Krewe of Hunters The Unholy (16 page)

Sunday evening, Alistair arrived at the
Black Box Cinema and let himself in. Then, forty-four minutes later, Jenny Henderson showed up. She approached the door in a crouch, as if she believed she could escape the eye of the camera that way. She went into the Black Box Cinema. Her body hid the door for a minute, and then she disappeared inside.

Sean had Fontini roll the footage over and over again, trying to see what he was missing. Then he got it.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

“Did you see something I didn’t?” Fontini asked.

“No,” Sean said. “But what I
didn’t
see tells me a lot.”

“What’s that?”

“This was perfectly orchestrated. Whoever did it knows all about the security station and the security cameras. Which, once again, suggests that this person is very familiar with the studio.”

“Then it could be Alistair Archer,” Knox said quietly. He’d returned to stand behind them.

“Nope.” Sean shook his head. “No murder weapon anywhere. No bloody trail away from the scene. Come on, Knox! The killer escaped somehow—in a manner we haven’t figured out. Don’t forget, the studio is missing its robe for the remake of
Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum.
That robe has to be
somewhere
—and when it’s found, it’s going to be covered in blood. Let me see the Friday footage again, toward the end of the day.”

Fontini looked over at Knox, and Knox shrugged. They rolled the footage again. This time, Sean concentrated on the dressmaker’s mannequin in the costume department. At one point, Mike Greenwood moved it because it was in his way, shoving it behind the curtained area used as a change room when actors came for fittings.

A seamstress passed by and it was shoved farther back. By the end of the day, it was completely behind the curtain.

“One more time?” Sean asked.

“The robe was on the mannequin,” Fontini said. “And it’s gone now, you say?”

“There’s a plain brown monk’s robe on the mannequin now.”

Fontini started to run the tape again, showing the different rooms. “Stop!” Sean said suddenly.

Fontini did, frowning as he studied the various screens. Then he said, “Got it!”

“Got what?” Knox demanded.

Fontini pointed excitedly to the screens. “There’s a gap in the video that covers the entrance. Look—there’s the time on the security station camera. It’s reading 4:48. And there’s the time on the clock in the workroom—4:50.”

“The clocks could have been wrong,” Knox argued.

“They could’ve been. Who would normally notice a two-minute time difference?” Sean said. “And then again, there could be missing footage. And that’s where I think we have a theft. The new robe for the new Amun Mopat. The one worn by the murderer.”

“It might still show up somewhere in the studio,” Knox said.

“Fontini, can we tell if any footage is missing? Could someone have frozen the cameras?” Sean asked.

“It’s possible. Anything is possible,” Fontini said. “But if something was done, I haven’t found it yet. I’ll need to go through just about every computer test known to man, and even then…” He looked at Sean. “But I’ll do it,” he promised.

* * *

Madison’s assistant, Alfie, showed up at her door about forty-five minutes after Sean had left.

“You’re home! Thank God,” Alfie said in his usual dramatic way.

“Well, if you’d called, you would have known that,” Madison told him dryly.

She didn’t have to ask him in; Alfie just walked through the door as if there was no question that he was welcome. He threw himself on the couch. Ichabod, who was fond of Alfie, immediately crawled up on his lap.

Alfie was an attractive man, tall and blond and elegant in his movements. Madison watched him with affection. He was really a big kid, one who loved the movies—and loved his job. But, right now, he clearly felt anxious.

“Have you had dinner?” he asked.

“No.”

size="-1">“Do you have any food?” He clasped his hands as though in prayer.

“Sure. I have tuna,” she said. He made a face. “I buy a lot of it, Alfie. It comes in cans, and lasts a long time, so it’s good when we wind up working nights and I’m not home to cook.”

“Tuna sounds great.” He followed her into the kitchen, delving into the rack for one of her bottles of questionable red wine as she drew out tuna, mayonnaise, bread, lettuce and tomatoes.

“So?” he said, opening the wine as she prepared the food.

“So?”

“Oh, please! There’s a massive rumor mill! You’re helping the cops! Or the FBI. The
ghost
FBI.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insisted. She pushed him aside to get a knife out of the drawer.
Act innocent,
she’d been told.

Alfie rested his elbows on the counter and jiggled his brows. “Studly, macho FBI agent—old employee of the studio—arrives, and you’re assigned to be with him!”

“I showed him around the studio.”

“Aha!”

“Aha what?” she asked.

“So he
is
studly and macho,” Alfie said triumphantly.

“I suppose. It’s not something you really notice when you’re worried because there’s been a murder and a friend is accused of that murder
and
our livelihoods are at stake.”
That was a lie.
Sad as it was, she’d noticed everything about Sean Cameron, down to the scent of his aftershave and the single ring he wore, some kind of coat of arms. He also wore a dive watch. His hands were large, his fingers long, his fingernails neatly clipped; his were the hands of someone who was clean in appearance and habits, yet heedless of artificial enhancements. His hair was cleanly cut and simple, too. The way it fell slightly forward was entirely unaffected.

