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.”

  “Okay, young lady. Everyone is waiting.”

  Director Ahern’s tart words sent a shiver down my spine.

  But I knew I was right.

  I’d led everyone back to the stage. Hadn’t shared my theory, not even with Aunt Tempe.

  I wanted to be sure.

  And, being honest, was enjoying the drama.

  Unless I’m wrong. Oh God, don’t let me be wrong!

  “Go on,” Tempe encouraged, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. Did she guess? “Your show, Ms. Brennan.”

  My knees shook as I climbed to the platform, walked to the middle, and faced the gaggle of irritated officials. Behind them, a sea of conventioneers had stopped to watch.

  Suddenly, I was a Comic-Con attraction.

  Just lay it out, piece by piece.

  “We found three slugs embedded in woodwork across the hall.” I pointed to where the rack of He-Man shirts hung, then spun to face the wreckage behind me. “Additionally, three bullet holes were found in the curtain covering the shattered pane. This glass was laminated and heat-tempered, making it extremely difficult to break. That’s why it was used for the display case in the first place. Therefore, it’s clear that our thief somehow gained entry to the case, and shot his way out, not in.”

  Director Ahern raised her hand sarcastically. I chose to treat it as an honest request.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “All of the broken glass fell inside the case,” she argued. “How could that be, if the shots were fired from within?”

  “A common mistake,” Tempe answered with a rueful head shake. “One I unfortunately made myself. Glass flexes when struck by bullets, then snaps back, causing shards to spray in the direction from which the shots were fired. The fragments can fly up to fifteen feet toward the shooter. This explains why all the debris ended up inside the case.”

  “But that case was sealed last night, with all three characters inside.” Skipper glared at his underlings—Jenkins stood alone, fidgeting nervously, while Connors sat, stone-faced, under the watchful eye of Officer Flanagan. “Those two were the only workers with access. Jenkins had the sole key to the hatch in the stage floor.”

  “I never went back inside!” Jenkins raised both hands, voice pleading. “I locked the hatch after Connors bailed last night, and didn’t open it again. Not even this morning, when that jerk failed to show for setup. You saw the tape—I just arranged the curtains and left.”

  Connors said nothing. Watched me like a hawk.

  “What you’ve said was obvious upon locating the bullets,” Fernandez groused, eyeing me with ill-disguised impatience. “But we still don’t know where my robot is.”

  “And we’re almost out of time.” Skipper, green-faced as he held up his watch.

  “I’ve got three minutes to make the transfer or I lose my investment.” Fernandez shot a black look at Connors. “I can’t allow that to happen. I won’t. I’ll have to pay.”

  “Cheer up.” I spoke with more confidence than I felt. “I don’t think the T-800 is in any danger.”

  Connors shifted in his seat. Leaned forward. I didn’t miss it.

  Nervous, big boy?

  I stepped inside the glass enclosure and approached the mutilated troll. “Why was Shrek hacked to pieces?”

  “To send a message,” Flanagan replied slowly. “As Director Ahern said, the perp wants us to know he’ll destroy the robot if not paid.”

  Ahern, Skipper, and Fernandez nodded in unison.

  I turned to Fernandez. “How much is Shrek worth?”

  “What, the replica?” He stroked his snowy beard, considering. “Almost nothing, actually. A few thousand dollars at most. He’s a just prop once used in a Thanksgiving Day parade.”

  “So why would you care if Shrek was destroyed?” I scooped a piece of green foam rubber from the floor. “He’s nowhere near the Terminator’s value.”

  “Perhaps the thief didn’t know that?” But Ahern’s eyes had narrowed.

  A eureka expression crossed Tempe’s face. “Oh, that’s clever,” she whispered.

  Heads swiveled her direction, but Tempe nodded toward me. “Tell them.”

  Before I could, stupid Hiram stole my thunder, bouncing forward and shouting, “Shrek wasn’t vandalized. He gave birth!”

  “What?” Flanagan rounded on my chubby companion. “Son, this is serious—”

  “Hi’s right.” I ripped a chunk from the mangled troll. “Shrek wasn’t chopped up to send a message. He was sliced open because the person hiding inside needed out.”

  Everyone froze.

  Except Connors. The big man rose. Arched his back.

  Got you, you oaf.

  “I don’t . . . why would . . .” Confusion was plain on Fernandez’s face.

  Officer Flanagan rounded on Skipper, Connors, and Jenkins. “Inside job. The suspect knew that figure was hollow, got inside undetected, and waited.”

  “This is fascinating, but pointless.” Director Ahern slammed a fist into her open palm. “The T-800 is gone. We don’t know how it was removed. We don’t know where it is!”

  “Of course we do.” I crossed to King Kong and rapped his belly with my knuckles. “It’s right here. Inside this big, misunderstood ape.”

  For a few seconds, everyone was struck dumb. All but Tempe, who chuckled.

  Behind the officials, the costumed crowd murmured excitedly.

  Sweet Lord in Heaven, I better be right.

  “It’s a theatrical costume.” Shelton had both ears in his hands. “A giant monkey suit.”

  “Operated from within.” Ben nodded appreciatively. “Meaning Kong is hollow, too.”

  “Mr. Skipper?” I fought to keep my voice steady. “How is Kong opened?”

  “Zipper.” Skipper’s face was slack with shock. “In back.”

  It took me a moment to locate the black tab at the base of Kong’s foot. I yanked upward, my heart hammering in my chest.

  Please oh please oh please oh please . . .

