giving the size, fabric content, and manufacturer of her blouse. It was, I noticed, from an inexpensive catalog I sometimes ordered from. On her, the blouse looked chic, sophisticated, and expensive, just as it would in the catalog. On me, clothes from the same source always looked as if I'd chosen them with only a vague idea what size and cut would suit me, and kept mem largely to avoid the trouble of a trip to the post office to return them.
She and the chief had begun chatting in what I recognized as the polite, small southern-town version of declaring one's turf and sparring for advantage. I left them to it and took out my cell phone to call Michael.
“Meg!“ he exclaimed. “Thank God! Hang on a second.“ And then I heard him shout, “Can we take five?“
“Michael, you're on the set; I'll call back,“ I said.
“No, it's fine; they need to glue the mermaid queen's tentacles back on anyway. What's going on?“
I gave him the Cliff's Notes edition of what had happened, as I watched the chief and Liz talking – with the uniformed officer scribbling notes at the chief's elbow. Apparently, Liz was telling what she'd seen during the day. I saw her pointing up to her perch in the library, gesturing as if describing the mail cart. Then she made a face and1 stuck out her tongue at the chief. Since he only nodded calmly, I deduced she was describing something Ted had done while riding around on the cart, not actually opening hostilities with the local authorities.
“So, anyway,“ I said to Michael, “we've got the police crawling all over the office looking for I'm not sure what, and a dead body here in the reception room. I'd feel a lot better if they took Ted away before Dad has a chance to barge in and annoy the chief by trying to horn in on his investigation. You know how he is.“
Michael chuckled. He had, indeed, seen plenty of examples of Dad's burning desire to get involved in real-life crime. As a sleuth, of course, not an actual perp.
“Just don't let your dad suck you in,“ Michael advised. “Chief Burke is okay. I doubt he's investigated that many homicides, but he's a realist. I'm sure if he has any trouble finding the killer, he won't hesitate to call in the state authorities or the FBI or whoever smalltown police chiefs call when they need backup.“
“No problem,“ I said. “All I ever wanted to do was figure out if there's something fishy going on here, like Rob wanted.“
“You think maybe Ted's murder just answered that question?“
“Definitely,“ I said. “And with luck, the chief will solve it all while he's wrapping up the murder.“
“And then maybe I can talk you into coming out here for the rest of the shoot,“ Michael suggested. Was he a little too blase about this? Easy for him, since he hadn't seen Ted's body. Then again, more likely he knew me well enough to realize that the last thing I needed was someone making a fuss about how I was holding up.
“That's sounding better and better,“ I said. “As soon as I'm sure everything's under control here, I'll book a flight.“
“Fantastic!“ Michael exclaimed, “listen, they're ready for me – keep me posted on what's happening and when you're coming out, okay?“
“Will do,“ I said, and signed off.
While I'd been on the phone, a technician in a lab coat had arrived – a skinny kid so young I'd have mistaken him for an undergraduate. He'd begun doing what I recognized as a forensic examination of the reception area.
“There you are,“ the chief said when he saw I was off the phone. “As soon as we get the staff cleared out, I want you to show me around the place.“
Clearing the staff out wasn't going quite so smoothly as the chief seemed to expect, partly due to the pressure created by corralling a lot of very young programmers and graphic artists in a confined space with a heavy deadline looming over them. I could hear voices coming from the cube jungle, complaining loudly that they couldn't possibly leave their desks now or they wouldn't be ready for this afternoon's “build.“
A build, I'd learned in the last two weeks, was an important recurring event in companies that developed software. As far as I could understand, it meant that Jack, as team leader, told everybody to stop messing around with their parts of the program – yes, right now, dammit, not in half an hour – and launched a two-hour semiautomated process that was as temperamental as cooking a souffle. On a good day, the result would be a new, improved version of Lawyers from Hell II, containing all the cool stuff everybody had added since the previous day's build. All too often, though, the build would be so badly flawed that you couldn't even get the game started, much less play it – at which point, Jack would convene an all-hands meeting, chew people out, and then send them off to fix everything that was broken in time for an evening build.
Evening builds were supposed to be rare. In the time I'd been around, we'd had one every day, Saturday and Sunday included.
So while I could understand the programmers' eagerness to keep on with their work, I realized that someone might have to break the news to them that this afternoon's build would probably be canceled, and if they didn't stop arguing with the increasingly red-faced young police officers, they'd probably miss tomorrow afternoon's build, too, unless the chief allowed them to telecommute from the county jail.
Beneath the shrill protests of the enthusiastic youngsters, I could also hear the deceptively calm, reasonable voices of some of the older programmers. By older, I meant that they were in their thirties, like me, and had some vague recollection of what life was like before computers ruled the earth.
I don't know whether this was true of more mature techies in general or just of the crew Mutant Wizards had attracted, but they were, almost without exception, stubborn, independent iconoclasts with a sneaking fondness for anarchy, entropy, and coloring way outside the lines. My kind of people, under normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances. I could hear them calmly and rationally questioning the cops' authority to be there, disputing the necessity for clearing the premises, and generally causing trouble.
Chief Burke could hear them, too. Every second he was looking less like somebody's kindly uncle and more like Moses, working up a head of steam to give some idolaters what for. And if he whacked the pink plush bear against his leg any harder, it was probably going to pipe up with another affirmation and really tick him off.
I decided to intervene.
“Hang on a second,“ I said to the chief. I stepped out into the middle of Cubeland and announced, in what Rob called my drill sergeant voice, “All hands meeting in the parking lot now! I'm not ordering the pizza or the beer until everyone is present and accounted for!“
“That seemed to do the trick,“ the chief remarked five minutes later, surveying the nearly empty office.
“I'm putting in the pizza order,“ I said, looking up from my cell phone. “How many officers do you have here, anyway?“
“You don't need to order for us,“ he said.
“You'll be sorry in an hour,“ I said. “Do you really want your officers watching everyone else pig out while their own stomachs are rumbling?“
“Nine,“ he said. “Counting me; plus two, three others who might show up if the dispatcher ever gets hold of them.“
“That's more like it,“ I said.
Just then the forensic technician shrieked and jumped up on the reception desk.
I was impressed with how quickly the four officers who'd been scattered throughout the premises made it back to the reception room with their guns drawn and ready. But I couldn't figure out which ones made me more nervous: the two whose hands were shaking so badly they could barely hold on to their guns or the two who looked way too excited at having a chance to shoot something.
“What in creation's wrong?“ the chief asked.
“I'm sorry,“ the technician said. “I can't stand rats.“
“Rats?“ the chief echoed. “Where?“
“Down there,“ the technician said, “Inside the desk. I'll chase it out.“
With that, he began pounding his fist on the side of the desk.
“Stop!“ I shouted. “It's not a rat, it's only – “
