driver and tourguide.
"On your right is the employee cafeteria. We serve over twelve thousand meals a day. Up ahead is our laundry facility. How many pounds of laundry would you guess we handle on a daily basis?"
"We're cops, ma'am," Terry said. "We can't guess without clues."
"Fifty-two tons," she said, with a hint of self-congratulation that one doesn't usually associate with getting laundry dirty. "And believe it or not, that generates over one hundred pounds of dryer lint every day.",
I had to hand it to her. She acted like this was just another day at the office. Let's see, what's on the agenda today? Staff meeting, write a press release, dash over to Familyland, drive cops to dead body, then lunch. The gal in charge of Corporate Miscommunications. Calm and composed on the outside, but I'd bet that deep down she was scared shitless.
The cart stopped to let a zebra cross in front of us. Not a man in a zebra suit. A real zebra, like you see on the savannah. The handler, or whatever you call those guys who pull exotic animals
The Rabbit Factory
around underground tunnels, waved at us. Amy said, "Hi, Harold," and for a second I was impressed that she knew him by name. Then I saw the name tag on his shirt. Can't fool this detective.
The cart took off again. Like I told Terry, I had been to Familyland. This was better. It was like being backstage at the circus. Actually it was more like being in the circus. Everyone was in costume. We passed a group of three young women who must have been on a coffee break. One of them looked like Dolley Madison and had to stand about five feet back from the others to make clearance for her hoop skirt. The second was in a tiger suit, with the head resting on the ground nearby. The third was some sort of a Martian drinking a Fresca.
"You think maybe our killer was wearing a costume to help him blend in?" Terry asked, practically reading my mind.
"I was just wondering the same thing," I said.
"But it would have to be something simple," Terry said. "I can't imagine being able to kill somebody if you're dressed up like a six-foot duck." .
The golf cart hummed along, and I sat back and enjoyed the show. It was difficult to think of this place as a business. Or a murder scene. This was the underbelly of one of the greatest entertainment institutions in the world. The part the public never gets to see; hardly even knows about. I couldn't help but think how much Joanie would have loved this special secret world down here.
We drove past hundreds of people, most of whom seemed to be in a hurry to get to God-knows-where. Just like an airport. Except in the airport, you don't see that many people dressed in sequins, sparkles, and spangles. Well, maybe San Francisco Airport.
We turned off the Ventura Freeway onto a narrow passageway, a cul-de-sac about fifty feet deep. At the far end was a cluster of people inside a perimeter of yellow plastic tape. Amy stopped the cart, and Terry jumped off. "What the hell is this?" he said, grabbing the tape.
It should have said, Crime Scene. Do Not Cross. Instead it said This Area Closed For Renovations. Sorry For The Inconvenience. Terry was furious. "Are we investigating a homicide, or an inconvenience?"
"We need to keep a low profile," Amy said. "We can't have employees gawking at a big yellow police banner that says Murder Committed Here.'"
"You need to keep it low profile?" Terry barked. "Are you aware that it's against the law to remove the Crime Scene tape?"
"We didn't remove it. We just added our own tape and extended the perimeter. The whole world doesn't have to know there was a murder here."
"Well, LAPD just might want the whole world to know," Terry said, loud enough for a good chunk of the world to hear him, "just in case one of them happened to be a witness. Did you ever think of that?"
"Gentlemen, can I help?" a voice called out.
The people behind the tape stopped working to see what the yelling was about. One by one they lost interest
"On your right is the employee cafeteria. We serve over twelve thousand meals a day. Up ahead is our laundry facility. How many pounds of laundry would you guess we handle on a daily basis?"
"We're cops, ma'am," Terry said. "We can't guess without clues."
"Fifty-two tons," she said, with a hint of self-congratulation that one doesn't usually associate with getting laundry dirty. "And believe it or not, that generates over one hundred pounds of dryer lint every day.",
I had to hand it to her. She acted like this was just another day at the office. Let's see, what's on the agenda today? Staff meeting, write a press release, dash over to Familyland, drive cops to dead body, then lunch. The gal in charge of Corporate Miscommunications. Calm and composed on the outside, but I'd bet that deep down she was scared shitless.
The cart stopped to let a zebra cross in front of us. Not a man in a zebra suit. A real zebra, like you see on the savannah. The handler, or whatever you call those guys who pull exotic animals
The Rabbit Factory
around underground tunnels, waved at us. Amy said, "Hi, Harold," and for a second I was impressed that she knew him by name. Then I saw the name tag on his shirt. Can't fool this detective.
The cart took off again. Like I told Terry, I had been to Familyland. This was better. It was like being backstage at the circus. Actually it was more like being in the circus. Everyone was in costume. We passed a group of three young women who must have been on a coffee break. One of them looked like Dolley Madison and had to stand about five feet back from the others to make clearance for her hoop skirt. The second was in a tiger suit, with the head resting on the ground nearby. The third was some sort of a Martian drinking a Fresca.
"You think maybe our killer was wearing a costume to help him blend in?" Terry asked, practically reading my mind.
"I was just wondering the same thing," I said.
"But it would have to be something simple," Terry said. "I can't imagine being able to kill somebody if you're dressed up like a six-foot duck." .
The golf cart hummed along, and I sat back and enjoyed the show. It was difficult to think of this place as a business. Or a murder scene. This was the underbelly of one of the greatest entertainment institutions in the world. The part the public never gets to see; hardly even knows about. I couldn't help but think how much Joanie would have loved this special secret world down here.
We drove past hundreds of people, most of whom seemed to be in a hurry to get to God-knows-where. Just like an airport. Except in the airport, you don't see that many people dressed in sequins, sparkles, and spangles. Well, maybe San Francisco Airport.
We turned off the Ventura Freeway onto a narrow passageway, a cul-de-sac about fifty feet deep. At the far end was a cluster of people inside a perimeter of yellow plastic tape. Amy stopped the cart, and Terry jumped off. "What the hell is this?" he said, grabbing the tape.
It should have said, Crime Scene. Do Not Cross. Instead it said This Area Closed For Renovations. Sorry For The Inconvenience. Terry was furious. "Are we investigating a homicide, or an inconvenience?"
"We need to keep a low profile," Amy said. "We can't have employees gawking at a big yellow police banner that says Murder Committed Here.'"
"You need to keep it low profile?" Terry barked. "Are you aware that it's against the law to remove the Crime Scene tape?"
"We didn't remove it. We just added our own tape and extended the perimeter. The whole world doesn't have to know there was a murder here."
"Well, LAPD just might want the whole world to know," Terry said, loud enough for a good chunk of the world to hear him, "just in case one of them happened to be a witness. Did you ever think of that?"
"Gentlemen, can I help?" a voice called out.
The people behind the tape stopped working to see what the yelling was about. One by one they lost interest
Similar Books
What If Ireland Defaults?
Brian Lucey
Jonah Havensby
Bob Bannon
Arcane Society Story 01 - The Scargill Cove Case Files
Jayne Ann Krentz
Himiko: Warrior
CB Conwy
Wingless
Taylor Lavati
The Ladder Dancer
Roz Southey
To Betray A Brother
G.W. Gibson
Blue Damask
Annmarie Banks
Baby Im Back
Stephanie Bond