  The zipper rose to chest level, then jammed. Kneeling, I shoved the furry sides apart.

  Came face-to-face with an evil metallic grin. Red eyes glared at me with hatred.

  “Whaa!” I leaped backward.

  Then, face burning with embarrassment, I forced the zipper higher. More hands joined mine—Jenkins and Skipper magically appeared behind me, panting with relief. Soon we’d parted the suit enough to drag the T-800 out into the light.

  The crowd roared. Applause thundered from the costumed horde.

  Skipper squealed with delight as he examined the robot for damage. Fernandez was gasping, tears glistening in his eyes, shaking every hand he could find.

  Connors took a small step away from the distracted cops.

  Bumped right into Ben. “Going somewhere, Lord Mace?”

  Shelton pointed both index fingers at Connors. “This dude had monkey fur all over his boots!”

  Officer Flanagan placed a hand on Connors’s shoulder. “Why’d you do it, boy?”

  Connors face was granite. “I didn’t do anything. Good luck proving it.”

  Damn.

  I looked to Tempe. Her face mirrored mine.

  We’d solved the crime, but nothing tied to our suspect. Just some glass, tape, and a few stray costume hairs. Connors could explain away each with little effort.

  “The gym bag!” Hi slapped his leg as if he’d just solved a riddle. “I get it now.”

  Flanagan gave him a questioning look.

  “Provisions.” Hi winked at Connors. “I get you, Lord Mace. Packed a few sandwiches and some tasty agua for your stay in Troll Town? Snuck inside last night, before Jenkins locked the hatch? No wonder he couldn’t find you. And you were still inside this morning, until the curtain went up and you used the box cutter to slash free. Well played. Almost.”

  Connors sniffed. “Nice story. Did my box cutter shoot three bullets through the glass?”

  Tempe crossed to the gym bag, which was sitting on a chair by the stage. She’d somehow acquired a pair of tweezers. Squatting, she began to inspect its exterior. Her fingers darted, plucking something from a seam.

  “Care to explain this?” Tempe held aloft a small bit of shredded green foam rubber. “There are tiny pieces of Shrek all over your bag, Mr. Connors. Yet you haven’t been onstage since the robbery occurred.”

  “Oh snap!” Hi made explosion hands at Connors. “You just got Picard-ed!”

  “Locard,” I corrected, smiling coldly at the hulking suspect. “He’s right, though. All of the trace evidence points to you.”

  “That stuff has been flying everywhere,” Connors said defensively, but a sheen of sweat now glistened his brow. “You can’t prove I cut him open. You can’t prove anything.”

  “He’s got a point,” Flanagan said softly. “Without the gun, or any bullet casings . . .”

  If only we’d found the gun in his bag.

  Skipper and Jenkins finished setting the T-800 back on its dais. They exchanged a nervous laugh, like two little kids who’d somehow dodged a certain punishment. The crowd surrounding us gave a lusty cheer.

  As they dusted the Terminator, I noticed a black plastic box attached to its hip.

  “Mr. Skipper?” I waved for his attention, pointed. “What’s that?”

  “It’s the weapon holster.” He flipped it open absently. “We don’t bring the . . .”

  His voice cut off. Skipper gaped into the box.

  I knew what he was seeing.

  “Officer Flanagan?” Tempe had been paying attention. “I think they found something on the machine.”

  Flanagan nodded for Palmer to watch Connors, then climbed onstage and peered over Skipper’s shoulder. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he reached down and removed a .45 caliber handgun from the T-800’s holster. Then, surprisingly, he carefully set the gun down and reached back inside, retrieving a long black cylinder.

  “Gun and silencer,” Flanagan announced. “Excellent. And I think I see casings in there, too. Maybe we’ll find some prints after all.”

  “Silencer!” Hi smacked his hands together. “That’s why no one heard the shots. Brilliant. And he would’ve gotten away with it, if it hadn’t been for us meddling kids.”

  Shelton punched Hi in the shoulder. “C’mon, man. Scooby-Doo?”

  “I saw the whole gang walk by here earlier,” Hi shot back, rubbing his arm. “Dead serious. Their Daphne needs work, though.”

  Officer Palmer grinned at Connors. “We’ll just check the registration on that piece, hey, friend?”

  Connors shrugged, unfazed.

  Crap. It’s not going to be registered to him.

  But Tempe had the answer. “I suggest you bag the suspect’s hands. Paper is best.”

  “Bag his hands?” Palmer gave her a strange look. “Why?”

  “That gun was fired three times within the last four hours.” Tempe looked Connors squarely in the eye. “Gunshot residue likely transferred to the shooter’s hands. A simple swab should give us the answer.”

  Connors’s eyes widened. Then narrowed. “I’m not doing any test.”

  He took a half step backward, was met by Palmer’s restraining hand. “Should I cuff him, boss?”

  Flanagan nodded as he descended the stairs. “Frank Connors, you are under arrest for—”

  He got no further.

  Connors turned and sucker-punched Palmer full in the stomach. The lanky officer dropped to his knees with a silent wail as the air exploded from his chest. Then Connors shoved Ben aside and barreled into the crowd before anyone could react. In moments he was lost in the shuffle.

  “After him!” Flanagan shouted, tripping on the last step and tumbling to the ground.

  Palmer rose with a sickly wheeze and gave chase, as Director Ahern screamed and waved her arms. Staffers converged, then a wave of Yellow Shirts went scrambling down the packed aisle in Connors’s wake.