We met Tempe in a dimly lit control room.
Three tiers of sleek modular workstations dropped, stadium style, to a window-wall overlooking the exhibit hall floor below. Each station was jammed with hard drives, monitors, microphones, and other high-tech equipment used to keep an eye on the convention.
Tempe was huddled with a small group on the second level. Officer Flanagan was there, along with the stone-faced woman in the navy pants suit, the T-800’s owner in his ridiculous Hawaiian shirt, Jenkins the Joker, and a security technician.
Video was playing on one of the screens. No one looked happy.
I hurried to join them, the boys trailing at my heels.
“Did you arrest Connors?” I asked.
Tempe nodded, face troubled.
“Mr. Connors has been temporarily detained at Dr. Brennan’s request,” Flanagan answered. “But I’ve discussed the situation with Director Ahern—” Flanagan glanced at Pants Suit, “—and we’ve decided to cut him loose.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “Did you check his bag? It was in the . . . knights’ locker room.”
Ahern’s voice was ice cold. “We searched Mr. Connors’s possessions, as we are permitted to do by contract with any vendor operating at the convention. There was nothing of interest.”
She snapped her fingers at Jenkins, who’d found time to wipe off most of his face paint. The boy read from a folded piece of paper in a quavery voice. “Two empty sandwich bags, an empty water bottle, iPod with earbuds, and a box cutter. Duct tape, too, but that was next to the bag, not inside.”
“Any vendor here can obtain tape of that kind.” Ahern pursed her lips in disgust, then turned to stare down at the stage. “We hope Mr. Connors will be understanding of our mistake.”
I followed Ahern’s gaze. Connors was sitting on a folding chair beside Officer Palmer, arms crossed, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He had an enormous head, with close-cropped, spiky brown hair, a pug nose, and small, angry eyes. Connors still wore his bulky chain-mail armor, but thankfully not the sword.
Connors drilled Officer Palmer with a disdainful sneer, which clearly made the gangly officer uncomfortable. He didn’t appear worried in the least.
Not good.
“The glass,” I said quickly. “It led us to the armor room, where we found tape identical to that used on the ransom note. Then Hi spotted brown fibers caught in Connors’s boots. Did you compare them with King Kong?”
“We did.” Tempe turned to Hawaiian Shirt. “Mr. Fernandez?”
“The hairs match, no question.” The man seemed anxious, his fingers tugging at the hem of his bongo shirt. “But Connors helped position Kong last evening, and claims he wore the same shoes. He also says he overslept this morning. Jenkins says that Connors cut out early last night as well. He’s out of a job—I won’t abide shirkers on my team—but there’s nothing pointing to him as the thief. Or anyone else, for that matter,” he finished wearily.
“But that’s why we’re here, right?” I looked to Tempe for support. “To check the surveillance video and see who moved the T-800. It has to be Connors. No one else fits the evidence.”
“What evidence?” Flanagan scoffed. “Come see for yourself.”
The officer nodded to the security technician, who began typing. He had a long greasy ponytail, black fingernails, and letters tattooed across each knuckle. Ouch.
The screen reset. Shelton, Hi, and Ben crowded close behind me to get a look.
“Here’s the main floor at six a.m.” The tech tapped another key.
The exhibit hall appeared, still and silent. The shot panned back and forth, taking five-second intervals to cover the bottom third of the massive chamber. The stage was visible during each pass. The T-800 stood menacingly between Kong and Shrek, as intended.
“Badass,” Hi whispered.
“Play it from here at four-times speed,” Ahern instructed.
The image fast-forwarded. A handful of workers appeared, scurrying down the aisles at comic speeds. The tech halted the video just as Jenkins arrived.
“I got there right at six thirty,” Jenkins said nervously. “On time. This is me waiting for Connors. At six forty-five, I gave up, and started setting the curtains up by myself.”
“Move it along,” Ahern said. The tech sped up the scene. As a group, we watched Jenkins linger impatiently, then begin rigging a massive curtain array that eventually enclosed the entire stage. At precisely 6:58 a.m., he tied off the last rope and left.
“That’s it, folks.” The tech spun his chair in a lazy circle. “Nothing else until the reveal at ten a.m. By then the robot was gonezo.” He sped the tape to 8X. Each pass of the camera took only an instant as the room filled with workers, security, and, eventually, excited conventioneers.
The curtains never parted.
At the 10:00 a.m. mark the tech slowed the tape to normal speed. We watched Jenkins appear in his Joker costume, followed by Skipper as RoboCop, who pumped up a gathering throng before pulling the curtains with a dramatic flourish.
Only problem: Shrek was chopped up, and the T-800 was gone.
I didn’t get it. “I don’t get it.”
“Join the gang.” Flanagan sighed. “The damn thing just disappeared.”
“It certainly did not,” Fernandez hissed, tugging at his thick white hair. “It must’ve been taken in one of the moments when the camera panned away!”
“The intervals are less than five seconds.” Tempe shook her head. “I could maybe see the thief sneaking onto the stage without being recorded, if he knew which camera to avoid. But to get the T-800 offstage, then all the way to an exit? It doesn’t seem possible.”
“Well, it didn’t just vanish!” Fernandez snapped.
“Of course not.” Tempe peered through the window at Connors. “I still think he’s our guy. Maybe Connors snuck under the stage and popped the hatch, then took the robot apart and removed it.”
“Impossible.” Fernandez shook his head vehemently. “The T-800 has over 500 parts, and most are welded together. You couldn’t dismantle the Terminator without destroying it.”
“I know.” Tempe gave him a sympathetic look.
Fernandez’s face went sheet white. “You think my machine is already destroyed?”
Tempe took a deep breath. “We have to consider the possibility.”
