something that would damage them.'
'Why are you-did you, come here.' Tears glimmered in her eyes.
'I like the truth. And, to be honest, I need work. If, after you speak to Authority, you feel confident that your husband died in an accident at his lab-fine. I'll be gone, and out of your hair. But, if the conversation raises the smallest doubt, I suggest you hire me to find the truth. I'm not expensive and I'm house broken.' I released a sheepish grin. 'I'm sorry, I just can't stand extended periods of seriousness.'
My joke went unheard. Mrs. Cotton's forehead had become a farmer's field of furrows. She rubbed her teeth lightly with a knuckle.
'I'll make a call.' She looked at me. 'It must have been the shock. I should have found out more about it anyway. I guess it was just so unexpected. Maybe I've been denying it. The insurance money was paid-and they always investigate…I was in shock!'
'It's understandable.' I moved over, leaned against the piano.
'Funny,' Mrs. Cotton said, lost in thought. 'I remember the day he left for Greasetown. He would usually stay away for a week at a time. I remember the last day. I asked him what he was working on. He said, 'You know I don't like to talk about my babies. Especially this one.' He always called his projects 'babies.' I always thought that was silly, really. Anyway, there was something about his expression that day…' She fell silent. 'Well, I intend to make that call, Mr. Wildclown.'
'Remember. Don't mention me, yet.' She nodded. I continued. 'While I wait, would it be possible for me to view his office. I know Authority is thorough, but there is always the possibility…'
She tilted her head at me. 'They took his files, but I don't see why you shouldn't see his office.'
'Edward!' She called down the hallway. A familiar waspish form moved toward us.
'Yes, Madam.' The butler bowed stiffly.
'Take Mr. Wildclown to Alan's office. Allow him to look around. I don't know why…' She searched my eyes with hers, 'but I trust him and I really have no reason to.' She giggled.
'Thank you, Mrs. Cotton.' I felt a little guilty. Sensitivity was something suppressed by life in Greasetown.
'What makes you so sure he was murdered and that Authority is somehow involved?' She watched me earnestly.
'Certain actions, facts and behaviors. To be honest I don't have much more than hearsay. No evidence. Just a feeling. Something unexplainable-like you trusting me.'
She smiled with real humor. 'Thank you, Mr. Wildclown. Your efforts will be appreciated.'
I nodded, and followed Edward along the hallway. There was a major cover-up going on, I knew that much. But how hard should I push? It was very easy to disappear in my neighborhood. I had heard of other detectives that dug too deep and struck lava. And here I was investigating the death of man whose murderers had almost liquefied his body. Greasetown wouldn't miss me any more than I would miss Greasetown.
I didn't want to be a story in the Murder and Death section: Some nobody's mangled remains were found…
Chapter 25
The search through Alan Cotton's office had turned up nothing. Edward had been an annoyance throughout the inspection-humming distractedly as he checked the top surfaces of furniture for dust. The office itself was a large one-room enough for a long couch and easy chair around a low coffee table. At one wall by a bay window, the prerequisite desk, chair and filing cabinets. It was one of those kinder, gentler offices-all fuchsia and pastel-that prompted an urge in me to butt my cigarette on the carpet. Authority had been thorough all right. I tried to turn the computer on but it blinked and beeped like it was short-circuiting then quietly died. Edward assured me that Mr. Cotton did not use or trust computers, but kept this one in the hope that scientists could find a way to repair them one day. I dug around, but there was nothing left in the way of records except for a scratch pad. I tried the old detective pencil shading over paper trick to reveal any impress from former notes, but even that had come up blank. I left the office, rejoined Elmo in the foyer, and was met there by Mrs. Cotton. Her protuberant eyes were red. She dabbed at them intermittently with a silk handkerchief.
'You were right, Mr. Wildclown. I had a difficult time finding someone who would talk to me about it. Finally, they gave me to an Inspector Borden. He told me to calm down. When I pushed him, he said the lab had been badly damaged and there would be no point in viewing it. He said I could see it if I had to, but he thought it might be dangerous considering some of the chemicals Alan used in his experiments. He felt it was an unnecessary risk.
'When I asked him if he knew of a rumor about Alan being murdered at the Morocco Hotel, he became very interested. He wanted to know where I had heard it; in fact, he became very insistent on the point. I told him a servant had heard something of it on a trip into Greasetown. He wanted to know who the servant was. I said I couldn't be sure because I was already quite distraught when I was told, and I have many servants. I told him I would try to remember.
'This Inspector Borden told me that around every death, rumors are bound to spring up. He said it had to do with the people's morbid curiosity. He then assured me that Alan died in an accident, and then offered me an Authority Psychologist. He said it might do me good to talk. I just told him I had my own psychologist, and could look after myself. He said that if I must see the lab, I would have to give him some notice.'
Mrs. Cotton's expression changed from the blank aspect of the storyteller to a rigid look of determination. 'I'd like to hire you, Mr. Wildclown. I didn't get this far in life without learning to recognize the run around when it's given me. I don't care about the cost.'
Chapter 26
It was about eight-fifteen when we hit the highway north. Road signs appeared in our headlights like yellow ghosts. I was employed again-the same deal I gave Billings. I now had more intrigue than I wanted. Mr. Adrian was missing. Jan Van Reydner was missing. The lawyer Conrad Billings was dead. Alan Cotton was dead. He was not a 'cosmetics for the dead' salesman at all. He was a scientist working on Regenerics. Why would he turn up dead at the Morocco when he could afford a better hotel? Why would Authority try to cover up Mr. Cotton's true history? I knew how they could. Authority just had to threaten the right individuals, but why? Unless Cotton was more important in all of this than just another murder. What was he doing at the Morocco Hotel? Did he stumble on Adrian and Van Reydner as they were working on Billings? Who turned him into blood pudding? It was obviously an organized bit of work. The type of job that was done on his body led me to believe organized crime was involved, but why would Authority cover for them? Like them or not, Authority still represented the law-even if it was a somewhat rabid law. Then, a name came to me: Mr. King of King Industries: Former Senator William King, the King of the Dead as the media called him. The King made billions from his preservative treatments for the dead. Did he actually contemplate selling them life with Regenerics? Too many questions and not enough answers. I looked at Elmo. His face was strange and inhuman in the glow from the dashboard.
'Elmo, this is a stupid question, but: if there was a way for you to be alive again, would you try it? Even if there were risks.'
Elmo looked at me incredulously. 'I'd d-do anything to be alive again.'
'I thought so.' I lit a cigarette. I was certain that this would be the attitude of all dead people. If so: what if Regenerics worked? Any dead man with the slightest amount of pull would do everything in his power to obtain a new life. But, I couldn't forget Adrian. Regenerics would destroy him. So he would want Cotton dead. But he was missing? Did he step on someone else's toes? He obviously wanted me out of the picture. So he had his goons try to finish me off. But what happened to him while I was out in the Landfill waltzing with the monkey-twins?
'Pull over at the next filling station, Elmo,' I said. In about thirty minutes we found one. I dropped a dime in the slot of the pay phone. A bit of verbal fencing with the butler, then…
'Hello, Mrs. Cotton. It's Wildclown, I don't want to upset you again, but could you answer one question for
