… and it looks real. Live actors couldn't do any better.”
I was beginning to understand how Ian had gotten a confession out of “Adela.” Liz was right. Yuri had to be some kind of genius to pull that off. How did he know how to do her eyes? They were perfect. Perfect enough for me to believe she did it. Perfect enough for me to grill her. Damn it to hell. We had to get her out of there.
“But why not use actors in his movies?” I asked. “Wouldn't it be easier?”
“I told you at the beginning, Yuri's an artist, a filmmaker. If he uses holos, he can make a film that is one hundred percent his vision. When he makes his shorts, they're his movies and his alone. Regular directors have to collaborate with their actors and accept their actors' interpretations of the script. Using holos, Yuri can truly implement his vision-from script, to set design, to acting, the whole thing. From beginning to end it's his.”
“And you think he's the best in the system?”
“I don't know of anybody better.”
“So if he wanted to film somebody getting murdered, he could?”
“Sure. I think he could do just about anything.”
“Has he?”
Liz turned instantly wary. “Has he what?”
“Filmed a murder. Your murder.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I watched you die, Liz. I watched some bastard use your back as an ashtray. I watched him slit your throat. What's the matter, Liz? You don't look too good.”
“I'm just surprised, that's all.”
“About what?”
“I'm surprised that you saw that one. It was distributed to a very exclusive clientele.”
“And who would that be?”
“I don't know.”
“Bullshit.”
“Really, I don't know. And neither does Yuri. We just make the movies.”
“Does Ian know?”
Liz looked away. “Maybe it's time for you to go.”
I put my drink down and stood up with a little brandy-induced wobble. I wasn't about to leave. I stalked over to her and looked down on her with the authority of an enforcer. “Not until I get answers,” I ordered. “I want to know who you made that movie for. I don't want to hear any more of this crap about Horst being a travel agent. I want to know what he's really into. I want to know who Horst's customers are. I want names, Liz. And you're going to tell me about Ian. I want to know where he fits in, and I'm not talking about between your legs.”
“Ooh, is it interrogation time?” Liz turned on her “Liz Lagarto: Porn Star” persona. “I don't know anything about any of that, offither.” She little-girl lisped the word officer.
I reeled from another sudden change. “Stop calling me officer.”
“Yes, offither.” She pouted.
What the fuck? Just a few seconds ago she was talking normal, like a regular person who had a passionate interest in film. But now she'd shifted into this naughty kitten with semipuckered lips. She was looking up at me from her seat. She had her arms squeezed tight against her sides to give her tits maximum lift. I was paralyzed. I had no idea what to do. How do you intimidate somebody who's into it? “Stop it, Liz.”
She hiked her dress up over her knees. She pulled her shoulder straps off, baring her breasts. “Maybe you need to teach me a lethon, offither.”
I felt weak as I took in her parted lips, her jasmine-smelling hair, her erect nipples… “I said stop it.” The words came out limp, as another part of me was becoming anything but.
“Make me.” She said it like a five-year-old.
“Jesus Christ, Liz. Just tell me what I want to know, and I'll go.”
“Make me,” she repeated in a nanny-nanny-boo-boo way.
“Dammit, Liz!” I yelled as I shook her shoulders.
Her hands were on me. My zipper dropped, and her fingers were inside. I sank the fingers of my good hand into her hair and grabbed hold. I yanked her head back hard, hard enough that I felt roots pulling free. She sucked in a sharp breath and a broad smile broke across her face. “Yeth, offither,” she baby-talked as her fingers picked up the pace.
She was still looking up at me, her copper skin tinting red on her cheeks and down her neck to her chest, a flaming flag of desire. Her hands moved up to the snap on my pants. I stepped back, pulling free from her hair and her manipulating fingers. I kept my left fist closed and walked out, leaving her high, but not so dry.
I pounded my way down the stairs with heavy steps that echoed my throbbing heart. I hit the bottom of the stairs and stopped before entering the kitchen, waiting for another throbbing to subside so I could zip my fly.
I didn't want to loosen my left fist, so when the time came, I fumbled my zipper back up with my shaky splinted fingers. I paced through the kitchen, and then through the dining room, resisting a stop at the bar. Maggie entered the restaurant a few seconds before I reached the door.
“I was just coming to find you,” she said. “You were supposed to stay by the window. I got worried.”
“I'm okay,” I said as we stepped out together.
She kept the rest of her unasked questions to herself as we double-timed away from the neighborhood of KOP station before Ian and crew came down on us. We had to assume that Liz called him even before I hit the stairs. We slowed our pace once we entered the warren of shop-lined alleys called the Phra Kaew market area.
Maggie and I took a serpentine path deep into the market, feeling safer and safer with every turn we made in the mazelike district.
“Come in with me,” I said to Maggie as I ducked into a spice shop, nothing more than a walk-in closet with shelving all around packed tight with glass jars brimming with aromatic spice. I asked the woman behind the counter for a baggie.
I told Maggie to take the baggie. “Now help me bag this up,” I said as I held up my closed left fist for her to see, long strands of black hair pinched between my fingers, white DNA-filled roots hanging on the ends.
Maggie and I found a Phra Kaew fish counter and took two of the four stools. I called Abdul, who was working late again, elbow deep in a fresh cadaver. I told him to come meet us when he was done-we had some DNA that needed analyzing. Maggie said she felt bad making him walk all the way down here, but we had little choice. We both knew there was no way we could set foot in KOP station, which was fine by me. I had no interest in going there ever again. The last time I was there was the day Diego Banks pulled off his coup. He had me arrested and kept me locked down while he and his coconspirators murdered Paul Chang and seized control. Then, once his takeover was complete, he took my badge and let me go. The SOB didn't even respect me enough to kill me.
Maggie and I ordered up a couple fish bowls and waited for Abdul. It didn't take long. Our fish was still frying when he came shuffling down the walk with a rickety gait that didn't seem to slow him down any. Abdul climbed up onto the stool next to mine and leaned heavily on the counter as he adjusted his shaky position until he found the right balance. I knew better than to offer any help. Abdul didn't need any, and he wasn't shy about letting you know.
“We already ordered,” I said.
“I'll have whatever they're having,” he said to the cook, who dropped another filet into the fryer.
Maggie reached around me to pass him the baggie of hair. “We need a rush job on this, Abdul.”
“No problem,” he said, and he took the baggy with his craggy hand and slid it into a shirt pocket. “I'll take care of it as soon as I get back to my office. I was glad to get your message, Juno. I've been trying to call you.”
“I had to ditch my phone.”
“They're looking for you,” he said.
“I know. Ian's not too happy with me.”
“It's not just Ian. He put out the word to all of KOP that you're wanted for questioning in a homicide.”
“Great,” I said, knowing full well that “questioning” was enforcer code for beating a confession out of somebody. “Whose homicide?”