Mind Scrambler by Chris Grabenstein

Britney. “Did they beat cheeks? That’s slang, you know. For ‘having sex,’ but doing it in a different kind of way. Some ways are pretty gross and look stupid, too. I’ve seen a book.”
    â€œYou’re ten?”
    â€œYes. But I’m very mature for my age. Precocious. That’s a word I memorized. Means I’m more developed, especially mentally, even though I’m already getting my boobies, too.”
    The kid talks faster than those TV commercials for prescription drugs listing side effects that may include death and anal leakage.
    â€œRichie, on the other hand, still eats his boogers and blows snot rockets when he isn’t busy floating air biscuits.
Air biscuit
means fart.”
    â€œHere we go, kids,” says Parker. Holding open a door into the casino. “Your parents would like to talk to you.”
    â€œWhy?” asks Britney.
    â€œI guess because you took off like that.”
    Britney freezes. Plants both hands on her hips. “We only did what our stupid nanny told us to do!”
    â€œWe know,” Parker says, leaning down and grinning like he’s the friendly ol’ bear in a picture book. “I think they want to talk to you about, you know, something else, too. Something pretty serious. Kind of grown-up.”
    â€œOh. Like Jake and Katie doing the nasty?”
    Somehow, Parker keeps smiling. “Your mom and dad are downstairs. Uncle Chang’s Ice Cream Parlor. Do you like ice cream, Britney?”
    She blows Parker the lip-noise equivalent of one of those air biscuits. “Well, duh.” She marches into the casino shaking her head and muttering, “Do you like ice cream? Jesus!” like the big man is retarded, too.
    Â 
    Â 
    We happily drop the kids off with their parents and head back to room AA-4.
    The Atlantic City homicide detective has arrived and wants to talk to us. More specifically, he wants to speak to me—the guy who discovered the body and, if the digital video in the surveillance control room is to be believed, the only human being to set foot backstage after “Rock ’n Wow!” started.
    â€œBrady Flynn’s a good guy,” says Parker as we make our way past two of his casino security guys stationed outside that
Authorized Personnel Only
door near the Shalimar Theater. “Ex-boxer. Former Golden Gloves champ.”
    We head down the hall.
    â€œHe also used to work with Sandy McDaniels. State major crime unit. You know her, right?”
    â€œRoger that,” says Ceepak. “I’ve studied her forensics field guide extensively. Danny and I also had the privilege of working with her on one or two occasions.”
    â€œWell, Detective Flynn is almost as good. Helped McDaniels update the fifth edition of her book. Wrote the chapter on computer fraud.”
    We pass the stage door. I’m looking for Mr. Event Staff. Of course he isn’t there. But the door is propped open and I can see some of the set pieces from the show: the archery target, the human-sized Rubik’s Cube, and the two glass booths that they used to transport Mrs. Rock from one side of the stage to the other in under a second.
    â€œThere he is,” says Parker as we hit the
T
and take the right. “Detective Flynn?”
    â€œYo?”
    There’s this stocky guy in a suit that looks too small for all his muscles standing outside room AA-4. I figure he’s in his late thirties or early forties. Caesar-style haircut. Crooked nose where he took a punch or two from someone else’s golden gloves. He’s twitching his shoulders a lot.
    â€œI’m Cyrus Parker. Head of hotel security. We’ve met before.”
    â€œSure, sure. How you doin’?” His head jerks sideways like he has a crick in his neck he can’t crack out.
    â€œBeen better,” says Parker. “This is Danny Boyle. He’s the one who found the body. He’s also a cop, up in Sea