“Depends,” Jackson said. “But I see your point. You don’t think anyone killed him over jealousy.”
Asbury shook his head. “Gerard was liked. He said what he wanted. He complained and explained when he didn’t get what he wanted. But he would pitch down into hard or messy work himself. He was an idea man—and he could make someone else’s vision real. We do mostly horror here. But special effects . . . well, I’ve created one of the cutest talking bunnies you’ve ever seen and other things that are . . . cute. You must be able to come up with anything—and listen. You need to understand what a director wants, what the producers are seeing as a final project. It’s not just paint-by-numbers, you know.”
“I do know,” Jackson assured him. “I’ll still need a list of employees, and also, info on anyone who might have applied for a job recently.”
“Oh, God!” Asbury said suddenly. “Oh, God, oh, God!”
“Mr. Asbury—”
“I know who might have done it.”
*
The challenge was part of the fun. And he couldn’t think of anything better. All those stupid bastards who didn’t see beyond their noses, their own visions. Those who had no appreciation for the visions of others.
They’d found good old Gerard. Finally!
Then again, the fact he had gone so long as a corpse without being noticed was a nice testament to his work which was brilliant.
Gerard had looked a whole lot better as a scarecrow-pumpkin than he had in life. The old boy should have appreciated his end.
They all should.
It was gratifying the corpse had taken so long to be discovered. And there was still his odd assortment of others out there.
But it upped the game. As he had known it would. He was prepared. Plenty of cash. An appointment with the right man to change his identity so well his own mother couldn’t find him in a crowd of one. Of course, there could still be the “end game” scenario.
But even the “end game” would be all right. Every man needed to be remembered.
And he already had Ray Channing, the jerk from Most Mo-Jo pictures. Veronica Chastain from E Mil and More was awaiting his artistry. There were two more he had to pick-up, but he would. Even if a picture of his face went out through every available outlet in the media, he was going to be able to do Halloween with what needed to be done. Because he was talented—and because it was Halloween—when they woke up in the morning.
And they would know . . .
He only had one hesitation. Asbury. Maybe he’d let the kid live; Asbury had taken his share of abuse. And he’d shown excitement over the portfolio that had been shown to him. If it had been up to Asbury . . .
It hadn’t been.
Well, he’d decide later. Right now, he had a jaw-dropping zombie to create.
*
Angela was almost certain she had him.
She had learned years ago that one of her best talents with the Krewe—one which allowed her to help those working in the field—was her ability to go from site to site on the Internet and bring her to information that was helpful or needed.
And with this . . .
While Jackson had gone on to the victim’s office, she had returned home. She wanted to hug Corby and make sure he was all right. She was glad Jackson had not gone into the Fillmore yard and to the body with Corby there, but she was still sorry her son had been the one to realize the man was dead. And Corby did have their gift, talent, or curse. And he had told them gravely several times he was going to grow up and become one of them.
But he was doing well when she reached the house. He was in the living room, cradling the baby, and he and Mary were watching an episode of “Jessie.” It was a re-run and the show had ended. But they all liked it, especially because it was about a family with one natural daughter and four adopted children with black, Asian, and Hispanic backgrounds.
Corby and Mary had both looked at her when she’d returned home and she’d been honest. She was going to get on the computer and see what she could find. Corby understood—he was amazing with a computer himself and had been a tremendous help in a case they’d fallen into just before the baby had been born.
She worked in the kitchen. For some reason, the kitchen was where they all wound up working.
He came by quietly while she was there. “The baby is sleeping. My show ended. May I ride my bike, just around the block?” he asked.
“Yes, fine, but don’t be long, okay?”
“Nope. I’ll get back in before dark. And don’t worry; I wear my mask even when I’m just bike-riding, and I stay six feet away from people. Except for ghosts.”
“That’s good, Corby. Thank you.”
He left. She went to work.
She started easily, cross-referencing movie companies in the area with the various registrations, organizations, and legal assignations for those working in special effects in the area. She could then narrow down to a field of names, search out their latest work and activities, and come up with a list.
She then studied their personal lives. While it was possible the killer had a family and children, she doubted it. This was going to be someone who lived alone, and most likely, able to walk into a home or apartment and wash off blood. Someone with space to commit murder—and then take a long time with the body.
Her list went down to ten suspects. Out of those ten, eight were permanently working.
And then she found a man
