The Big Sheep by Robert Kroese Page A

was someone with access to the lab. Someone who could pass Esper’s biometric scans: voiceprint, fingerprint, and retinal imaging. So unless someone physically dragged Díaz’s corpse down to Esper, I can’t see how he could have been much help in the theft. If there’s an inside man, it’s someone else.”
    â€œHmm,” said Keane again.
    â€œWhat?” I asked. “He’s dead, Keane. He didn’t do it.”
    â€œPerhaps,” said Keane.
    â€œNo, Keane,” I said. “Not ‘perhaps.’ Death isn’t a detail you can overlook. It’s a hard and fast category. Dead men don’t steal sheep.”
    â€œI just don’t think we should dismiss him so quickly, is all,” said Keane.
    â€œYou dismissed one woman because her shoes were too tight!” I exclaimed in exasperation.
    â€œ Three sizes too tight,” said Keane. “That’s a woman who is willing to live in near-constant pain in order to maintain the illusion that her feet are slightly smaller than they are. She’s not what you’d consider a creative problem-solver. She lacks the ambition and the imagination to execute a crime of this scope.”
    â€œSo does Hugo Díaz,” I said. “On account of his being dead .”
    â€œConvenient, isn’t it?” said Keane. “Is there going to be an autopsy?”
    â€œI highly doubt it,” I said. “The man was forty-eight years old and sixty pounds overweight. He left work complaining of chest pains. His wife found him dead in bed the next morning. It’s not exactly what you would call a suspicious death.”
    The door opened, and a slightly built, well-dressed man walked into the room.
    â€œMr. Keane,” he said. “Mr. Fowler. I’m Jason Banerjee, Esper’s vice president for research and development. I understand you’re done with interviews for the day. Late for another appointment?”
    I shook his hand. Banerjee looked to be in his late thirties—which meant, for a man in his position, he was some combination of brilliant, politically savvy, and phenomenally wealthy. Probably all three. He was dark-skinned and handsome, with cruel, clever eyes.
    â€œNope,” said Keane. “We’ve talked to all the employees we need to.”
    â€œYou have a suspect then?”
    â€œWorking a case like this is an iterative process,” said Keane. “Speaking of which, we need an autopsy for Hugo Díaz.”
    â€œDíaz? The technician who had a heart attack? Why?”
    â€œAlleged heart attack,” said Keane. “And if I knew why I needed the autopsy, I wouldn’t need it.”
    â€œDíaz was our employee. We don’t have the authority—”
    â€œNext of kin?”
    â€œWife,” I said, examining Hugo’s file. “Jessica.”
    â€œConvince his wife it’s necessary,” said Keane to Banerjee. “Bribe her if you have to. I need to know what killed Hugo Díaz.”
    â€œI’ll see what I can do,” said Banerjee. “This better not be a wild-goose chase. I need that sheep back as soon as possible. So, what’s next?”
    Keane checked his comm display. “ Now we’re late for another appointment.”

 
    FIVE
    Priya had given us her complete schedule for the next several days, which consisted almost entirely of leaving her hotel early in the morning to go work on the DiZzy Girl set and then returning to the hotel sometime after dark. Tonight, though, she was supposed to make an appearance at a party at Élan Durham’s house in the Hollywood Hills. When she mentioned it, I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea to go to any unfamiliar places if she thought she was in danger, but Keane thought it was best to keep up appearances. He’d asked her to get us added to the guest list so we could keep an eye on her.
    We made the trip mostly in silence, but as we