The Wrong Dead Guy

  McCloud handed him the Polaroid photo. The image was monstrous. A scaly man-thing with jagged fangs and hands sporting scythelike fingers.

  “Yes. That’s a special camera,” said Nelson. “It photographs the subject’s soul.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” said McCloud.

  “No. You did good,” said Nelson, his mind a whir. “What if Coop stole the camera? What if he’s using the photos to blackmail important members of the DOPS staff?”

  “Is he doing that?” said McCloud in a hushed, shocked tone.

  “Of course not. But what if he did? I have a copy of his fingerprints from one of his memos. They’d be easy to put on the camera. Yes. This could work,” said Nelson, putting the camera in a box. “Hand me de Sade’s pen.”

  McCloud picked up the quill with his fingertips and lobbed it to Nelson. “Why are you putting in the pen? Did Coop know de Sade?”

  “No. It will just annoy whoever opens the box. We want them good and riled up. Where’s the packing tape?”

  “On the desk,” said McCloud.

  When Nelson reached for the tape he noticed that Pandora’s lunch box was open. He peered inside and then at McCloud. “There was a chocolate bunny in here and now it’s gone. Did you eat it?”

  “No,” mumbled McCloud through a full mouth. He swallowed. A moment later his one good arm fell off. “Oops.”

  Nelson sighed. He found a box full of electronic equipment and took out a couple of mismatched robotic arms.

  “Cool,” said McCloud. Nelson sat down and stared at him. “Is there something wrong?”

  Nelson wiped some bits of cardboard from his pants. “Nothing is wrong. I’m just waiting to see if anything else falls off.”

  “I feel fine,” McCloud said just before his eyes plopped onto the floor. “Oops. Spoke too soon.”

  Nelson went back to the box and found a couple of metallic eyes. “You wait here,” he told McCloud. “I’m going to need some pliers and a soldering iron.”

  “I’ll get them!” shouted McCloud. Leaning over, he twisted the doorknob with his teeth and pushed the door with his feet. When it was open, he rushed excitedly into the mail room. A second later, there was a crash.

  “Sorry,” he called.

  “Did you break anything?” said Nelson.

  “I don’t know. I can’t see.”

  “You really need to stop moving around.”

  There was another crash, this one louder than the first.

  “Sorry.”

  Nelson taped Coop’s box shut.

  “Boss?” called McCloud.

  Nelson addressed the box to the Auditors.

  “Boss? I think I might be on fire.”

  Nelson stamped the box SUPER PRIORITY and set it by his computer monitor.

  “Okay. I’m definitely on fire.”

  “Coming,” Nelson called, a small bottle of Pellegrino water in each hand. “I just want you to know that I was saving these for lunch, which you’ve now ruined.”

  “Sorry,” said McCloud, more than a little aflame.

  At six, Coop and Giselle went to a café down the street from DOPS headquarters. It was called Le Chat Bleu and the sign outside had a chalk drawing of a cat with a saxophone, presumably playing the blues. The interior was full of cat paintings and photos, with cat picture books at some of the tables. Giselle led them to a dimly lit table near the rear of the place.

  “Lupinsky would fit right in around here,” Coop said.

  “Except for the thousand-pound octo legs,” said Giselle, “you’re probably right.”

  Coop looked around. “Is this payback for me saying I don’t like cats?”

  “Something like that.”

  Coop kept an eye out for approaching mummies and cats. “I don’t really not like cats. They just give me the willies.”

  “Because of Shamu?”

  “No. Because they always seem to know something I don’t. Like if you’re playing cards, a cat looks at you like you’re always laying down the wrong cards. It’s unnerving.”

  “So much for your alleged poker face,” said Giselle mockingly.

  “I have a great poker face. But cats have a better one. Never play Texas Hold’em with a tabby.”

  “I’ll put that in My Big Book of Things That Will Never Happen.”

  “We just pulled a job with a bunch of jesters and a robot. Never say never.”

  “I refuse to admit you’re right until I’ve had caffeine.”

  “I’ll get us some coffee.”

  She pointed to the table. “No way. You sit here and don’t make eye contact with anyone. You’re not even here, sticky fingers.”

