Chapter Six
When I returned to the office, Robin waited for me wearing a good business suit, briefcase in hand, ready to head out the door. “Dan, you made it in time! Come with me to the police station. Officer McGoohan is about to interrogate that necromancer. He said we could sit in, and I think it’s important for our case. Besides, I want to look that creep in the eye.”
“All three eyes,” I said, turning around again. “I’m ready.”
When Sheyenne appeared in the air, I noticed a flush on her semi-transparent cheeks—maybe a twinge of jealousy? “How was the brothel, Beaux?”
“A very nice place,” I said. “Professional. Some charming ladies.” One glance at Sheyenne’s face, and I could see that this wasn’t the time or the place for teasing. “I informed the madam that I was unable to provide the services she requested.”
“You’ve got that right! And what services was she after?”
“Protection.” I thought of making a wisecrack that every client at an unnatural brothel should use protection, but decided to keep my mouth shut. “It’s outside the scope of Chambeaux and Deyer, but I promised I’d try to find someone.”
Robin was at the door, holding it open. “Dan, we’ll be late. I want to hear how that simpering worm plans to defend himself.”
I softened my expression and looked into Sheyenne’s big blue eyes. “Spooky, you don’t have a thing to worry about. Really.” I blew her an air kiss as I followed Robin out the door, and she blew me one back.
Whoever designed the basic police interrogation room must have been having a bad day. An austere room with cinderblock walls painted white, a table in the middle, several uncomfortable chairs, not much else. You’ve seen it in every cop show since the dawn of television.
The necromancer Maximus Max sat on one side of the table, miserable. His embroidered purple robes were rumpled, since Max had slept in them in a general population holding cell—and gen-pop in the Unnatural Quarter precinct wasn’t anybody’s idea of a cocktail party. Max’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot; the third eye drawn in eye liner on his forehead was smudged.
Robin and I entered the interrogation room with McGoo, who had a notepad and a digital recorder, which he set upright on the table. Anxious to get his ordeal over with as quickly as possible, the necromancer looked ready to babble any confession we desired, so long as we let him go. He had already waived his right to counsel and to keep his mouth shut. Robin gave him a baleful glare as she opened her briefcase, removed a yellow legal pad and a pen, and took her seat.
I sat straight-backed and silent, observing, partly for moral support, partly to make the suspect nervous. It was my job.
McGoo went through the preliminaries, noting the date, time, location and subject of the interrogation, and confirming that Max had chosen not to remain silent. “Maximilian Grubb, also known as Maximus Max, certified necromancer and, judging from your rap sheet”—he pulled out a folder and opened it—“a small-time troublemaker and general nuisance, the type of person who gives me heartburn.”
“I’m just trying to make a living, a guy who wants to get by.” Max’s voice had a persistent whining quality. “It’s not easy these days. Tough times.”
“We’ve filed only minor charges so far, but it could get a lot worse,” McGoo said. “This is a conversation to obtain more information, even though you’ve already confessed to plenty. You waived your right to an attorney. Are you certain you don’t want one present on your behalf?”
“I don’t like lawyers,” Max said. “They scare me.”
Robin said “Boo,” and he flinched.
As McGoo reviewed the papers, he shook his head. “To be honest, it doesn’t look good for you, Mr. Grubb. We’ve impounded your sweatshop, freed your golem workforce, and confiscated all of your trinkets as evidence.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong!” he wailed.
Robin’s nostrils flared. “Oh? So slavery is fine with you?”
Maximus Max looked more confused than terrified. “But golems are made for work! Would you call me a terrible person for using a lawn mower or a coffee maker?”
Robin extracted a legal document from her briefcase and slapped it on the table. “As of a ruling seven months ago in the case of McDowell v. Clay, golems were classified as unnaturals, and therefore entitled to citizenship in the Quarter. They must be treated as any other citizen and must receive equal protection under the law.”
Max opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. The second time, words spilled out. “But golems are disposable—they’re mass-produced! You use a golem until he wears out, and then you get another one.”
Indignant, Robin leaned over the table. I could see sparks were about to fly. “Are you comparing those poor golems to … toothbrushes? Golems are thinking beings, not inanimate objects. Your days of using golems as slaves to manufacture tourist garbage are over, Mr. Grubb. Ignorance of the law is not a viable defense.”
