The security office was small, somewhere between the size of a typical child’s bedroom and a walk-in closet that you see on HGTV. Only this room was painted and furnished in greens and grays that some might find masculine but to me just felt drab. A bulletin board along one wall held charts, graphs, and notices, some in plastic protective sleeves, others yellowed and curled and waving in the air currents created by a nearby vent. Several flat-screen monitors showed the convention floor in grainy real time, and one of the cameras was trained on the comic booth.
“Come on in, Liz,” Dad said without budging from his seat in front of the monitors.
“That’s no fair,” I said. “You could see me coming.”
Dad wriggled his fingers toward the screen. “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.”
I gave him the required chuckle, then turned to Ken, who was leaning against the wall. “How’s Craig doing? Did you learn anything about why he was up on the catwalks?”
“As I was telling your dad here, that’s going to be hard to sort through. According to the hospital staff, Craig had a number of hallucinations, especially right after he regained consciousness. They said he’s quieted down, but I’m not sure they’re over yet because he’s not making complete sense.”
“How so?” I asked.
Ken sent a pained look to my father, and Dad nodded. Parental consent to talk to me about the case? Seriously?
“Look,” I said, checking the pique rising in my voice, “I’m out there working on the floor. If there’s something going on, I want to know about it. You’re not protecting me by allowing me to walk headlong into a dangerous situation.”
Ken put his hands up. “That’s not what I was trying to do,” he said. “Look, this is an official ongoing investigation. I need to be careful what information I share and with whom.”
“So you ask my dad?”
Ken scrubbed his face with his hands.
“Lizzie, give the man a break,” Dad said, tilting back in his chair. “He’s walking some pretty fine lines. You’re not in law enforcement. You were a witness to the events. You know Craig . . .”
My heart started beating out a rumba in my ears. “Am I a suspect or something?”
“Well,” Ken started, “your dad can vouch for your whereabouts . . .”
He stopped when I glared at him. Just a few days ago, I was pressed to decide between Jack and Ken. Now I was this close to being shed of both of them in one day. In one very bad day.
Ken rallied. “What I meant to say is that, no, of course you’re not a suspect.”
“Ken needs protection too,” Dad said. “If someone comes along down the line and examines his records, it needs to be very clear that he didn’t show any partiality or favoritism toward you by not establishing your whereabouts. It’s a paper trail, really, for the protection of you both. And to protect any potential criminal case, if one ever goes to trial.”
“But now that my alibi has been established,” I said, “and permission has been obtained from Hank, the great and powerful, you can tell me what Craig said?”
“Brace yourself,” Ken said. “It’s a little anticlimactic. He claimed he was trying to reach the balloon.”
“Why did he want to reach the balloon?” I asked.
“To get it for the little girl,” Ken said. “I asked him twice. He was insistent on that point.”
I pulled a strand of hair from my face and digested those words for a moment. “Craig’s not the kind to risk his life to retrieve a child’s balloon. He’s not even the kind to go out of his way. Now, if he’d said he was trying to pop the balloon with a pin and laugh in the child’s face, that I might believe, but this?”
“Bitter much, Lizzie?” Dad asked.
I let out a slow breath. Maybe I was. Craig wasn’t that same kid who’d tormented me in school. “It’s a bit of an exaggeration. Did Craig say anything about the publicity stunt?”
“Oddly enough, no, and then he went off on a random tangent about coffee.”
I winced at the word and shifted the bag in my hands. My dad gave me an odd look.
Apparently Ken didn’t notice. He went on: “But we did find a stack of leaflets up on the catwalk, promoting some new comic book series. I’m thinking he’d intended to shower them down over the convention floor.”
“Mr. Inferno. Captain Inferno. Something like that,” Dad said.
I forced my attention back to the subject at hand. “Maxine told me that was the new series he was trying to launch. It’s why he wore that ridiculous costume.”
“I couldn’t get any more out of him. Maybe later when he’s more coherent. Or if.”
“If?” Dad asked.
“Right now his doctors aren’t sure if it’s some kind of drug in his system or the pain meds that are making him loopy. They’re not ruling out brain injury.”
I tried to push away the stray thought that it might just as easily have been Dad lying in that hospital bed. “Maxine was talking about going to see him after we close down for the day. I volunteered to go with her.”
Ken was about to protest, but I headed him off.
“Don’t worry. With permission of the mighty wizard here”—I genuflected in Dad’s direction—“I’ll gladly share anything I learn that will help the investigation.”
Ken’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.
“Meanwhile, there are a couple of other things you both oughta know.” I shared with them what I learned about the woman who had sold the missing comics to Craig—and that Maxine had spotted her at the show. Not sure why I led with that. Was it because I really thought everything that happened was all about Craig and not my father? Or maybe I just wanted it that way.