  “Understood, boss,” he said, and sat back as far into the shadows as he could.

  Coop watched her walk away, but kept her in sight, afraid a SWAT team might burst in and airlift her to a moon base or an extinct volcano or wherever the hell the DOPS was interrogating people this fiscal quarter. He couldn’t live with himself if he got her arrested. He shook his head to clear it. He thought about cats. He thought about Woolrich. He thought about Harkhuf trying to get into his head. Who and what else was out there that he had to worry about? Probably a dozen things, but he was too jittery to come up with a list at that moment. Being this close to DOPS headquarters was making him nervous. Was the café serving coffee to mooks, cyborgs, and windigos in the patio out back? He didn’t really want to know, and anyway, there weren’t any exits nearby. If any dead people or interdimensional spiders headed his way, Coop thought that his best bet was to hide under the table and make sure any cute cat books were at least two tables away.

  Giselle came back to the table with Bayliss in tow. She looked a lot more clear-eyed than when they’d left her in the morning.

  “How are you feeling?” said Coop.

  “A lot better. I think doing some real work has helped. I hardly feel lightbulb monkey at all,” Bayliss said.

  Coop and Giselle exchanged looks, but didn’t say anything.

  “That’s great to hear,” said Coop.

  “And I’ve cleaned up my cubicle.” She laughed. “What a mess. I just hope the recycling department doesn’t notice all the Post-its.”

  “Come on. No one counts used Post-its.”

  “It’s the end of the fiscal quarter.”

  “The same reason you’re not allowed to die,” Giselle reminded him.

  “Oh yes,” said Bayliss. “We have to keep you alive.”

  “It’s nice to know that accounting cares. I’ll send them a fruit basket,” said Coop.

  “I mean for other reasons, too, of course,” said Bayliss quickly. “Sorry. I’m still a little fuzzy.”

  “It’s okay. Did you find anything we can use?”

  “Lots.” Bayliss pulled a pile of printouts from her bag. “Harkhuf was once a powerful wizard in the pharaoh’s court, though we don’t know which one because they tried to destroy the records of his existence.”

  “Why?”

  Bayliss shifted her shoulder uncomfortably. “He went a little rogue. Which gets back to you, Coop.”

  “Why me?”

  “You want something you can give him so he’ll leave you alone. I think I found it. It’s a magical manuscript that Harkhuf wants to use to resurrect his dead lover, Shemetet.”

  Giselle stirred her latte. “That sounds kind of sweet. True love after three thousand years.”

  “Yeah,” said Coop. “That’s not so bad.”

  Bayliss looked uncomfortable. “Now we get to the rogue part. You see, Harkhuf and Shemetet tried to start a magical war against the pharaoh. It seems that Shemetet is an Amazon-like warrior sorceress who wants to, and I quote, ‘lay waste to all lands and people that will not bow before me.’”

  Giselle made a face and set down her coffee. “All of a sudden it’s not as romantic.”

  Coop pressed himself deeper into the shadows. “Harkhuf knows who I am. Is there anything in there about what he’ll do if he gets hold of me?”

  Bayli
ss took a couple of pages off the top of the pile and put them back in her bag. “Nope. Nothing.”

  “You’re as lousy a liar as Giselle. Come on. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

  Bayliss pulled the papers back out and spread them on the table. They were covered with distorted and broken hieroglyphics. She said, “Some of the details are missing, but it seems like after his resurrection, he’ll peel the skin off a chosen enemy and wear it, and I quote, ‘as a royal cloak.’”

  Coop’s stomach did a backflip. “But I like my skin. How do I get on his good side?”

  Bayliss pushed a photo across the table. “Give him the manuscript so he can bring Shemetet back to life.”

  “Great. How do I get it?”

  Giselle crossed her arms. “Did you forget the part where they plan on destroying the world and ruling whatever is left?”

  “One problem at a time,” said Coop. “I’ll give him the manuscript and then we’ll figure out the not-destroying-the-world part.”

  “There’s a problem,” said Bayliss. “There aren’t any copies of the original manuscript left. They were all destroyed when the pharaoh defeated Harkhuf and Shemetet.”

