We were getting exactly nowhere when McGuire's desk phone buzzed. I knew he'd told Louise no calls, but she let this one through. A minute later, I knew why.
McGuire mostly listened, saying "Uh-huh" a couple of times. Then he said, "Thanks, Homer, I appreciate it," and hung up.
He looked at me. "I called in a favor Homer owed me and got him to rush a tox screen on one of the goblins – I told him any one of them would do. Looks like you were on the money, Stan. That little green bastard was wired up to his furry eyebrows. I'd be surprised if the others weren't exactly the same."
"Meth," Karl said. "Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick."
"I thought after Big Paul got killed" – that was mostly my fault, but I decided not to bring it up – "the State Police raided the goblins' little encampment out there by the city dump."
McGuire nodded. "They did."
"They were supposed to confiscate all that dumped cold medicine the gobs were using to cook with."
"They did that, too," McGuire said. "And the DA told the Loquasto brothers – the city subcontracts dump operations to them – that they'd face criminal prosecution if cold medicine in any quantity was ever found there again. Dom and Louie believed him – they've got people checking every truck that goes in there now."
"So, if there's no more cold medicine at the dump," I said, "how come a bunch of meth-head goblins were after my scalp tonight?"
"Other people are still making meth," Karl said. "Here in the Valley and elsewhere. They must be – the profit on that stuff is huge."
I looked at Karl, then turned to McGuire. "So, if the gobs didn't make it themselves, where'd they buy it?"
It was quiet in the little office until McGuire said, "I figure they got it from whoever sent them to kill you."
"Sent them?" I said, frowning. "I was assuming they just wanted payback for the goblin I killed in the liquor store."
"That was a year and a half ago, Stan," McGuire said.
"The boss is right, Stan," Karl said. "For gobs to hold a grudge that long would be like a squirrel remembering that you gave him some peanuts last fall. They're not real smart, haina?"
"And here's something else to ponder," McGuire said. "How did those goblins get to your house from where they live, out near the dump? That's what – three miles?"
I shrugged. "Some of them drive, even if they don't have licenses."
"Yeah," McGuire said, "but what were they driving? I got the deputy chief to assign me some manpower, and they used a goblin-sniffing dog to check every parked vehicle for a radius of three blocks from your place. Not a whiff."
I sat and thought about that. "So somebody got these little green fuckers wired on meth, drove them to my place, let them in through the side door of the garage, and told them to wait until I raised the door. Then he just drove away?"
"Could be," McGuire said. "He might've just abandoned them, figuring that no survivors would be able to tell us anything useful, what with the meth and their natural stupidity."
"Or maybe he was parked someplace where he could see your driveway," Karl said. "When you and Sharkey smoked all six of the gobs, he figured there was no reason to hang around any longer, and split."
"Speaking of Sharkey," McGuire said, "that's something else that puzzles me – why did he intervene? I'm glad he did, mind you, but I can't figure his motivation."
"Yeah, me neither," Karl said.
"You two aren't exactly best buddies," McGuire said to me, "and Sharkey isn't known for his compassion. He doesn't just help people for giggles."
"I've been thinking about that," I said. "You're right about the Shark – he doesn't do anything on impulse. The only explanation that makes any sense to me is – Mister Milo."
"You mean the vic from the Radisson?" McGuire said. "I don't get it."
"Milo was sent out here to take care of whoever's been making those snuff films, right?" I said. "When he and his ghouls didn't turn up anything, maybe he figured Karl and me were his best bet for finding the bad guys. So he hired Sharkey to follow us around until we identified the source, then the Shark could step in and do what he does best. Milo must have told him to make sure nothing happened to us in the meantime."
"Yeah, but Milo's dead," McGuire said.
"Doesn't matter," I told him. "Sharkey always gets paid up front, and he's got a strange sense of… professional ethics – strange, considering what he is, I mean. If he takes your money, he does the job. Period. He doesn't stop until the contract is fulfilled."
"Sounds like you know this dude pretty well, Stan," Karl said.
"Better than I ever wanted to."
Karl looked like he was waiting for me to say more, but when I kept quiet, he didn't push.
"All right, so maybe we know why Sharkey's acting like your guardian angel," McGuire said. "But what we still don't know is who he's guarding you from."
"I'd say it's gotta be related to one of the cases we're working, but so far we haven't got shit on any of them. Suspicions and theories – that's it."
"If somebody's trying to take you out, maybe that's a validation of your suspicions and theories," McGuire said.
"Could be," I said. "And that reminds me – in all the excitement I didn't get around to telling you my latest theory – and it's a doozie."
McGuire sat back. "I'm all ears."
I told him my idea that the snuff films and murders of supes – and maybe a human, too – were all being carried out by the same people.
When I'd finished, McGuire didn't say anything. He checked his coffee mug, dumped a mouthful of cold coffee into the wastebasket and poured himself a fresh cup.
"It's a reach, Stan," he said at last. "Especially the part about the snuff films being part of this big Helter Skelter conspiracy. I don't see how they can get the public all upset if the torture murders are all underground – and that's exactly where they are."
"They have to be sold on the sly," I said. "It's like kiddie porn – just possessing that stuff means you're going to jail, let alone selling it."