“Then why break the case?” Hi wondered aloud, surprising everyone. “Or slash up poor Shrek?”
“To send a message, of course.” Ahern made no effort to hide her irritation. “The bastard wants everyone to know what he’ll do if he isn’t paid. And the police can’t even trace the account.”
“In two hours?” Flanagan chuckled without humor. “That’s way too small a window for all the parts involved. This guy knows what he’s doing.”
“The manufacturer assured me that case was unbreakable,” Fernandez seethed. “Yet no one heard a thing? No one found an implement? I tell you, this must be a conspiracy!” His eyes darted around the room, as if considering a whole new possibility.
Flanagan sighed, stroking his bristly mustache. “In any case, we’ve got nothing to hold Connors on. I’ll have to cut him loose.”
“Let him go?” Fernandez raised his wristwatch helplessly. “The deadline is forty minutes from now!”
“Sorry.” The officer shrugged. “I’ve got no legal basis to hold him.”
I listened with a sick feeling in my gut as Flanagan radioed down to his partner by the stage. The younger officer nodded, then said something to “Lord Mace,” who rose and stretched dramatically. Connors glanced directly at us, flicked a mock salute, then began sauntering away.
The queasy feeling amplified. “Connors knows where we are.”
Tempe nodded. “He probably knows where the cameras are, too.”
“Well, this has been a debacle.” Director Ahern rounded on me. “On to the next matter. Care to explain how you accessed several restricted areas of this convention center?”
I was saved by a sharp voice.
“Wait.”
Surprisingly, it was Shelton.
He was watching the screen, where the surveillance tape was still looping. “Don’t let Connors go yet! There’s something weird going on here.”
“You sure?” Tempe whispered.
Shelton nodded rapidly, his thick lenses gleaming in the monitor’s reflected light.
“Officer Flanagan?” Tempe called. “Please hold Mr. Connors for one more minute. We may have something.”
Flanagan frowned, but radioed down to Palmer, who hurried to stop Connors and direct him back to the chair. Lord Mace’s posture conveyed pure outrage, but he complied.
“What is it, son?” Ahern was at the end of her patience.
Shelton looked to the tech, who hadn’t moved from his chair. “May I?”
The man frowned. “You know how to use this, dude?”
“The Yamaha 5500 series? No problemo.”
The tech grunted, but stood, allowing Shelton to slide into his seat. He rewound the tape, then watched intently for a full minute. The rest of the group gathered behind him with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
“There.” Shelton froze the frame.
Flanagan’s brow furrowed. “There what?”
“The curtain.” Shelton toggled back a few frames, then forward. “It moved.”
I saw it, too. “Good eye, Shelton.”
My finger tapped the screen. “Up high, above the rope. Watch that fold.” As the camera panned one direction, the left edge of the curtain overlapped the right, but as the lens swept back, the sides had switched position. Then the fabric rippled, ever so slightly.
“Okay. The curtain moved.” Fernandez rubbed his chin. “So what?”
“So we check it out.” Tempe was already striding for the door.
? ? ?
It took ten minutes to locate a ladder. Another five to maneuver it through the crowd, and ten more to return the curtains back to their original position. Fernandez was sweating through his aloha shirt, eyeing the clock as it ticked toward noon.
I’d overheard his phone call making financial arrangements.
If push came to shove, he’d send the money. And pray.
“Jackpot.” Tempe motioned me up onto the ladder with her. I scampered up the rungs carefully while Jenkins and Officer Palmer braced us below. Tempe was inspecting a section of curtain ten feet above the stage floor. “Check it out.”
Just shy of the edge, three holes sliced through the plush red velvet.
“It was a gun.” My eyes shot to the back wall of the display case. “But how are there no bullet holes?”
It hit me in a flash. “Unless . . .”
I spun awkwardly, peering back across the exhibit hall. Calculating in my mind.
That T-shirt booth. Five rows up, maybe six.
Tempe followed my gaze. Then her eyes popped. “Of course.”
“Given the angle,” I blurted, “I’d guess somewhere near that T-shirt emporium.”
“Five rows up, maybe six.” Tempe’s eyes twinkled. “Want to check it out?”
“Um, yeah.”
We scurried down the ladder, nearly knocking each other off in our haste. Stepping to the floor, I noticed Connors watching our movements. The smug look was long gone.
“Keep an eye on him,” I said to Flanagan, who nodded tightly, taking a step closer to the suspect.
“We’ll need the ladder over there.” Tempe pointed to the far wall.
Jenkins and Palmer exchanged pained glances, but hauled the twelve-footer across the convention floor, fighting the relentless foot traffic. Eventually we reached a massive T-shirt display. A variety of shirts rose twenty feet in a grid, like a giant checkerboard. Altogether, ten rows of twenty shirts each hung from hooks nailed to a thick wooden backboard. Employees retrieved the higher offerings using long, hooked poles.
While Director Ahern placated the furious booth operator, we positioned the ladder at the foot of the display. Then Tempe and I climbed up, past the first five rows, stopping every rung to glance back over our shoulders.
“Tempe, I see it!” I was face-to-face with a rack of yellow He-Man T-shirts.
There. Right below the DC Comics logo. Three singed holes.
Drawing level, Tempe gently pushed the hangers aside. Found three slugs buried in the wooden backboard.
“You were right,” Tempe said. “The bullets were fired from inside the case. Which almost certainly makes the robbery an inside job. Jenkins or Connors.”
“Or Skipper,” I added, though I thought it unlikely.
We clung to the ladder a moment, each lost in thought.
“But how’d they get the T-800 out of this hall?” Tempe muttered.
A gong went off in my head. I nearly slipped from the rungs.
“He didn’t.”