Chapter Five

We're not alcoholics. We're authors.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LibriCon 2014 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Daily Progress Report: Friday Additions
PANELS

Police Procedurals: Passé or Popular?

Writing Unlikeable Characters

Movie Rights (And Really, Really Wrongs)

Friday

While I was on the phone with Jim Rubio, Cilly stationed herself outside in the hall to gently deflect any dealers. I stayed by the break through door and kept a weather eye on Lulu's unmoving form wondering why anyone would have felt the need to kill such a harmless, basically nice (if a little vacuous) person.

Keith was back in a flash with Ducky, Jordan and Tim in his wake. They had the advantage of being right next-door; I barely started explaining what had happened when the head of hotel security arrived. He must have teleported or shattered the record for the indoor dash, but not a hair was out of place and he looked totally unruffled. "Mrs. Mallard. Dr. Mallard."

"Mr. Rubio." They shook hands and Ducky indicated Jordan. "My colleague, Dr. Hampton; and you remember Agent McGee from NCIS."

Rubio frowned faintly. "Is this NCIS-related?"

Ducky shrugged. "We just arrived; I haven't even viewed the body."

"Please."

I moved the pass through wider so they could get through; it only took a second to determine that Lulu was definitely not with us any longer. Ducky gave Tim a meaningful glance and a tiny head jerk. Tim carefully stepped over, looked where Ducky indicated and pursed his lips. Pulling out his phone, he gave Mr. Rubio a neutral look. "Have you called Metro PD?"

"I was about to."

McGee shook his head. "Gibbs will say this is NCIS jurisdiction."

My eyes widened. NCIS? What would Lulu have to do with NCIS?

"Boss, we have a… situation." McGee listened for a moment. "I'm not sure, but it may be something similar to the Landon Grey case—"

Landon Grey, Landon Grey…the name was oh-so-vaguely familiar. But, then, I'd heard so many cases over the years…

"Victim—" McGee stopped and looked at me.

"Lulu. Short for Louise, I think." I stopped and thought hard. "This is embarrassing, I don't think I can remember her full name. Should I get Janet?" McGee cocked his head. "Her boss, she's Janet's PA."

McGee shook his head. "No, Boss. Victim—Lulu, possibly Louise, working on last name—was holding a copy of Lying in State—" He broke off and looked chagrined. "Yeah. And there are—" He glanced around the room. "Lots of possibilities."

I could fill in the subtext and missing parts. "Any suspects?" "Boss, I'm at a convention. I'm armpit deep in suspects by virtue of their lack of sanity. You want a list alphabetically, geographically, chronologically or by DSM diagnosis?"

"Two medical examiners?" I jumped at the sound of Mrs. Islington's voice behind me. "How… convenient." She looked mildly pained, like her shoes pinched.

"There's a link to NCIS—" Mr. Rubio lifted an eyebrow; he clearly still had no clue how it linked to NCIS. "—so they have requested jurisdiction."

(No, Gibbs is taking jurisdiction.)

Mrs. Islington's face cleared. NCIS she knows, NCIS she likes.

At her obvious relief, Mr. Rubio looked a lot more sanguine about the situation. Seven years ago he had worked with Gibbs and company for a very short time and had gotten along quite well with them—and been very grateful that the case was closed quickly (hell, Ducky had figured out the perp; at the time, Mr. Rubio was ready to throw NCIS a parade). But NCIS wouldn't have been his normal pick for investigation of a crime at 'his' hotel; with Mrs. Islington signaling approval, things were back on a more even keel.

"They'll be here in about ten minutes. Twenty for the wagon," McGee said. I felt guilty for my smile. "Yeah, Ziva is driving the van, Gibbs is driving a fleet car. Dr. Parrish and Kelly Thomas are covering for Ducky and Jimmy. Dr. Parrish is—a bit more conservative of a driver than Gibbs."

"Evel Knievel is a more conservative driver than Gibbs," I muttered. McGee stifled a laugh. "Tim—" I kept my voice low. "Who is Landon Grey? It's so familiar, but I can't—"

He dropped his voice as well. "It was back in oh-seven. Landon Grey… was a barista at the coffeehouse I went to. Short version—he got his hands on my work in progress and killed two people because of his obsession with my writing. He threatened Abby, it—" He shook his head. "You ever read Stephen King's story, I Know What You Need?"

