The Big Sheep (6 page)

“Sure,” said April. “That's how it started. Then, after Santa Monica, they started getting funding from the Pentagon to develop ways of predicting terrorist attacks.”

“Rumors and unfounded conjecture,” I said, without much enthusiasm. April and I had had this argument before, and I wasn't really interested in going through the motions again.

“I was working at Ballard and Greene at the time,” April said. “I heard things. I remember when I first heard the name Erasmus Keane. Nobody knew who he was. The LAPD claimed he didn't exist. And I suppose they were telling the truth, in a sense. There are no records of any Erasmus Keane before he set up shop as a private investigator.”

“Phenomenological inquisitor,” I said, more out of habit than an attempt to be contrary. “Look, I know ‘Erasmus Keane' is a pseudonym. He's made no secret of that.”

“But he hasn't told you his real name.”

“No. Nor has he told me his hat size or favorite Weavil Brothers song. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Of course,” said April, with a smile. “I'll find out whatever I can about Priya Mistry. Just promise me you'll watch out for her.”

I promised.

 

FOUR

It was still early when April dropped me off, so I decided to recommence my research on Esper. Keane was still holed up in his office, and I had no idea what he planned to do in the morning. Evidently, Priya's case was at the forefront of his mind, so in the interest of not duplicating our efforts, I figured I'd spend my time on the lost sheep.

I spent the next four hours browsing articles about the Esper Corporation, genetic engineering, and organ transplantation. I didn't learn much of interest, although I ran across some fascinating speculation on a few conspiracy websites about illegal research occurring shortly after the Collapse. During the Collapse, law and order largely broke down, which led to a surge in criminal activity. Many large corporations were known to have taken advantage of the lapse in enforcement to engage in a variety of illegal and unethical behavior, from insider trading to corporate espionage. Most of these transgressions were likely opportunistic; large corporations tend to be creatures of habit, fearful of change, and slow to take advantage of sudden changes in their environment. But certain sorts of research flirted daily with the legal and ethical constraints separating
what is
from
what if?
, and those pushing the boundaries didn't have to be told twice that the federal government was going to be busy putting out fires (often literally) for a few months. A few months turned into three years, and rumors abounded that certain companies, Esper among them, had engaged in some very questionable activities during the law enforcement holiday. Research into human cloning, animal-human hybrids, and illegal bioweaponry were all rumored to have taken place, and in some cases the rumors were confirmed by federal investigations conducted post-Collapse. A mere handful of cases made the news, but only the most naïve observer believed this was a reliable indicator of the scope of the misconduct. Other than a few rumors, Esper had managed to keep its alleged infractions out of the news. Whether this was because they had ceased any illegal activities or had been smart enough to cover their tracks was unclear.

I knocked off a little after midnight, knowing Keane would likely want to start early the next morning. I dreamt of a frightened sheep in a laboratory. Keane was there, grinning at me. “I have taken measure of this sheep's soul,” he announced, and then stepped aside and swept his hand toward the sheep, as if introducing it. I saw that the sheep was completely shorn, and its wool lay in piles around its feet. Keane shook his head, and I saw he was holding a pair of shears. “There's never enough wool,” he said. “No matter how much you give them, they always want more.”

“Someone is trying to kill me,” said the sheep. “Trust no one.”

“I think I can get a bit more,” said Keane, snicking the shears together and turning back to the sheep.

The sheep screamed.

“I know you're in there,” said Keane, and the snick-snick of the shears had inexplicably morphed into a deep thudding. “Fowler!” Keane shouted. “You hear me? I know you're in there!”

I opened my eyes in the dull gray light of my bedroom, and the sparse rays poking through the boarded-up windows told me it was dawn.

“Yeah, I hear you!” I yelled back. “Give me a minute.”

