Fade To Black. Heather Graham

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      “And you’ve been hired by someone out here? You’re acting for someone? I can assure you, we really are a competent operation. Hollywood is our jurisdiction, which might seem cushy. But in many ways, that makes our work harder—under a spotlight, we have to be better.”

      Manning—the respectful junior in the duo—stood quietly, watching the exchange.

      “I have absolutely no doubt that you’re exceptionally fine detectives and that this is a crack unit,” Bryan said.

      “But then—”

      “I’m acting for the deceased,” he said quietly.

      “For—for Cara Barton?” Vining asked.

      Bryan nodded. “I was actually born out here. My parents were Hamish and Maeve McFadden. If you’re a fan of AMC or any of the TV channels that keep old movies afloat, you might have seen them. They were, however, working in theater the last decade or so of their lives.”

      “And?”

      “Cara Barton is—was—a dear friend of my mother’s,” Bryan explained.

      “The chandelier!” Manning suddenly exclaimed.

      Vining and Bryan both looked at her. She flushed but went on enthusiastically. “I know who your parents were now! Your mother—wow! She was stunning. And your dad, too. I actually told my mom when I was little that I was going to grow up and marry him, and, of course, she told me that he was already married, and then later, she told me that he was...”

      “Dead,” Bryan finished for her.

      She flushed again. “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

      “So...this is in your mom’s memory then, kind of. Or do you have a client?” Vining asked.

      “That would be me. I am my own client on this.”

      Vining studied him for a long moment and then nodded. “All right, fine. Let us bring you up to speed—and remind you that we are the police here. If you make any pertinent discoveries—that is to say, any discoveries at all—they will be shared with us immediately.”

      “Absolutely,” Bryan promised.

      “We have had all kinds of meetings, bringing in every precinct in the county and sending information out far beyond. We’ve shared what we have with the FBI, the state police and the US Marshals Service. What we have is very little, but I will see that you receive copies of the files. On the one hand, it is an extremely bizarre case—a woman was killed by a person wearing a comic costume and wielding a sword. Apparently, such light-up swords have become extremely popular toys and costume items, making it a daunting task for police and security on hand at the convention at the time of the murder. Such a sword—a real one, with a killing blade—was not found. And while precisely thirty-six persons wearing a Blood-bone costume were stopped and questioned by the same officers, not one was found with a speck of blood upon them or their weapon. In other words, someone wore this costume with a sword that appeared as harmless as the hundreds—perhaps thousands—on sale at the convention. No blood other than the victim’s was found anywhere near the victim or on those around her. No fingerprints were found other than those belonging to the cast and crew. We are, at this moment, relying on good old investigative work, searching through the victim’s past acquaintances and anyone who might have had a grudge against her. Oh, on that—well, people don’t like to speak ill of the dead, do they? Getting the truth out of cast and crew isn’t easy. Also, remember, anyone pertinent to the investigation has already been grilled by police. They will not look upon you kindly.”

      “I don’t intend to grill anyone,” Bryan said.

      “Ah, well, then...” Vining just stared at him.

      “My most sincere thanks,” Bryan said. “I appreciate you allowing me to work in your jurisdiction, and I’m grateful that you’re willing to share information.”

      “We did investigate you, of course,” Vining told him.

      “I’d expect no less. I will be in touch.” He hesitated. “As far as the comic con goes, are there markers at the table that suggest who sits where?”

      “Yes, there were numbers on the table. Along with their nameplates,” Vining said.

      “Were they in order?” Bryan asked.

      “In order?” Vining frowned. “What order would that be? We believed the numbers to have been set out by the organizers. Along with the nameplates.”

      “Were such numbers available on other tables?” Bryan asked.

      “They were between a descendant of a famous German shepherd and Malcolm Dangerfield,” Vining said. “Just one dog. And in Malcolm’s case—just one man. Oh, yes, and his publicity manager and reporters and God alone might know who else during the day. Dangerfield is what might be a called an ‘It boy’ this year. You think that the numbers mean something?” he asked.

      Bryan shook his head. “I’ve seen the news. That’s about it. I don’t think anything as of yet. And even if someone had been offended by Miss Barton, this was one drastic method of showing displeasure.”

      “Yes,” Vining said. “You have contact info for the comic con organizer and his secretary for operations there. I can’t tell you how many people are involved. There are some closed-circuit cameras around the convention floor. But not enough to cover the entire area. I’m willing to bet, however, that there are tons of cell phone videos of the event out there, videos we have yet to see here, though we did pick up many. If you find any...”

      “If I find more video, I’ll let you know.”

      “Precisely,” Vining said.

      Sophie Manning cleared her throat.

      “The funeral is tomorrow afternoon. The medical examiner released the body, and... I guess everyone wanted it to happen. She was just killed on Friday. We’re frankly surprised that the ME did release the body so quickly, but he has extensive notes—”

      “I know,” Bryan said.

      “You’ve been to see Dr. Collier already?” Vining asked a little sharply.

      “No. I just know of him,” Bryan said. “And he is top-notch.”

      “There will be a reception following, but I can’t help you get access.”

      “That’s fine. I’ll manage,” Bryan assured him. “And thank you again.”

      “You just keep in touch,” Vining said firmly.

      “It’s a promise,” Bryan assured him.

      Before he’d actually reached the street, Bryan had received a digital folder. Vining clearly meant to keep his word.

      A glance at his email showed him that he’d received the autopsy notes, as well. He could have told Vining that Dr. Edward Collier had been a medic on Bryan’s ship during his first two years in the United States Navy. Maybe he should have done so, but that wasn’t pertinent to the case.

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