"Sure. The girl who's stalked by this guy who anticipates her every need—"

He nodded. "Right. We had a case like that once. A guy who was so obsessed with this supply clerk, he killed three people he thought were being disrespectful to her or standing in the way of her career. The fact that this guy killed people just because she had said something like 'Oh, I'm so pissed about George, he was late with his report and I ended up looking bad' or whatever—she darn near had a breakdown over her guilt about it. Even though she had nothing to do with it. It wasn't her fault. When Landon Grey—" He looked past me to where Lulu's body lay. "Seeing my book in her hands—"

I nodded. "Got it. Got it. I… totally understand." Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cilly slip in the dealers' room door and shut it firmly behind her. "Be right back."

"We have got some unhappy people," Cilly sighed. "They were banking on sales after the Cheese and Whine—wine loosening up the purse strings. We need to put out a sign or something."

I nodded my head towards the Regency A/B room. "And move Davida Quint's work in progress reading," I added.

"Oh, crap." Cilly puffed out tiny breaths making little "puh-puh-puh" noises, her first-to-fifth-gear noise. "We'll move it to Penzance, around the corner from registration. The panel on linguistics and creating believable languages will be over soon, I'll have Johnno let them know to move any hangers-on to the little lobby."

"I'll do up signs—"

"John and I will take care of the main tower, you cover here?" she suggested.

"Works for me."

"Back in a flash." With a heavy sigh, she slipped back out of the room; I could hear voices clamoring outside. I didn't look forward to walking out into the teeming masses myself.

I grabbed the white board easel that got stashed by my table during closed hours. On one side I wrote DEALERS' ROOM CLOSED DUE TO UNFORSEEN CIRCUMSTANCES. WE REGRET ANY INCONVENIENCE. PLEASE CHECK BACK FOR STATUS UPDATES. On the other, DIVIDA QUINT WIP READING MOVED TO PENZANCE MEETING ROOM. SORRY FOR THE LAST MINUTE CHANGE. Keith helped me move it to the walkway where people from either side could see it. I was immediately assaulted from all directions by dealers and attendees.

"What's going on?"
"Was there a break in?"
"There was a break in?!"
"That's what I heard. Who got hit?"
"I gotta check my merchandise!"
"When will we be able to get in?"

I answered the last first. "If we can reopen tonight, we'll make an announcement. Otherwise, plan on eight in the morning." A couple of dealers started to ask further questions; my hairy eyeball of doom (aka 'mom look') made them snap their yaps, mutter, "Thanks," and slink off. "No, there has not been a break in," I continued. "We just have an operations issue that requires the Regency and Renaissance to be closed for the evening. I'm very sorry for the inconvenience. Believe me, this was totally unplanned—" (And how!) "—and if we could have the rooms open, we would."

If you can fake sincerity, you can sell anything to anyone. Most people were satisfied. "Whaddya got in there? A body?" one voice heckled.

I didn't hesitate. "You volunteering?"

That got enough laughs that the mob mentality broke up. So did the mob. Just to be on the safe side, I told Keith he was to stay glued to the two doors and that Gibbs and a couple of agents and yet another medical examiner would be arriving shortly. "Since we're not sure how the… person of interest entered the room, I'll let them decide the way they want in," he said.

Redshirts have the reputation of being stupid and therefore nonessential. (One of my first buttons from a con read, I'm not stupid, I'm not expendable, I'M NOT GOING!) That's only on TV and in movies. In the world of conventions, security and gofers are often brighter than some of the concom—sometimes all of the concom. Keith has fun running his Korb the Ruthless character mostly because he likes the lamé mesh from the original Star Trek Klingon uniforms. In the real world, he works at NIS with Cilly's husband. He's an electrical engineer with the tidy, logical mind of one, perfect for this situation.

I started to turn back into the dealers' room when I caught sight of a familiar figure striding down the walkway: Gibbs. I checked my cell phone; just over nine minutes. Not bad. Maybe they had been nearby? (I found out later that, no, they had been combing cold cases and Gibbs had almost raced the elevator to get out of the building.)

"McGee?"

"He's inside." I kept my voice quiet. "Not sure how they gained entry. We have a breakaway wall between the rooms that was ajar. The hallway doors were locked to both rooms when we came in, but that doesn't mean they were at, uh, at the time."

