Boo took her arm in a firm and reassuring grip as he helped her to the next level.
"Find anything?" he asked.
"Not a whisker," Liz said. "It's beginning to look as if it's a job for the Men in Black, not us."
Boo came up alongside her as she reached the top of the steep stairs. "I have to admit I'm kind of hoping not," he said.
"Me, too," Liz said. Though she would far rather not have to deal with a supernatural menace and it would be a relief if Fionna's troubles turned out to be a set of coincidences and accidents, the department needed all the credibility it could get, and this was her first solo mission. Negative results were no way to earn promotion.
They went out into the broad, tiled hallway. Names of corporations were engraved on plaques set into the metal doors on her left. Those must lead to the luxury skyboxes she saw from the stage level. Boo steered her toward a set of blank doors. Scraping sounds shook the floor, and sirens echoed through the corridors. Liz looked around in alarm.
"That's just the loading bay doors, opening to let the fire truck out," Boo explained. "Come on, let's take a look in the control room."
He rapped on the blind door, and a bearded man in T-shirt, jeans and headset let them in. Inside the cramped, glass-fronted room the crew was in a frenzy of activity. The technical director, Gary Lowe, stood shouting into his headset behind a man and a woman seated at the console. Behind him, the event director was talking simultaneously to Lowe and to the floor director down on the stage. Robbie Unterburger glanced up from her high-tech keyboard, and cocked her head to beckon them over. Her hands flitted from one control to another, tweaking levers, knobs and keys.
"This is a fantastic setup," Liz said, staring at the control panel as she tried to figure out what any of it did. "You aren't running all your machinery, are you?"
"No," Robbie said, tossing her straight, brown hair, "this is a dry run. I'm just following my cues this time. I'll test everything, and we'll have one live technical run-through just before showtime tomorrow. These are the triggers for the lasers, and here are the joysticks for each one. I can run them manually or program the whole thing to run by computer. They did not go off and set Fitzy on fire." Her dark brows drew down as she dared the agents to say otherwise. "This is the control for the smoke pots," she said, pointing to a bank of a dozen switches, "and here's the hologram projectors that show images on the clouds. It's fantastic." Robbie's eyes sparkled as she turned one of four small screens toward them so they could see the turning figures of constellations and mythical beasts that were cued up and ready to run. Liz found the change from sullen child to lively effects wizard a charming transformation. Liz caught Ken Lewis glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. He saw Liz looking at him and swiftly turned away. "The firing mechanism for sparklers and fireworks is disabled just now; we're not permitted to use it unless the fire engine is on standby. Pity. This is a great place for flash and bang. The bigger the better."
"Do you mind?" the technical director barked, cupping his hand over the microphone on his headset. "Excuse us, we're doing a show here. Sorry," he said to Liz and Boo. Boo put a finger to his lips and nodded to Liz. They retreated to the rear of the control room to watch the crew prepare. The female sound engineer shouted into the microphone set in the console in front of her. The lighting engineer gestured with both hands as he talked into his headset. Lowe gave Liz and Boo a brief glance, and then forgot about them as the disembodied baritone of stage manager Hugh Banks boomed out of the speakers overhead.
"All right, people! That's the last of the firemen and the cleanup squad out the door. Everyone's gone. Let's get to work."
Down below on the stage the miniature figures of the band took their places and lifted their instruments. Michael Scott flicked his long fingers down and over the strings of his guitar in the fanning gesture Liz had seen in a dozen concert videos, drawing forth a glissando like a harp. As always, the ripple of sound made her quiver with delight. If this case wasn't so serious she would be thrilled to be here with her idol. Voe Lockney beat his sticks together over his head, then attacked his drums with a frenzy. The other two joined in. Liz could hear the music begin to echo and thrum outside, but it was much muted here in the booth. The sound engineer's hands flew over the controls.
Fionna appeared at the edge of the stage in a flame-red sheath dress that could have been painted on her. Her eyes, cheeks, and lips were tinted the same bright shade. What with her green hair close-cropped against her skull Liz thought she looked like a shapely match. Liz wondered why she hadn't detected Fionna leaving her dressing room. She counted back in time, and decided the cantrip alarm must have gone off while Captain Evers was teasing her about the Jumbotron.
The tiny, brightly colored figure stopped at the edge of the stage, while a couple of men in security uniforms ran around the open platform like questing hounds.
"All right," Lowe said, leaning forward with his hands on the chairbacks. "Cue the spotlights, cue Fionna, and... what the hell is the matter with her?"
The music died away, and all the band turned to look at Fionna.
"Come on, down there!" Lowe growled. "What's the hang-up now?"
"She wants them to check for bombs, sir," an overhead speaker crackled. "She says she's afraid of being attacked again."
"Bombs! Hell and damnation!" the technical director shouted, pounding on the engineers' seat backs. They sat rigidly, watching the screen. "We have a show to do! Get those men off the stage, or carry Fee over to her mark yourself. We haven't got any more time to waste." He flopped down into his seat, between Robbie and the sound engineer. "I wish that Fee had been in the damned costume when it went up, and then we'd have a reason for all this fuss! Let her writhe in agony! Let those rotten `filmy sleeves' burn to ash! Now, let's get a move on! Get her on stage!"
Below them, a man in blue jeans and a headset went over to Fionna, and pulled her into place in the center of the stage. Fionna held out her hand in appeal. From the edge of the platform, the bulky form of Lloyd Preston came over to stand beside her. Next to Liz, Robbie let out an audible growl.
The band struck up again. Fionna grabbed her microphone in both hands, closed her eyes and emitted a piercing ululation that softened and resolved into a mellow warble that rose and fell like folds of silk. The technicians' shoulders relaxed visibly. Even Lowe stood back, arms crossed, to watch. Boo touched Liz's arm, and they slipped out of the room.
"No magic," Boo said, as they went through the next set of double doors on the level. This was the press box, another large area like the control room, with a broad, curved window looking down on the stage. Facing it were tiers of desks with microphones and places for computer terminals to be plugged in. Toward the rear of the chamber, television and radio transmission lines ran from a labeled console into the ceiling. Several video screens showed different camera angles of the stage, a necessary innovation to supplement the view, unless the reporters were carrying binoculars. At this distance the figures of the band were tiny, almost featureless.
Down on the stage, Fionna was making love to her microphone like a torch singer. She and the guitarist started to step toward one another, intent with passion. Liz felt a shiver of delight, waiting for them to close the distance and begin their duet.
"Nothin'," Boo-Boo said, bringing her back to the present with a disappointing snap. "Nothin' but what we brought ourselves. It's lookin' as if the cause was somethin' natural or physical. That'd be a job for the local police, not for us."
"My chief will be happy," Liz said, resignedly. "He'd always rather prove a negative. Less difficult to explain to Upstairs."