I took a quick shower, shaved, brushed my teeth, and threw on some clothes, all while Keane banged on the door to my quarters about every forty-five seconds or so. In between these percussive bursts he said something about conducting interviews with employees of Esper Corporation. Evidently, he'd gotten a call from Esper's vice president of research and development, Jason Banerjee, who was eager to have Keane continue his investigation now that a “key suspect has been eliminated.” They'd lined up interviews with all the employees who had access to the lab.

We got to Esper just after eight
A.M.
A security guard ushered us into a conference room, outside of which three lab coat–wearing employees were already waiting in the hall. None of them looked particularly happy to be there, and their demeanor wasn't improved by Keane insisting that the interviews be delayed until the room had been adequately stocked with Dr Pepper and Circus Peanuts. It was almost eight thirty when we finally started.

We had forty-six employees to interview, and I didn't hold out much hope of getting through them all in a day. Fortunately, the interviews went quickly, with Keane disqualifying most of the prospective sheep thieves with only a question or two. He didn't even bother to interview several of the employees on the list; Esper had provided dossiers—complete with criminal records, employment histories, and credit reports—on all the suspects, and Keane had evidently been able to eliminate many of them based on this information. He seemed to have a fairly solid idea of what a sheep thief was—or at least was not. I had to trust his judgment on the matter, but when we'd completed the interviews without identifying a likely suspect, I began to wonder whether he'd been too quick in his assessments.

There was only one employee who seemed to interest Keane at all, but I found it hard to imagine she was our thief. Her name was Stephanie Kemp, and she was a cute, plump brunette in her midtwenties. She was a lab technician with good credit, no criminal history, and a spotless though unremarkable work history. Working for Esper was her first job out of college. Keane had allowed me to handle most of the interviews while he wandered around the room, chewing on Circus Peanuts and occasionally interjecting an impertinent question, but he definitely took an interest in Stephanie Kemp. He spent a good ten minutes asking her about everything from her taste in music to her hair color.

“What was that about?” I asked when he finally dismissed her.

Keane shrugged.

“You don't think she's our thief.”

He laughed. “Not a chance.”

“So, what's with the grilling?”

“Just playing,” said Keane, with a grin. “Such a sweet girl. Very cooperative.”

I sighed and let in the next subject. We interviewed three more employees after Stephanie, but Keane showed no interest in any of them. It was nearly six
P.M.

“Next!” Keane yelled.

“That's it,” I said. “Unless you've changed your mind on some of the ones you dismissed out of hand.”

Keane shook his head. “We're missing somebody.” He slumped into a chair and began riffling through the dossiers again. “No. No. No. No. No. Wait, what about this guy? Hugo Díaz. Lab tech. Lousy credit. Eyes of a sheep thief. I didn't dismiss this guy.”

I took the file from him and pulled out the last page, which I handed to Keane. I pointed at the relevant line. It read:

DECEASED JAN. 18

“Two days before the sheep disappeared,” I said. “Went home early on Friday afternoon, complaining of heartburn. Was found by his wife, dead of a heart attack early Saturday morning. The sheep theft occurred sometime Sunday night.”

“Hmm,” said Keane.

“I'll admit the timing is a little suspicious, but there just isn't any way Díaz could have stolen the sheep.”

“But he could have been in on it. Working for a third party. The deal went wrong, and he ended up dead.”

“The police found no evidence of foul play. And we know whoever overrode the security system was someone with access to the lab. Someone who could pass Esper's biometric scans: voiceprint, fingerprint, and retinal imaging. So unless someone physically dragged Díaz's corpse down to Esper, I can't see how he could have been much help in the theft. If there's an inside man, it's someone else.”

“Hmm,” said Keane again.

“What?” I asked. “He's dead, Keane. He didn't do it.”

“Perhaps,” said Keane.

“No, Keane,” I said. “Not ‘perhaps.' Death isn't a detail you can overlook. It's a hard and fast category. Dead men don't steal sheep.”

“I just don't think we should dismiss him so quickly, is all,” said Keane.