  “Then I’m back to being screwed. Who else wants a muffin? If I’m going to die, I want a muffin first.”

  “Hold on,” said Bayliss. “There aren’t any original copies left, but there is a translation by Forsythia Krumpf. She’s a nineteenth-century English witch.”

  Coop’s stomach, which had been trying to thumb a ride to Rio since the conversation started, suddenly settled down. “Great. Where is it?”

  Bayliss pushed a photo of a jowly older man across the table. “It’s in a private library belonging to Ramsey Fitzgerald.”

  “Who’s that?” said Giselle.

  “He’s a billionaire publishing magnate who lives on a huge estate in Beverly Hills. The library is a separate building behind the main house.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Coop. “I wonder how fast I can get the layout of the place. I’ll go to City Hall in the morning.”

  “You don’t have to. I printed you a copy,” Bayliss said.

  Coop took the pages she held out. “You are a goddess.”

  “Thank you,” said Bayliss, blushing a little.

  Giselle said, “You remember that you’re supposed to be lying low, right? It’s great that Bayliss can get you pictures, but she can’t help you in the field, and neither can I, Morty, Lupinsky, or anyone else at DOPS.”

  Coop ran a thumb over his lower lip. “I know. I’ll have to make some calls. The first thing I need to do is find out more about Fitzgerald. What does he do? Where does he go? I’ll want him out of the house so I’ll have time to work.”

  Bayliss read from another printout. “He’s a movie freak and investor in a couple of studios. According to his schedule, he’ll be at the Global Showcase International gala tomorrow night.”

  Coop took the paper and looked it over, happy but also a little disturbed. “Does the DOPS have this kind of information about everybody?”

  Bayliss smiled shyly. “That’s classified, Mr. Cooper,” she said. Then she whispered. “But no. Just the ones with important magical connections.”

  Giselle looked at Coop. “Magical connections?”

  “That means the library is going to be a pain in the ass,” he said.

  “Probably,” said Bayliss.

  Coop looked over the layout of Fitzgerald’s estate. “Tomorrow isn’t much time. I need to start making calls.”

  Giselle held up her hands. “Don’t say another word. Bayliss and I are innocent bystanders.”

  “She’s right,” said Bayliss. “Anything you tell us the Auditors can get at. You shouldn’t say anything else.”

  Coop took the pages, folded them, and hid them under his jacket. “Thanks a lot for this. I owe you.”

  “No, thank you,” said Bayliss. “It’s fun going over to the dark side a little every now and then. And if you can stick it to the Auditors when you get a chance, that’s all the thanks I need.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll figure out something for them.”

  “Okay. Now you need to get out of here,” said Giselle.

  “Just one more thing. You said the manuscript was a translation. What’s it called?” said Coop.

  Bayliss handed him one more sheet, this one with a photo of a weathered old book. “It’s disguised as a cookbook,” she said.

  In flaking gilt on the spine the book said, Enigmatic Confections: An Entirely Unsinister Guide to Puddings, Cookies, Cakes, and Not-at-All the Dark Arts.

  “Forsythia didn’t have much of a poker face, did she?” said Coop.

  Bayliss shook her head. “They say she lost a fortune playing Twinkle Bat.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Everyone sits in a circle and tries not to think of a purple bat.”

  “I already lost,” said Giselle.

  Bayliss said, “Me, too.”

  “Not me,” said Coop.

  “Liar,” said Giselle.

  “Prove it.”

  “I guess you win. Okay, hit the bricks.”

  “Good luck,” said Bayliss.

  “Thanks,” said Coop. Then to Giselle he added, “And the other thing you’re thinking? No, I don’t want to get a cat.”

  “Now you’re just being spooky,” she said. “Get out before someone burns you as a witch.”

  He’d started out when Giselle called after him, “Hey, poker face.”

  Coop stopped. “Yeah.”

  “A wise man once told me ‘never say never.’ So, meow.”

  “Crap,” he said, and went outside to look for a cab.

