some humans are quite attuned to other species; Keene seems to be one of them.]

  Huh. Interesting. I’d never really thought of him as an animal person, but I guess it made sense; rock and roll was all about primal emotion, after all, not to mention animalistic behavior. Which was a very cerebral way of saying rock stars liked to party naked, wreck hotel rooms, and generally overdo everything that could be overdone. His room, though, while a little messy, was still in one piece. He’d worn a bathing suit in the pool. And so far, he’d limited his substance abuse mainly to alcohol, and even then hadn’t approached Oscar’s usual level of intoxication.

  I didn’t know what to make of his being in the graveyard. It fit with his personality, but it also meant he didn’t have an alibi. Unless someone—or something—in the graveyard could verify his story. Which meant that, sooner or later, I needed to set foot in there myself.

  I chose later, and continued on to Kenny Gant’s room.

  We got lucky once again, as he wasn’t there. Tiny reported a definite aroma of capuchin, but no carfentanil. We quickly moved on to Juan Estevez’s quarters, where we also had no luck.

  “Well, that leaves Mr. Kwok,” I said. “But he was with ZZ, so it makes no sense for him to be the killer.”

  [Could someone have slipped past Destry’s safeguards?]

  “I don’t think so. She served in Iraq—she’s knows how to maintain perimeter security. I guess someone could have been smuggled in, in a vehicle or something, but then they’d have to get out again without being detected.”

  [Which leaves someone who lives here.]

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “We’ll check Kwok’s room, and then we’ll go talk to Oscar.” I glanced at my watch. “He might be awake by then.”

  * * *

  Kwok’s room was another negative, so Tiny and I headed over to the guesthouse, on the oth
er side of the estate. It was called the guesthouse, but Oscar had lived there long before ZZ ever hired me, and would probably still be there long after I was gone—unless, of course, he wound up in prison or fleeing extradition first.

  There was a car I didn’t recognize in the parking area beside the house, a bright yellow convertible with the top down. It had seen better days: It was at least a decade old, with a nasty dent in one door and a broken taillight that had been badly fixed with red plastic and duct tape. The interior upholstery was torn and faded, with a drift of fast-food wrappers in the backseat. A thick cushion lay on the driver’s seat.

  [Intriguing. This vehicle smells strongly of horses.]

  “Tango?” I said aloud. “You around?”

  No answer. I shrugged and knocked on the front door of the house.

  Oscar answered it a moment later. Not only was he up, he was dressed and had company, the driver of the convertible visible behind him. I realized he had to be the driver at the same instant I understood what the cushion was for: The gentleman in question was extremely short. It was hard to tell exactly how short while he was seated, but I guessed his height at four feet or less.

  “Good morning, Foxtrot,” Oscar said. His eyes were a little bleary, but other than that he was his usual well-groomed self. Oscar’s ethics might have been slippery, but his attention to appearance was quite strict. “How can I assist you today?”

  “I was wondering if I might come in. I wanted to talk to you about Maria’s death.”

  “I don’t know if now is the right time to—”

  “What was that?” the man at the table said. He had a high, nervous-sounding voice. “Somebody died? Who died?”

  “A maid,” Oscar said, turning his head. “Heart attack, I believe.”

  “You said the police were out here for a zoning violation!” the man said. He sounded even more agitated. “You didn’t tell me someone died!”

  “Can I come in?” I asked again.

  Before Oscar had a chance to reply, Tiny pulled the same trick he had last time, slipping past me and then squeezing through the open doorway. In a second he was inside.