Beads of sweat stood out on Max’s brow, causing the drawn third-eye to run. He sniffled. “I was trying to be respectable, and now I’m ruined because the rules keep changing. What’s going to be politically correct next week? How can I keep up? I’m just a middle-man. I fill the orders and ship them off. The Smile Syndicate runs the gift shop racket inside the Quarter—why not go after them? If there weren’t any customers, I wouldn’t need golems to make trinkets.”
I was surprised to learn that the Smile Syndicate owned the new Kreepsakes souvenir shops. A big conglomerate, the Syndicate kept a low profile, buying businesses right and left, but they did not put their name on neon signs. They had been around for decades, family owned and operated by the Goodfellows. Apparently, the Smile Syndicate had decided that tourism was the Next Big Thing in the Unnatural Quarter.
Several years ago, Irwyn Goodfellow—Hope Saldana’s philanthropist benefactor—had publicly and dramatically broken ties with his sister, Missy Goodfellow, who continued to handle the family business. Irwyn wanted to do good deeds with the family fortune, to leave a positive mark on the world; he washed his hands of what he called their “shadowy and underhanded dealings” (although he never gave specifics).
Now, Robin shook her head at Max’s wobbly defense. “When buying merchandise from an outside vendor, retailers are not obligated to follow the supply chain, nor are they responsible for any violations in the producer’s operation. You’re on the hook for this, Mr. Grubb. Not the Smile Syndicate.”
“But I didn’t know it was wrong to put golems to work, I really didn’t!” The necromancer turned to McGoo. “Can’t you cut me a break? Please? You’ve already taken everything from me. I’m not a bad person, just unlucky.”
Robin continued to glare daggers at him, but I whispered to her, “Could we have a private consult with Officer McGoohan outside the room?”
McGoo switched off the recorder and gave a stern warning to Maximus Max. “Don’t try to work any spells while you’re alone in here. We’ll be watching.” He pointed to the mirrored wall.
“Oh, I won’t—I swear!”
Out in the hall, with the door closed, I asked them both, “How strong is our case, really? Everybody in the Quarter knows that golems are workhorses, designed for assembly lines and menial labor. Max wasn’t exactly peddling drugs, weapons, or dangerous magical items. This is going to be a tough sell, especially if the Smile Syndicate decides to defend him with their lawyers.” I put my hand on Robin’s shoulder. “I’m not convinced the end result would be worth the time and expense of litigating this. We already got what we wanted. Max is shut down and all of Bill’s friends are freed.”
Robin was tied up in knots. “I want that necromancer punished for abusing those poor golems. I could file a civil-rights suit and take him for every penny he has!” She paced back and forth, letting her legal mind take charge over her emotional reaction. “But I doubt he has more than a penny to his name.” She lifted her chin and forced herself to look on the bright side. “The most important part is that the golems are liberated, I suppose. We saved them. They can go out and live happy lives now. I’ll be able to sleep well at night.”
I put my arm around Robin’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.
“Oh, he’s not getting away—we’ve got him on at least ten permit violations,” McGoo said. “We’ll put him through the wringer. Scout’s honor, Grubb will not be a happy camper when this is all over.”
We reentered the interrogation room, and Maximus Max perked up, his eyes filled with puppy-dog hope. “This is your lucky day, Grubb,” McGoo announced. “We won’t be sending you to prison—not for this. But we might squeeze your wallet dry.”
“Oh thank you, thank you!” Max rubbed his hands, then said in a small voice, “Umm, how much is this going to cost?”
“You operated a manufacturing center without the proper permits,” Robin interjected. “Your building was not zoned for the production of souvenir trinkets. You didn’t register your business. You didn’t have regular safety inspections. I could go on, but you get the idea. Each one of those infractions carries a severe penalty and a significant fine.”
“If you pay all the fines, you’re free to go,” McGoo said.
“Oh, I will, even if it takes my last few cents.” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know I needed permits for all those things, or licenses, or registrations.”
“Sounds like you don’t know a lot of things, Mr. Grubb,” I added. Robin closed her briefcase and snapped the locks shut with a pronounced click.
“Do your research before you open a business,” McGoo warned. “Next time, fill out a form for everything you can think of and file it with the clerk. Pay the required fees. Better safe than sorry. It’s a lot cheaper than what you’re going to pay now.”
The necromancer groaned and swiped a hand across his forehead, smearing his third eye into oblivion.