  30

  Froehlich didn’t get back to the bungalow until well after three in the morning. He swayed on his feet as he brought in the bags, but he tried hard not to show it. He’d chewed some gum in the car before coming in, but he wasn’t sure if it completely masked the smell of the six-pack.

  Harkhuf was waiting by the dinosaur-bone chair. “Did you bring me what I commanded, thrall?”

  Froehlich set the bags on the bed and sat down, a little out of breath. “As much as I could. You know it’s been a few centuries, right? Some of the stuff you wanted isn’t easy to come by these days. I had to make a few substitutions.”

  “How dare you?” said Harkhuf icily.

  “I tell you what, you try finding three drams of dove’s bile in Hollywood on a Wednesday night. But I didn’t let it stop me. I went to Griffith Park and rounded up a bunch of pigeons.” Froehlich held up a jar full of a green liquid.

  “That will have to do.”

  “The park is lousy with cats, so the whiskers weren’t hard. And dark beer, obviously, was a cinch.” Froehlich hiccuped.

  “Have you been drinking?” said Harkhuf.

  “Have you been chasing pigeons in the dark all night? No. I have. So, yes, I’ve had a dram or two of beer,” said Froehlich, then hastily added, “Master.”

  “I will allow this, but just this once. What else have you brought me?”

  Froehlich pulled items out of the bag and set them on the leopard bedspread. “You wanted—what was it?—a vial of the finest scented balm to be had in this unholy land? Oddly enough, they don’t stock the finest perfumes at Safeway at two A.M., so you have a choice. I got a bottle of Old Spice cologne. If you don’t know what that is, old men use it because they think it makes them smell like Leonardo DiCaprio on the Titanic. To change things up a little, I also got a spray can of Spring’s Evening Mist. Ladies use in on their privates when they don’t feel so fresh.”

  “What of the ivory ewer?”

  Froehlich stopped taking things from the bags. He looked around the room nervously. “Yeah. Ivory. That’s kind of a problem these days—you can’t get it. Period. Especially at Safeway at two A.M. That means you have a choice.” He held up what looked like a large metal donut. “A cast-iron Bundt cake pan.” He held up a plastic vessel covered in daisies. “Or a pla
stic party bowl. You know, for Chex Mix.”

  “What is Chex Mix?” said Harkhuf.

  “The greatest food known to man,” said Froehlich. “Damn. I should have bought some. You’d love it if you ate some. Or had a mouth.”

  “What else?”

  “For the bone mortar I got a mint muddler for mojitos. Now, the sacred amber incense was also kind of a problem. As far as I can tell, it doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe there’s some kind of witch 7-Eleven, but I don’t know any witches. So, the only place I could think of was a kind of specialty shop. It’s what these days we call an ‘adult entertainment emporium.’” Froehlich picked up two long, plastic-wrapped packages. “The ones that stank the least were Tropical Three-Way and Cleaved in Twain, which, honestly, smells like musk and guilt. Sorry. And I guess that’s pretty much everything.”

  Harkhuf approached him. Froehlich moved back until he was pressed against the bungalow wall.

  “Even among these blind, pathetic, soulless mortals, you are a wretch.”

  “Really? Gosh, I hadn’t picked up on that. Master. By the way, my ATM card doesn’t work anymore and I have about a hundred dollars left on my credit card. The good news is that we have the room for a couple of more days. But whatever your plan is, we better do it by the weekend or we’ll be taking over the world in the comfort of my 2003 Camry.”

  Harkhuf hovered over the bed. He pointed to one last object. “What is that?”

  “It’s a rolled-up newspaper.”

  “What is its purpose?”

  Froehlich picked up the paper and slapped it in his open palm. “See, I know I’m a wretch and a cur, and I’m fine with that. Really fine with it, actually. And along those lines, there’s a woman who works at the adult emporium I mentioned. I think she might have a pretty good handle on what to do with a rolled-up newspaper. However, as I also mentioned, I’m about broke. Do you think you could see your way to doing the evil eye trick you did at the museum and have her discipline a very bad dog?”

  Harkhuf went back to the dinosaur chair. “This has something to do with the women with the pillows and the men eating the hamburgers, does it not?”