“You dismissed one woman because her shoes were too tight!” I exclaimed in exasperation.

“
Three sizes
too tight,” said Keane. “That's a woman who is willing to live in near-constant pain in order to maintain the illusion that her feet are slightly smaller than they are. She's not what you'd consider a creative problem-solver. She lacks the ambition and the imagination to execute a crime of this scope.”

“So does Hugo Díaz,” I said. “On account of his being
dead
.”

“Convenient, isn't it?” said Keane. “Is there going to be an autopsy?”

“I highly doubt it,” I said. “The man was forty-eight years old and sixty pounds overweight. He left work complaining of chest pains. His wife found him dead in bed the next morning. It's not exactly what you would call a suspicious death.”

The door opened, and a slightly built, well-dressed man walked into the room.

“Mr. Keane,” he said. “Mr. Fowler. I'm Jason Banerjee, Esper's vice president for research and development. I understand you're done with interviews for the day. Late for another appointment?”

I shook his hand. Banerjee looked to be in his late thirties—which meant, for a man in his position, he was some combination of brilliant, politically savvy, and phenomenally wealthy. Probably all three. He was dark-skinned and handsome, with cruel, clever eyes.

“Nope,” said Keane. “We've talked to all the employees we need to.”

“You have a suspect then?”

“Working a case like this is an iterative process,” said Keane. “Speaking of which, we need an autopsy for Hugo Díaz.”

“Díaz? The technician who had a heart attack? Why?”

“Alleged heart attack,” said Keane. “And if I knew why I needed the autopsy, I wouldn't need it.”

“Díaz was our employee. We don't have the authority—”

“Next of kin?”

“Wife,” I said, examining Hugo's file. “Jessica.”

“Convince his wife it's necessary,” said Keane to Banerjee. “Bribe her if you have to. I need to know what killed Hugo Díaz.”

“I'll see what I can do,” said Banerjee. “This better not be a wild-goose chase. I need that sheep back as soon as possible. So, what's next?”

Keane checked his comm display. “
Now
we're late for another appointment.”

 

FIVE

Priya had given us her complete schedule for the next several days, which consisted almost entirely of leaving her hotel early in the morning to go work on the
DiZzy Girl
set and then returning to the hotel sometime after dark. Tonight, though, she was supposed to make an appearance at a party at Élan Durham's house in the Hollywood Hills. When she mentioned it, I told her I didn't think it was a good idea to go to any unfamiliar places if she thought she was in danger, but Keane thought it was best to keep up appearances. He'd asked her to get us added to the guest list so we could keep an eye on her.

We made the trip mostly in silence, but as we neared Élan Durham's house, I decided to bring up something that had been bothering me.

“Do you actually think Priya is in danger?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” Keane answered without hesitation. “I wouldn't have taken the case if I didn't think she was in danger.”

“We have no evidence anyone intends her harm, other than her own testimony.”

“You're forgetting the letter from Noogus,” said Keane.

“Seriously?” I asked.

“You saw the letter with your own eyes. She didn't imagine it.”

“You realize it's not difficult to write a letter to yourself, right? It's a short step from imagining somebody is trying to kill you to writing yourself a letter warning you about it.”

“It is a step, though.”

“I don't follow.”

Keane sighed. “A letter is a physical projection of an idea. Paranoia is inward-focused and self-reinforcing. Your classical paranoiac isn't going to write a letter to herself warning about the conspiracy. There's no need. The paranoiac has all the evidence she needs. It's everywhere she looks.”

“But she's not using it to convince herself. She's using it to convince
us
.”

“Perhaps. But that doesn't fit the standard model of paranoia either. A paranoiac isn't going to seek out strangers to tell them about the conspiracy. And she certainly wouldn't manufacture evidence of the conspiracy to convince them. That's a complete inversion of typical paranoid behavior.”

“So you don't think she's paranoid.”

Keane shook his head. “No, she's clearly paranoid. But she's something else, too.”