A few people had hung around and were looking at Gibbs (imposing as only he can be) in his NCIS marked jacket. They weren't close by, so they couldn't hear us; for all they knew, he was going to be a participant in a panel tomorrow.

Ziva and Tony, both toting equipment, were coming down the hall (almost two minutes behind Gibbs; Ziva drives like Gibbs, it must have been the additional time to pull things from the van). "Prints, Boss?" Tony asked.

"When the rooms are in use, are the doors open? Or just unlocked?"

"Panel room is unlocked so the outside noise doesn't come in—or the inside noise go out. The dealers' room has both doors wide open." I flicked my eyes toward the Regency A/B. "That's where…"

He nodded. "How many people through here today?"

"We've had, jeez, half a dozen panels and as many autograph sessions. Same people would have gone to several things but if you're looking at a number count for people in and out, not individual names—" He nodded. "Four thousand? Five?"

He looked mildly disgusted. "Probably worthless, but—" Shrugging, he put on a pair of gloves and took the keycard I held out.

"Hey, hey, wait—wait—you said there wasn't a break in—" It was one of the dealers from earlier, still hanging around.

"There wasn't," I said briefly.

"But—" He pointed to Gibbs' gloved hands.

"He's a clean freak."

"I'm not an idiot. NCIS? That's like CSI." I heard a stifled groan from Tony.

I locked my eyes on the dealer's face. "I assure you," I said in a steely tone. "There. Has. NOT. Been. A break in."

"But—"

"We have an operations issue necessitating the temporary closure of these rooms," I said robotically.

He narrowed his eyes. "My system is updating."

Tech support code for 'my computer just crashed, I have to tap dance until I can help you.' "Close enough. When we have information, we'll post it."

With a mildly suspicious look, he nodded slowly and stepped back into the small crowd that was still hovering.

"Nice job," Gibbs muttered, opening the door.

"I thought about saying there had been an accident, but like the game telephone it would have turned into a satanic ritual sacrifice with a dozen bodies before it went five people out."

"Probably right." He swung open the door and kicked down the doorstop. "DiNozzo." He nodded toward the handle. "Ziver, shoot and sketch." He went inside and I followed him. He made a brief re-acquaintance exchange with Mrs. Islington and Mr. Rubio who quietly stood back and let Gibbs do his Gibbs-thing. "What happened?"

I've known Gibbs for a long time and know he doesn't like a lot of extraneous crap with his reporting. I gave him a succinct but detailed enough rundown of the past forty-five minutes. He nodded, made copious notes on his spiral notepad and communicated telepathically with Ziva as she silently scoured the room and took dozens of pictures.

Next stop, scene of the crime. "Whatcha got, Duck—uh, doctors?"

I hadn't been given permission to stay—but I wasn't told to leave… Silence gives assent, so I stuck around.

"Multiple stab wounds, three, possibly four," Ducky said. "Does not appear to be a knife—the instrument is round, like a screwdriver or a rod, and there are jagged tears in her blouse…"

I shouldn't have stayed. It's one thing to listen to Ducky talk about anonymous victims; this was Lulu. I had known her, known her for years—

My head jerked up when Gibbs snapped his fingers by my ear. "You okay… Mrs. Mallard?"

I managed a smile; the 'Mrs.' is his tease to me. "Yeah. Sorry. It just kind of—hit me."

"Why don't you wait—" He raised an eyebrow.

I turned and looked where his eye had been caught. Cilly was slipping in through the breakthrough wall. "Oh, Gibbs, this is Cecilia Ting. She's the convention chairman. Cilly, this is Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS."

"Ma'am." As they shook hands, DiNozzo came up and gave his fearless leader a negative shake of the head: the doorknobs had been a wash. "Agent DiNozzo will take your statement."

DiNozzo took her aside and McGee came up in his wake. "Easy access, Boss. Perp could have come in through the breakthrough wall. But he—or she—would have had to come through the room on the other side—someone would have noticed them going in from the Georgian Room—"

"—and my tables are right behind, they would have had to shove all my bookcases around," I added.