“I don’t get it,” Alfie said. “I mean, how could anyone but Alistair have done it?”

“I don’t know. I’m not an investigator.” She took the glass of wine he held before her nose, sipped—it was indeed questionable—and set the glass down. “Alfie, I’m just a friend and an artisan and a fabricator. I showed him around the studio because I was asked to.” She cut the sandwiches in halves and bent down kand and an to give Ichabod his portion of tuna. “There are chips in the cupboard,” she said.

He went for the chips, poured them into a bowl, then put it and their plates on the kitchen table. He pulled out his chair, waiting for her to join him. When she’d done so, he practically pounced on her. “
And
you went to see Alistair!”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Has he confessed?”

“No! Alistair swears he didn’t do it—and I believe him.”

Alfie leaned back, sipping his wine. “If Alistair didn’t do it, then who did?”

“Alfie, we’re talking in circles. And I told you, I have no idea. If we knew who did it, the cops wouldn’t have to investigate, would they?” Madison demanded. “So, you tell me. How do you know my every movement?”

“Let’s see,” Alfie said, frowning, “I got the info from Mike Greenwood, who got it from Andy Simons, who apparently saw you with hunk-o-FBI man.”

“How’d you find out I saw Alistair?” she asked.

“That one is more convoluted,” Alfie said, grinning. “I heard it from Vickie at the coffee shop, who heard it from her boyfriend, Victor—Victor, Victoria, cute, huh?—who goes to the same manicurist as Pierce, who apparently escaped the bondage of the current Mrs. Eddie Alistair long enough to get his nails done this afternoon.”

“Well, the fact that I went to see Alistair is no secret,” Madison said.

Alfie laughed. “In our world, does
anything
stay secret?”

“Probably not. But it doesn’t matter because I don’t have any secrets to worry about,” Madison said.

Alfie chewed thoughtfully for a few minutes. Then he set his sandwich down. “This is all so horrible,” he groaned. “I know you don’t
know
anything. But who do you
think
did it?”

“Alfie! I already told you. I haven’t got any idea.”

“What k="->

“He didn’t do it,” Madison said stubbornly. “And it’s way too early to worry about losing your job.”

“So…who could’ve done it?” Alfie asked.

“You tell me. Who do you think could have done it?”

Alfie frowned. “Ah! The evil Mrs. Eddie Archer. The current one. No, no, never mind. That would mean breaking a nail or messing up her hair. Back to the drawing board. Hmm. Aha! Mike Greenwood. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Mike has access. No one knows the studio better. No, no, he likes his job.” Alfie looked frustrated. “Colin Bailey! He’s the guard, right? He’s in charge of security. But why? Maybe…somewhere, somehow, years and years ago, Eddie dated a girl Bailey was in love with. Yeah…no. No, can’t see Bailey and Archer being involved with any of the same women, nor would Bailey risk his cushy job. God knows, he gets to make a mint and snooze and read magazines. Hey! Maybe we
did
create something so real it came to life and killed her. What do you think?”

“I think you need to finish your sandwich and your wine, and go home. I’m exhausted.”

“I can’t even get you out for some boba green tea?” Alfie asked, clearly disappointed by the dismissal.

“I hate boba,” she told him.

“Plain green tea, then?”

“Alfie, I just want to sleep.”

He sighed. “Okay, but no holding out. I’m your assistant, for God’s sake! Keep me in the loop,” he said, rising. “Hey, you want some help cleaning up? Doing the dishes—”

“Alfie, we ate on paper plates.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Okay, fine—send me out into the cold and the dark, feeling lonely and anxious!”

“Alfie, it isn’t in the least cold. Go home. Or go to a club. I’ve got to sleep!”

She steered him to the door and nudged him out. There, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll keep in touch, I promise, although we’re supposed to be back at work the day after tomorrow. Drive carefully…and go home!”

“All right, all right!” Grinning, he walked out to her drive where he’d parked his car.

When he was gone, Madison closed and locked the door. She turned to lean against it and realized she hadn’t seen Bogie, which was odd, because he loved to talk to her when she had company. He considered it amusing to see if he could push her into answering.

It wasn’t that late, but she really was tired. The kitchen received a lick and a promise, as her mother used to call it, she checked Ichabod’s food and water bowls and then went to her room and prepared for bed. Tonight, there was no drone of voices from the television in the living room, so she turned on the smaller set in her room, found a ridiculous movie about a massive snowstorm freakishly hitting San Diego and willed herself to nod off.

Just as she was falling asleep, she was awakened by the shrill sound of an alarm.

The noise was horrendous, shattering, shocking—and brought her leaping to her feet, terrified and disoriented.

She rushed into the living room and immediately saw that Bogie was back; he was at the window looking out. The sound was com
ing from her car. Somehow the alarm had been activated.