Jen sucked in a breath. “My God. It’s Claire Reynolds.”
“Are you ready to die, Clothilde?” the soldier mocked and she screamed, chillingly. The soldier laughed. “Go ahead and scream, Clothilde. No one can hear you. No one will save you. I killed them all. And now I’ll kill you.”
His hands tightened further and Clothilde began to writhe. The hands lifted until her feet no longer touched the floor. Her hands grabbed at his, her nails scoring his skin. Panic lit her eyes and she began to gasp for breath.
Then her eyes changed, horror combined with the certainty that she would die. Her hands clawed, her mouth gaping open as she desperately fought to breathe. Finally she stiffened, then her eyes went abruptly blank, her hands limp on the soldier’s now bloody wrists. The soldier gave her a final vicious shake, then tossed her to the floor. As her body lay crumpled in a heap, the camera focused on her eyes. Wide open and dead.
“Clothilde is Claire,” Jen repeated quietly. “We just saw Claire die.”
“There’s a scene where the soldier shoots a young man in the head with a Luger,” Vito told them. “And another where he blows up a man with a grenade.”
Liz sat heavily. “He killed all those people for this game?”
“Not all of them,” Vito said. “At least not for this game. But you should see what this company’s coming out with next. Brent, go to their website.”
Brent typed and the screen filled with a gold dragon soaring across a night sky. The dragon landed on a mountain and the letters O-R-O circled the dragon. The R landed on the dragon’s scaled chest while the dragon caught the two O’s in its front claws.
“Wow,” Nick said. “Impressive.”
“This is oRo’s website,” Brent said. “They were a not-quite-B-list game designer that was facing bankruptcy before Behind Enemy Lines came out. They’ve doubled their net worth three times in the last six months.” He clicked a button and the face of a barrel-chested man in his forties filled the screen. “Meet Jager Van Zandt. Pronounce it with a Y, not like ‘jogger.’ Jager is the president of oRo and its principal owner. Born in Holland, he’s lived in the U.S. for about thirty years.” Brent clicked again and the thin face of another man appeared. He was the same age as Van Zandt, but easily a third smaller. “This is Derek Harrington, oRo’s VP and art director.”
“He did the art?” Jen said in disbelief. “He doesn’t look big enough to be our killer.”
“Harrington did the flying dragon,” Brent said. “He’s good at cartoon characters and flashy dragons. He doesn’t do faces worth shit. Harrington didn’t do those cut scenes.”
“Maybe he’ll know who did,” Nick said grimly.
“They’re headquartered in New York City,” Vito said. “When we’re done here, I say we take a little trip. Show them the press release, Brent.”
Brent clicked and sat back. “Front and center.”
“‘oRo’s next game announced at the New York Gaming Expo,’” Liz read aloud. “‘
BEHIND ENEMY LINES
continues to exceed sales projections,’ stated President Jager Van Zandt at the conclusion of a standing-room-only presentation of their breakout game. ‘Our next endeavor is The Inquisitor, a game of swords and sorcery and medieval justice. Very prominently featured will be the dungeon, where gamers earn bonus points for originality and effective use of their weapon arsenal.’” Liz blew out a controlled but angry breath. “Find these guys and squash them like bugs.”
Vito’s smile was fierce. “That will be a pleasure.”
“So, Brent,” Jen said, “how do you know all this about oRo?”
“I’m a gamer from way back, so I keep up with all the new companies. My kid brother is really good. He’s majoring in game design at Carnegie-Mellon.”
Liz looked dumbfounded. “You can major in game design?”
“One of the hottest new majors out there. My brother and I have been watching the industry because he graduates next year and is looking for places to send his résumé. oRo moved to the top of his list after Behind Enemy Lines came out, because they’re hiring.”
“Your brother’s a computer artist?” Vito asked.
“No, he’s into the game physics-how to make the characters move fluidly, which is Jager’s department, incidentally. But last year Jager must have finally admitted that his game physics sucked, because he lured one of the big physics experts from one of the other companies. I’m always watching the industry for investment opportunities. Rumor has it that oRo’s going IPO soon. But now I couldn’t buy their stock.”
“If they’re arrested, it’ll be worthless,” Liz said. “You’d lose your shirt.”
“If both Harrington and Van Zandt are involved, yes. But if it’s just one of them, their stock will go to the moon. I could retire at forty, but I couldn’t live with myself.” He took the CD out of his computer. “People were murdered for this. I couldn’t profit from that.”
That gave them all pause, then Vito squared his shoulders. “We have to keep anyone from profiting from that, so let’s get moving. I’m expecting the fashion model that hadn’t responded to Munch’s e-mail to come in around ten. Liz, can you meet with her since we’re going to New York? Tell her to stay quiet and out of her e-mail.”
Liz shook her head. “I’ve got a press conference at ten and meetings with the brass before and after.”
“I’ll meet her,” Brent said. “I won’t profit from oRo, but I wouldn’t mind meeting a model. Besides, I’ve already talked to her, with Bev and Tim yesterday.”
Liz chuckled. “Your priorities are commendable, Brent. But I have to wonder-if Harrington and Van Zandt live in New York City, why are all the victims from Philly?”
“Neither Harrington nor Van Zandt had the personal capability to do this work,” Brent said. “Somebody who worked for them did, and that person doesn’t have to work from their headquarters.” He picked up the CD case. “Where did you get a copy of this game in the middle of the night, Vito? It’s like gold right now until oRo puts out more.”
“A kid from my nephew’s school had it at my house Tuesday night. Last night his parents found and confiscated it and were only too happy to give it to me. They wanted it out of their house-they’ve got other younger children and didn’t want them seeing it.”
Liz frowned. “I don’t want our interest in this game leaked, Vito.”
“The kid’s dad is a reverend. I don’t think he wants anyone to know what his kid was into any more than we want him to tell.”
She nodded. “Good. I don’t want Jogger to get wind of our investigation and flee. While you’re headed up to their office, I’ll give NYPD a heads-up that you’re coming. Maybe they can help us shave off some time if we need a warrant. I’ll tell them to contact you directly, Vito. Nick, are you all finished with the Siever case-no more court?”
“I’m done. I can’t think that Lopez would need to call me back.”
“I’ll alert her anyway.” Liz clapped her hands. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go.”
Chapter Eighteen
Thursday, January 18, 8:15
A.M.
Sophie drew an appreciative breath when Vito came through the bullpen door, sending every nerve in her body sizzling.
He smiled at her as he and Nick crossed the room. “You’re not mad at me anymore?”
“Nah. I’ll live. Which I imagine was the point.” Which she was smart enough to concede without argument. “Where are you going?” she added when he put on his coat.