McGee nodded. "But there's a gangway behind this whole bank of rooms with locked doors leading to each section. The door to the hucksters' room—" Gibbs gave him a 'WTF?' look. "Ah, dealers' room, boss, people selling books—" He nodded my way. "—jewelry, collectibles, all sorts of—the door was locked," he switched in midstream at Gibbs' glare. "But the access door to this room was unlocked and ajar."

Jim Rubio closed his eyes for a moment but said nothing. He didn't need to. Someone's ass was grass and he was going to be the lawnmower.

It was easy to understand. If you can gain access to one room, you could scuttle from room to room. Depending on the event, the liability could be in the millions.

"Gibbs."

Ziva can say a lot with one word. He caught up with her at the access door; they had a short confab then he brought a large plastic evidence bag over to Ducky and Jordan. "Well, I can't say for certain…" Ducky hedged.

"Gets my vote," Jordan said.

Rubio is on the same psychic network. He joined Gibbs, glanced at the bagged item and gave a tiny headshake. "Mrs. Islington?"

The formality of a crime scene; no first names. She joined the boys club and nodded once. "Yes. That's from our kitchen. It is, I believe, a corer or injector used to remove part of a fruit or vegetable or to inject flavorings." She gave a faint smile. "I'm not much of a chef…"

I am. And so is Ducky, more so. Professional grade, tooth-edged corer? Yeah, that would make a freaking good weapon, along the lines of Friday the 13th or Halloween. Cue the screeching violin eee-eee-eee Psycho theme.

"Would non-staff have access to the kitchen?" Gibbs asked.

"Not easily," Mrs. Islington said.

I had a sudden memory of years ago, Mr. Rubio escorting me through the kitchen to avoid a mob of press and paparazzi. "But… not impossible," Mr. Rubio finished.

Great.

There was a sudden hubbub outside in the hall. It was explained by the entrance of Dr. Parrish and Kelly Thomas with a gurney. Can't hide something like that; the looky-loos were in high gear.

The three doctors conferred for a bit, and then Lulu was loaded on the gurney.

"Janet!" I gasped.

"Who?" Gibbs asked.

"Lulu's—" I was stumped. "Well, her employer, for sure. But I think they're related, too."

"You know her?"

"For years."

"Can you get her in here? Quietly?"

"I can try," I said honestly, thinking of the babbling mob outside.

He nodded toward the breakthrough wall. "Already a security bust, may as well avoid the crowd."

Cilly looked sick at the idea; not that you have to be a rocket scientist to figure out the walls aren't solid, but it's not something you want to advertise.

I slipped through the one wall, flitted across the room, dragged a bookcase away from the other wall and tried to unobtrusively manhandle the panel off track. Cilly and I had done a good job of securing it earlier.

Nobody even blinked when I poked my head in—mostly because their eyes were too bleary to blink. A lot of the partygoers were more than three sheets to the wind (and that fourth one was pretty iffy). I would have had to appear in a shower of fireworks proclaiming myself the Dread Pirate Roberts to even get a twitch.

Fortunately, Janet was sitting right inside the opening. I whispered "c'm'ere" several times before she finally heard me. With a baffled look, she came over. "What? Secret meeting of the Assassins Guild?"

I flinched. "Um…" I motioned her inside and waited until the panel was shoved back in place and the bookcase set back. "There's—been an accident."

She's not a mystery writer for nothing. "Who's dead?"

"Aaaah… Lulu." I sighed. "Lulu's… dead."

"Holy shit. What happened?"

While it was pretty obvious what had happened, I didn't witness it—and I was sure Gibbs wanted to keep the details quiet, so… I shrugged.

Janet, Mimsy snuggled in her arms, followed me through the room. "I feel like a sneak thief."

"Don't say that in front of Cilly."

As I got to the wall panel, I heard Mr. Rubio say, "The front desk has been alerted, and anyone checking out will be cleared through me."

"Good. I have a feeling—"

And I know all about Gibbs' feelings. Oy. They broke off when we entered the room. "Special Agent Gibbs, this is Janet Bascom. She's Lulu's—" I stumbled. "Sister… in… law?" I said hesitantly.

"Ex," Janet said with a kind of inappropriate grin. She mitigated this by adding, "She may have been a fluffhead, but she tried hard and she was the best of the family. At least she wasn't a psych—"

Bad path. She snapped her mouth shut, blushed (a first to my knowledge) and held Mimsy closer. From Gibbs' careful look anywhere but Mimsy, I knew he had noticed her. "DiNozzo."

