Matt knew two more attempts had been made on her life, he’d go ballistic and protective all at once. Then he’d fly to St. Louis and mess up her retrieval. If she only knew what was going on, she could handle it. So she omitted a few pertinent details…okay, she lied to him.
Matt gave her the info he’d dug up. “Haven’t had time to get beyond the society stuff, pure PR fluff on ‘Roman Numeral.’ He’s on every civic board and committee from here to Tallahassee. Lots of political clout. Reicht’s a different matter. Found some interesting dirt on him right off—but then you might not think so.”
“Huh?” Sam responded to his voice on the other end of the line.
“Seems our boy’s being investigated by your heroes, the IRS,” he said with a sarcastic chuckle.
Sam pathologically hated the IRS. They had audited her twice in the past five years. It seemed some of her “retrieval expenses” didn’t meet their criteria and she’d had to cough up a couple of small fines. To Sam, fines were like parking tickets. No such thing as a “small one.” “Bloodsuckers. You’re right, it could make me like the guy a little. What malfeasance is he supposed to have committed?”
“Can’t get Ida Kleb to say but I’m working on her.”
“Ida Kleb?” she echoed with an incredulous laugh. “Shouldn’t that be Rosa Kleb?”
“You mean the KGB agent from the James Bond movies?” he asked. “Fits the little troll to a tee. All she needs is the poisoned knife sticking out from the toe of her shoe when she kicks you.”
“Sounds charming. But I have complete faith in your way with the ladies. Find out what Reicht’s up to. Maybe he’s just a tad careless with his records. His office was a bigger mess than mine.”
“Not possible. That stockpiled warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark isn’t a bigger mess than your office, Sam. And you have more stuff stashed inside.”
“You’re a funny man, Granger. Oughta go on Letterman.” She cut the transmission, saying, “Call me if you turn up anything new.”
If the good doctor was stiffing the Infernal Revenue, she could care less, but there could be more to it or to poor Farley’s civic-minded father. But both men stood to gain if she quietly brought the kid back for treatment. That’s what Winchester was paying her to do. A better bet was Scruggs. He and young Winchester were living large if the credit info she’d received was accurate. For certain she’d like to know where he’d spent those seven missing years and if he had any pals with an affinity for big cars and reckless driving.
The sun was a big gold ball centered just above the gleaming silver of the Gateway Arch when Sam crossed the Poplar Street Bridge over the Mississippi and entered downtown St. Louis. The traffic was horrendous and everyplace she looked, orange construction site barrels were either lined up or knocked aside as commuters made their headlong dash during rush hour. The place resembled a life-size pinball machine.
“Just like Miami, only fronting a river instead of an ocean,” she muttered, dodging a barrel that a car in the oncoming lane had nudged in her direction. The van hit a pothole so deep she felt the jarring travel from her tailbone clear up to her front teeth. Yep, just like Miami. Once on city streets, she glanced at her map, getting her bearings while stopped at a red light. The city’s convention center was located a couple of blocks north.
She navigated up Washington and immediately figured parking might be an issue. But she was certainly in the right place. A huge neon marquee with bold red letters running across it proclaimed, WELCOME TO SPACECON XIV!! Farley and his dad had something in common—Roman numerals. How sweet. She found a parking lot and paid the extortionist at the booth, only willing to part with a sawbuck because it went on the expense account.
The price of admission nearly choked her, but Sam coughed up her credit card and accepted the three-day pass. It might take her that long to find her target in a crowd this big. The enormous hall was filled with several thousand Spacies. Oh, and were they ever! Maybe bringing Matt might not have been such a bad idea. He understood this aberrant behavior, liked it even. He’d assured her that physicians, attorneys, business executives and other successful professionals actually attended Space Quest Cons.
Looking at some of the middle-aged bodies and listening to educated accents, she was inclined to believe it must be true, but the costumes! Reemulans with pointed ears and superior scowls mingled with turtle-foreheaded Klingoffs carrying katliffs—dangerous curved blades with points on both ends. The damned things were big enough to slice and dice a mastodon.
One enormous lizardlike creature covered with glistening scales shambled along the aisles like a malevolent Barney, only green instead of purple. But the scariest of all were the junkyard rejects decked out with wires and pieces of glass protruding from bodies encased in metallic suits. She glanced around and found a relatively normal-looking kid dressed in an Eastley Masher Spacefleet ensign’s uniform. He was selling Klingoff “blood milk” steins. “What are those guys?” she whispered.
He looked at her as if she’d asked what year it was, but then again, most of these people probably thought it was the twenty-third century, so who gave a flip? “Cybs. You know, Cyber organisms,” he enunciated slowly. At her still-puzzled expression, he elaborated, “They’re part human but integrated into the Cyber Collective. Enhanced cognitive abilities and superior strength.”
Yeah. Pretty hard to tell who was on or off his meds in a joint like this. Granger, I can’t believe you were ever this much of a geek. And to think he didn’t understand baseball. Or car engines!
“I am one of the Folean Web. Would you care to link with me?” a short, stocky guy dressed like an oversize Pillsbury Doughboy asked, ogling her breasts.
“How’d you like me to tie your link in a big fat knot?” she muttered, shoving past him. At least a guy making a pass was normal behavior, even if he did it sci-fi style. Then again, maybe he hadn’t asked what she thought he had. Who knew? These people were all nuts. Made Halloween on Lincoln Avenue in Miami Beach seem like a Republican convention.
She scanned the program issued at the entrance and tried to figure out where Farley Winchester might be. If he wore his Confederation uniform, he’d be a cinch to ID, but she’d have to walk her feet flat to locate him. The best course was to access registration information.
“Frobisher, help me, buddy.” He could hack the info in seconds. She dialed her cell, leaving a message on his machine, explaining what she needed. Fro had had a crush on her since they attended St. Stanislaus in sixth grade. If he didn’t come through, she’d have to wander the aisles of this menagerie for the next three days—maybe get carved up by a katliff or eaten by a Borne.
On that gloomy note, she doggedly set out again, cruising the next aisle where a white furry creature sporting long tentacles on his-its head conferred with a pair of pointy-eared Vulcants. Matt had explained the difference between Vulcants and Reemulans. She felt proud of herself for remembering.
Emboldened by her crash course, she smiled at the Vulcant and said conversationally, “Nice makeup job.”
He stiffened and raised one eyebrow, inspecting her with disdain. “This is not ‘makeup,’ madam. The plastic surgeon charged me two thousand apiece to reshape my ears and a thousand for the rebrow work. I can assure you I am a true Vulcant,” he said in a cultivated voice.
Sam nodded. “Whatever you say, mister.” Oops, did one call Vulcants mister?
