The Puppet Master

did.

Subliminal! Hmm!

He looked at fame again. Actually, he thought, I'm kind of famous. Semi-famous. A semi-famous detective. Dad and mom would have been proud. When I die, it'll probably even get mentioned in the newsfax—maybe even on television—unless there's a major earthquake that week, or a revolution somewhere.

He didn't give a damn about fame, though, he decided. Well, maybe a little bit; it was handy sometimes. He had friends—not a lot, but as many as he wanted—and an interesting job with lots of independence. And most of all, Tuuli loved him. She'd even killed for him, in a manner of speaking.

Tuuli reached over and patted his knee.

THE CASE OF THE

DUPLICATE BEAUTIES

a novelet

Prolog

The male presenter chuckled at a witticism, then announced: 'And finally Elena Marquez, for her role as Lupe, in The Last Apache.'

Abruptly center stage disappeared, displaced by a holo of the Chihuahuan Desert. Half a dozen Apache warriors stood in a loose row, moccasins over their calves, thighs and torsoes bare, stoic faces painted for war. Their hands held lever-action Winchester carbines. A large white man stood facing them, hands on cocked hips, inches from low-slung pistols. Beside him, face smudged with ashes, was a lovely, black-haired young woman of mixed race, her eyes defiant as she stared at the Indians. Her deerskin shift was tattered and revealing.  

'Nana,' the white man drawled, 'there's only six of you left. The army's watching every waterhole from here to the Jornada del Muerto, and General Miles' Apache Scouts are hunting your tracks. The best thing for you to do is cross the border back into Mexico.'

Old Nana spoke without gesture, without head movement. 'She goes with us,' he answered. His broad face was lined, eyes hard, unyielding. 'For her father's treachery.'  

The white man opened his mouth as if to speak again, but the woman stilled him with a sharp gesture, and taking a step toward the chief, spoke in rapid, fluid Apache. Subtitles flowed across the base of the holo, but her imperious face, her expressive voice, her presence made them almost superfluous. When she finished, the scene froze on her for a moment, then the desert disappeared, the presenters applauding with the audience. 

The man picked an envelope from the podium and held it up. 'And now for the winner,' he said, handing it to the woman. Smiling she took it. 'The winner,' she began, tearing open an end, 'is . . .' She drew out a sheet of paper, unfolded it, then looked up as if with delight. 'The winner is Elena Marquez, for her role as Lupe, in The Last Apache!'

The orchestra began to play the theme music from the film, and as heads turned and hands clapped, the cameras shifted to a gorgeous young woman rising to her feet in the audience. Smiling, sure of herself, she moved down the aisle, strides strong but feminine, and swept across the stage as the applause swelled.  

She'd almost reached the podium when she stopped. More than three thousand viewers watched from the seats, and some 500 million more on holovision and television worldwide. Abruptly her eyes widened, her hands flew to her temples. Her mouth squared to scream, and the sound of it erupted, shocking in its raw horror. She fell writhing and thrashing to the stage, as if in an epileptic seizure. Her screams were answered from here and there in the audience, and guards ran onto the stage from the wings, tried to corral her flailing limbs. Seconds later a doctor hurried out, bag in hand. 

Someone in the control booth had the presence of mind to key the curtains closed, and a moment later killed the backstage cameras. In a hundred million living rooms worldwide, the view switched to the stunned attendees in the auditorium, most with expressions of shock, horror, or fear.  

Someone else had the presence of mind not to switch to a commercial message. 

1

I'll start by saying it's good to put this case to bed after seven years of being threatened by it. I'm Principal Investigator Martti Seppanen, and this is Cube One of the closing debriefs for Investigation 1832, Prudential Investigations and Security. The date is 17 April 2020, the time is 1320 hours, and the debrief officer is Carlos Katagawa, with company president Joe Keneely sitting in, which makes it old-timers' night.

Excuse me. I don't ordinarily ramble, but this debrief is Veritas-assisted.

We got involved with crucial evidence—information that led to the solution—months before the first of the crimes took place. That's happened to me before, which is why Joe calls me an evidence attractor. In an article he wrote on it for The Journal of Forensic Psychology, he even said I inspired the theory.

I'm not sure how seriously he takes the idea. Joe's an image maestro. His conservative suit—even the eyeglasses on his nose—are promotional; he's had his eyes reconditioned to 20/15. And his occasional provocative articles in symposium proceedings or journals are good for the company image.

Sorry. Back to the subject. On the evening of October 19, 2012, the LAPD got word that Tran Ngo, a wanted felon, had just gone into a porn theater near Hollywood and Bronson, so they sent a squad to pick him up. It turned out to be a mistaken identity, but there was a ruckus, and some of the customers ducked out the rear exits. And the police covering the rear let them pass, because none of them was a five-foot-three Oriental.

One of them had left a torn Life-Tex mask in the theater, and when the cleaning crew cleaned up afterward, they found it and turned it in. The theater manager turned it over to the LAPD, but the department could see no reason to keep it; Tran Ngo hadn't been in the theater. It was a weird find, though, and for whatever reason, they passed it on to us. The only information that came with it, and it seemed meaningless, was the circumstances surrounding it, and the name of the film: In Hiding.

Having the mask, Joe asked for and got a contingency contract for the Ngo Case. You seldom get any money on a contingency contract unless you come up with evidence that leads to at least an indictment. But it doesn't cost