Ken took the paper that Maxine had copied for me. (Unbeknownst to him, I had already taken a picture of it with my phone.) “Jenna Duncan,” he read, then addressed my dad. “Mean anything to you?”
Dad hoisted himself out of the rolling chair, the springs painfully squeaking. He craned his neck to read the page in Ken’s hand. “Not familiar. Nice part of town, though.”
Ken crammed it into his pocket. “Not sure there’s a lot I can do, especially since those comics haven’t officially been reported stolen.”
“Maxine wants to search the booth again, then she’ll probably report it,” I said. “But from what I gather, those comics were worth a boatload of money. The previous owner wanted them back, which gives her motive to steal them.”
“I guess I can run her for priors, if nothing else,” Ken said.
“If you do that,” Dad said, “see if you can’t come up with a picture, and we can look for her on the security footage anywhere near the comic booth, or near Craig. Probably stretching it, but if she was that upset about Craig cheating her, maybe she had motive to drug him.”
“About that . . .” And then I froze, unable to get more words out, as if showing them the switched cups and putting the idea out there that my father might have been the target somehow made it more real. Maybe if I said nothing, it would melt away.
“What’s wrong, Liz?” Dad said. “You’re white as a ghost.”
I lifted up the Wegmans bag I’d stuffed the foam cups into, which both brilliant detectives had failed to notice. I pulled out the cup with Craig’s name first.
Ken pointed at it. “Nice work. If Craig was drugged, there’s a chance someone might have put it in his coffee. There could be residue in the cup. Only what did we say about fingerprints?”
I ignored the patronizing tone. “Here’s the thing,” I said, finally finding my voice. “This isn’t Craig’s cup. Not the one he drank from, anyway. I pulled this out of our trash. And the cup I pulled out of Craig’s trash?” I opened the bag to reveal the one with Dad’s name on it.
Dad fell back into his chair. “Well, that puts a new wrinkle on it.”
Ken waited a moment, took the bag with both cups from my hand, then pulled out a chair and sat facing my father. He pitched forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “Hank? You got any enemies?”
Dad looked up and met his gaze, just the hint of a sheepish grin on his otherwise stone-serious face. “How much time’ve you got?”
# # #
We each left that meeting with homework. Ken had the cups to send for forensics. Since results might take a while to come back, they had agreed that it made sense to assume the cup was drugged until it was proven otherwise, so my father was tasked with making a list of potential suspects who might want him dead.
I knew, of course, at least hypothetically speaking, that Dad must have made enemies during a lifetime in law enforcement, but the reality of names being etched onto paper made that much too real. The possibility that someone might now be targeting my father left me literally sick to my stomach, so instead of heading right back to help Maxine finish for the day, I made another trip to the concession stand for a ginger ale—and also to ask around to see if anyone saw anything peculiar when I picked up those coffees this morning.
“Look, if you didn’t get what you ordered, you should have come back sooner,” the server said. She was the same woman who I’d bought coffee from earlier, but then I had hardly noticed her. Now I took in every detail I could.
She was probably middle-aged, depending on how one defined the term. The older I got, the older middle age became. She carried a few extra pounds but not enough to hide the veins in her hands. Her face was flushed and shiny, and her reddish hair a bit frizzy, probably from the heat of the kitchen equipment. Her nametag was crooked but identified her as Janet.
“No, everything was fine,” I said. “I just wanted to know if you saw anyone lingering around. Maybe switching coffee cups.” I pointed to the table. “We were standing right there.”
Janet shook her head. “We were swamped this morning. I take the orders, take the money, deliver the orders. I really don’t have time to watch what goes on out there. Sorry.”
“Thanks,” I said, then took a gulp of the cold ginger ale, hoping it would clear the lump of worry in my throat. But as I was turning to leave, I noticed the security camera focused on the concession stand. Maybe there was a way to figure out how the cups got switched.
My father wasn’t in the security office when I passed by, but I made a mental note to mention the camera to him before we left for the day.
Parker showed up just an hour before the show closed at six. At least he could help Miles pack everything away.
That last hour seemed excruciatingly normal. Old collectors trying to beef up their retirement accounts sold off their treasured prizes to younger collectors. Parker, working the toy booth, had an almost boyish gleam to his eyes, reminding me of the hours we’d spent playing together, possibly more than most siblings, since Dad worked late and Mom was often “not feeling well.” In other words, sloshed out of her gourd. But Parker had grown to carry more responsibility than he should have, even while maintaining a playful spirit. He was going to make an excellent father, even if he didn’t yet know it.
The circle of life. And no, I wasn’t about to belt out any verses from The Lion King. But life moved full circle, much like all those trains on the tracks, making endless loops along the same paths. There was something both depressing and hopeful about that. Life, in all its mundane continuance.
Unless some idiot fell out of the sky and crushed you.