He had finished with Cilly's statement and turned his smile on Janet. "Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS. Your full name please?"

"What in the world does the Naval Criminal Investigative Services have to do with this?" At his surprise, she said archly, "I've come across it in my research."

"May I have your name, please?" DiNozzo ignored the question and the comment.

"Janet Marie Bascom."

"Your relationship to the deceased?"

"Familial? My ex-husband's youngest sister, the only non-dead loss in the family." I grimaced at the choice of words. "Sorry—but it's true. Financially, my assistant for the past… twenty-three years." She saw my surprise. "She started off just helping out after school. She was in junior high, I believe." Okay, that made sense.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Lunchtime. I expected her to be at the Cheese and Whine party but… well…" She looked uncomfortable. She hadn't shown up—and now we knew why.

"How was your relationship with her?"

Janet laughed. "Sometimes she made me crazy. The girl thought Rhode Island was by St. Thomas! When we watched Apollo 13, she was thrilled that they made it back alive; she was beside herself with suspense. I caught her talking to tech support one time. They asked her to click any key and she asked which one was the any key." I was wondering how much was truth and how much was nerves.

"Do you know why anyone would want to kill her? "

"You never drank her coffee. That's why I switched to tea."

He gave her an unsmiling look. "That's rather cold."

"It's my defense mechanism." I rolled my eyes; I'm not the only fan of Clue. "She could be…difficult."

"Bitchy?"

"No, that would take too much effort."

"Why keep her around?" It was almost an offhand comment.

"Nepotism." Janet shrugged. "It took me long enough to train her right. I didn't want to go through THAT again."

"Looks like you're out of luck." I could barely hear Gibbs mutter behind me; I doubted Janet or DiNozzo did.

Still looking at his notepad, Tony casually said, "You didn't knock her off, did you?"

I could feel Gibbs' glare shooting past me: Miranda?

Janet was still so rattled she was in sarcasm mode and didn't even think like a mystery writer with 22 books under her belt. "Over bad coffee?"

Tony shrugged. "Maybe she was the one who wrote the books, you were her front—"

"My dear boy—" Oh, lordy, now she was channeling her inner Nanny. "—I never re-use a plot. That was from Writer's Block—and it was much more believable than your scenario. A creative writing instructor uses the ideas of a student and is then accused of plagiarism by the author from whom the student stole the stories."

I remembered the book. It's one of my favorites of her books.

"As dear as she was, and even though she made the perfect cup of tea, Lulu was not the sharpest taco on the tree."

DiNozzo stopped in mid-nod. "Hunh?"

"Knife in the drawer, missing tacos from the combo plate, bulb on the tree—not to speak ill of the dead, but sometimes she was as dumb as a post. She couldn't write her way out of a wet paper bag."

DiNozzo snorted faintly.

Janet slumped tiredly. "Oh, good gravy. How cliché."

I turned away. "Patrice might know more," I murmured to Gibbs.

"Who is Patrice?"

"Patrice Ingram-Ashcraft." I opted not to mention that she is often referred to by her initials as Pain In the Ass. "I told you she and Lulu were talking in the autograph room a couple of hours before the party."

"Where can we find her?"

I shrugged. "Probably at the party, still. Free food, free wine?"

"We'll have to canvass the room anyway. DiNozzo, take Ziva—"

"Oh!"

We all looked at Janet.

She looked sheepish. "I completely forgot. Lulu's ex boyfriend has been sending her some really pissy emails and texts—not quite 'I will kill you' flat out threats but…stuff you could take as threatening…"

I had seen Gibbs bag her cell phone. He nodded. "We'll check into it. Thanks."

"She was going to meet up with him this afternoon—"

Gibbs snapped to like a setter on hunt. "He's here?"

"I'm pretty sure he is. Kyle—shoot, what's—oh, it's the same last name as that nerd on Big Bang—"

"Cooper?" Ziva surprised me by piping up.

"That's it."

"Ask Ms. Ting—"

"Uh, Gibbs?" He gave me a mild glare at the interruption. "Kyle Cooper, that's—uh—he's—he's our film room chairman." I stared at the back wall, as though I could see through to the main tower and the Ziegfield room upstairs. "He's here all weekend."