About fifteen minutes before closing, announcements began. Barely audible over the crowd, they reminded visitors to make their final purchases. We had a brief rush, lasting until about five minutes past six. No vender is going to refuse cash shoved into their face just because it’s technically past closing.
Eventually, though, the lights dimmed and the aisles cleared. Without the sounds of conversations bouncing from the rafters, you could even hear the tiny electric motors whining and the trains clicking along on their tracks. That eventually died down too, as the little-engines-that-could were put to rest for the evening.
Maxine stretched, kicked off her shoes, and sighed. “One last search.”
“Do you think the missing comics could’ve been taken out of their cases?”
“Not by accident,” she said. “I’m going to lay odds that they’re not here, but that’s not going to stop me from doing a top-to-bottom search first. I’d feel like an idiot if I reported them stolen and then found them tomorrow when we packed up.”
“If you have a list of the graded comics you brought to the show, I can check the bins, just in case.”
“I do.” She pulled out a three-ringed binder, flipped through a few pages, and ripped one out. She pulled a pen from her apron. “Everything from here”—she made two marks along the left side of the spreadsheet—“to here.”
“Gotcha.” I studied the list for a few moments to acquaint myself with the titles. There were even thumbnail pictures of the cover images.
Amazing Spider-Man from 1963. Incredible Hulk: The Terror of the Toad Men. Now, there’s a plot you don’t see every day. There was an early Iron Man that looked more like a bulked up Tin Man from Wizard of Oz than the more developed version we see in the movies. Most of the superheroes were familiar, even in their early incarnations. More unfamiliar was a newer, but apparently rare, book called The Time of the Preacher. I squinted at the thumbnail cover. As best I could tell, it was a demonic image hovering over a burning church. To quote the immortal words of Fozzie Bear, “They sure don’t look like Presbyterians to me.”
With those titles and a few more in my head, I pulled the dollar bin to the floor and sprawled out. Since the building was now almost empty and all the other dealers probably felt as wiped out as I did, there was no sense standing on ceremony. Or standing, period.
Some books were in cheaper flexible plastic sleeves. Others weren’t. But I checked all the sleeved comics to make sure there was only one inside and pulled all of them from the box to make sure nothing had fallen underneath them.
Parker came up behind me and started rubbing my shoulders.
I craned my neck to look up at him. “You know, for a brother, you’re awfully nice.”
“Our booth is all shut up for the night.” He sat down next to me. “What are you doing here?”
I held up the page Maxine had handed me. “Looking for these. They haven’t been seen since this morning.”
His eyes bulged when he read the list. “You misplaced an original Spider-Man?”
“That we’re not sure about. We only know it’s missing.”
Parker sucked air through his teeth. “That’s a big loss. How about I help you look?” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled down a three-dollar bin and started going through them. He’d gotten three books in when he pulled one out to read.
Our search of the bins turned up none of the missing comics. Maxine also removed the table covers to see if the tablecloths might have been laid over the comics. (They weren’t.) And she pulled everything out from underneath the tables, all the coats and extra supplies. (Nothing.) She plopped a gym bag on the table. “Craig’s,” she said. “I guess I should check it, right?”
Parker said nothing, mostly because he was still reading. I just shrugged. But when she unzipped it, I pushed myself up off the cool concrete floor so I could take a look. There was nothing in there but dirty laundry.
Maxine wrinkled her nose and rezipped the bag. “I’ll just take these home and wash them for him.”
We even searched the area around the booth. Fabric curtains draped the back wall, covering some ugly utilities, it turned out. But no comic books behind it or under the heavy fabric.
“Well,” she said, slinging the gym bag over one arm, “here’s hoping that Craig knows where they are.”
“Ready to go to the hospital?” I asked. I had a couple of things to retrieve from our booth.
“I should stop home first and feed my cat. And if Craig is doing better, he might want me to pick him up something too. You know hospital food. How about I just meet you there, say, seven thirty-ish?”
I promised her I would, then Parker and I stopped at the security office before we left. Dad was packing VHS tapes into a box.
“Homework?” I asked, shrugging on my sweater. “Make sure you get the one that’s focused on the concession stand. I went back to ask if maybe they’d seen anything, but no luck. There should be a nice camera shot of the table though. Oh, and this morning’s coffee was courtesy of Janet something or other. Redhead. Ring any bells?”
“No, but I can get her full name from the center and add her to the list Ken’s making me come up with.”
I must have looked grim.
“Honey, listen. I know you’re concerned, and I’m sure I’ve ticked off a good number of people over the years, but I doubt anyone is out there gunning for me. If they were, they probably would have come for me long before this.”
“That’s . . . hardly reassuring.” I ran my finger across one of the security tapes. “Wait. If this center is so new, why does their security system still use video tapes?”
“Two words.”
“Lionel Kelley?”
“Told the center director he knew a guy who could get him a deal,” Dad said. “Really not as bad as it sounds. The cameras are decent, and at least the tapes are fairly new. Now if only I can find our old VCR.” He placed the last tape in the box and shut off the lights as we walked out.
“Linen closet. Top shelf,” I said. “I think.”
“Who keeps a VCR in a linen closet?” Parker teased.
“Who keeps a VCR?” Dad said.
“Just be glad I did.” I smiled sweetly. “I’ll be home to make popcorn after I go to the hospital with Maxine.” I turned to Parker. “You guys want to come over and watch?”
“Sounds like fun,” Parker said. “But as much as I love surveillance footage, I’m going to have to pass. Cathy put a special dinner into the Crock-Pot this morning. Says we need to talk.”
“You in the doghouse, son?” Dad asked. “’Cause we have room on the couch if you need.”
“I don’t think so, but she’s been awful moody lately, so I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Buy dessert on the way home,” I suggested.
“Really?” he said. “I was thinking wine.”
I shook my head. “Dessert. Pie’s good. Cake. Trust me.”
He held his hands up. “Pie it is. On my way.”
After Parker walked out, I kissed Dad on the cheek. “I should get going too. I’ll run home and change and check on Othello before heading to the hospital.”
Dad gave me a look that suggested he was a tiny bit green with envy. Not quite lime green. More like iceberg lettuce. “Maybe I could go with you.”
I shook my head. “He’s not going to say anything more to you than he will to Maxine—and probably less. I promise I’ll share with you, in detail, everything Craig says, including all nonverbal communication, gestures, facial expressions, and awkward pauses. Would you like a diagram of the room and a copy of his medical charts?”
“Well, if you can take a picture of them when nobody is looking . . .”
“It’s not like old movies where they hang them at the foot of the bed.” I laughed. “I’ll get everything I can.”
“Thank you, Liz.” Then he clammed up tight. Something more he wanted to say but was afraid to say it.
“What is it?”
“We don’t know what we’re up against yet.” He gave me a hug. “Be careful.”
# # #
The visitor lot was full when I got there. Well, almost full. I did find a tiny spot in a corner, next to a sports car that was parked at an odd angle. The owner probably figured nobody would park next to him, but never discount the squeezing-in abilities of a Civic owner who’s tired and doesn’t want to walk ten blocks. Climbing over the cup holder so I could exit through the passenger door was a fair tradeoff.
Maxine wasn’t in the lobby when I walked in, so I got Craig’s room number from the guard at the desk, then found a spot in the lobby and sank down into the fake leather chair. The cushions of the oversized cube chairs were the only softness in the space. Everything else was angular and made of aluminum, glass, or stone in varying shades of gray and black. It was meant to be sleek but came off a little cold. I thumbed through a couple of magazines and, when no one was looking, tore out a recipe for orange Creamsicle cake.
Maxine came running in at 7:45 carrying a Wegmans bag. “Sorry. I couldn’t find a parking spot.”
“It was pretty packed when I got here.” I pushed myself out of the chair, only to find my legs had stiffened up on me. If this kind of day was hard on me, Maxine, older and a bit more out of shape, had to be exhausted.
“I brought some of those little powdered donuts. Craig’s always liked them, but I’ll have to ask at the desk if he’s allowed to have them.” We waited at the bank of elevators for a car to empty and then headed up to the third floor.
Maxine stopped at the desk. Craig was permitted the donuts, and she pulled out the box and stuffed the bag into her pocket.
We followed the signs down the maze of hallways. By the numbers, we had to be getting close to Craig’s room when total chaos erupted. Medical personnel in scrubs flew past us, and Maxine and I had to cling to the wall to avoid colliding with a cart someone raced down the corridor.
“Where’s the fire?” Maxine asked.
When the foot traffic cleared, we rounded one more corner and discovered that half the doctors and nurses in the hospital seemed to be jammed into Craig’s room.
We’d found the fire. And oddly enough, it led us back to Doctor/Mister/Professor Inferno.
“Maybe it’s routine?” Maxine suggested. But we both knew it wasn’t.
I leaned against the cold tiled wall in the hallway opposite his room and said a little prayer for Craig. I tried to remember him as the boy who’d had so much trouble in his life and had somehow succeeded despite all the obstacles. Occasionally, I’d look at Maxine, and I think she was praying too.
Eventually, the frantic pace of those inside the room seemed to ebb. A few staff members started to leave. Because the emergency had passed?
But when enough medical personnel had left the room so that it was no longer wall-to-wall scrubs, it became clear that not only had the emergency passed, but by the graying pallor of his skin and his lack of response as those around him unhooked him from various machines, Craig had passed as well.
Maxine let out a cry and dropped the box of doughnuts. The container burst open, sending up a cloud of powdered sugar. Mini doughnuts rolled around on the floor by her feet, and one adventurous fellow went tearing down the hallway.