The familiar logo filled the screen, giving him comfort, like seeing the Now Entering sign of your hometown.
Frank clicked on Resume Game and motioned to life his avatar, a lean, handsome warrior whose appearance was similar to its owner in hair color only. He directed this figure to the armory to select the Daratian knife from his arsenal of weapons. Frank then flew the avatar, via a winged horse, into Prospecia Woods, where he would meet and fight an avatar manned by a young player in Taiwan.
They’d scheduled this one-on-one battle to settle a dispute between their respective clans, as the rules of the game allowed.
A few moments later he arrived at the Judgment Circle, which was already surrounded by several dozen avatars from both clans. The people behind those creatures — none of whom Frank had ever met in person, or even had a real conversation with — directed the warriors and wizards to applaud and leap up and down, offering cries of support. The other side, of course, did the same, encouraging their warrior.
After a moment the opposing avatar appeared, a bizarre-looking creature with a tentacle for a tail. He surveyed the fighting circle and stepped over the barrier.
Frank instructed his avatar to do the same. The two animated creations faced each other.
He had a brief memory of Mr. Overcoat, but it faded quickly. He had a knife fight to win. He directed his avatar to crouch and, with the wicked blade forward, he advanced on his opponent, who dropped into a defensive position as his snaky face surveyed his enemy.
Frank feinted to the side and then leapt forward, knife swinging like an airplane propeller, and he clung to his strategy — pretending he was defending Gabby from being raped by the creature.
Blood flew and screams rose harrowingly, shooting from the Bose speakers, a month’s pay.
Frank advanced again.
Stalking, attacking, killing...
Chapter 22
Walking Alone
9:30 A.M., SUNDAY
15 MINUTES EARLIER
They sat together on the edge of the unmade bed, sheets warm and twisted, concentric, like hurricane clouds seen from space.
Their legs touched.
“We should check out soon,” Daniel Reardon said. He was looking down at Lexington Avenue as if Joseph or a crew of other killers searching desperately for the October List were stationed outside. His bag was packed.
“All right,” Gabriela said absently. She rose and began gathering up her clothes, stuffing them back into the gym bag. Dark blue with a red Nike logo on the side. Did Nike still use that logo? she wondered. And the tagline:
Just do it...
She’d brought very little with her, apart from the files, and she was soon finished. She was aware of Daniel looking her over. Blue jeans and a V-neck green sweater over a cream-colored silk camisole. A light gray L.L. Bean windbreaker. Daniel was in a new outfit as well — a suit, like yesterday. Dark gray. Italian. It was perfectly pressed. He wore no tie, a concession of some sort to the weekend. The scent rising from the cloth was astringent — dry-cleaning chemicals — but she sensed a subtext of aftershave, lotion and musk. Shoe polish too. He was fastidious about his shoes. The combination was, for some reason, extremely arousing.
Yes, they should check out, Gabriela reflected. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to stay here. Close to him.
Very close.
This was absurd under the circumstances. Yet, for the moment, the feeling of desire — and the possibility of a deeper, searingly hot connection — enveloped her.
It was then that he pulled her closer, his right hand easing like a silk scarf around her neck. She resisted but only for the briefest of moments. Lips yielding and surging, tastes joining, heat rolling from skin to skin. The more she relaxed, the harder he gripped her.
And she sensed that irresistible uncoiling within her.
Another embrace, bordering on pain. Then he was backing away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” Though he didn’t seem the least bit contrite.
Despite virtually seeing the name “Sarah” emblazoned in her mind, Gabriela said softly, “Yes, you should have.” And she kissed him once more.
“Let’s get breakfast and keep going through our homework.” A glance at the documents. “We’ve got a half-million dollars to find.”
She nodded but found herself tempted once more to pull him down on the bed next to her. She easily pictured what would follow. Daniel was sensual, with a taut body — she’d seen and felt enough of it already. A firm, unyielding grip. Lips the right combination of firm and soft. He’d have a playful tongue and he’d use it frequently; he was a man who would enjoy taste as well as touch. He would press her down on the bed, pinioning her, which despite her obsession with control she curiously enjoyed — never been able to figure that one out — and then he’d devour her, one hand on her thigh, one on her breast. He’d be unrelenting, possessive, domineering.
And the warmth and pleasure, like drugs, would continue, growing and growing until the end, which would be pretty quick for her.
God, she wanted that.
A string of mismatched lovers stretched out behind her.
Mismatched and worse.
But, as tempted as she was, she forced the fantasy away and ignored the warm sheets, the scents of him, the memory of his hands and mouth.
Priorities.
Goals.
The name “Sarah.”
Chapter 23
Fashionista
9:45 A.M., SUNDAY
15 MINUTES EARLIER
“Okay,” Kepler said, looking up from his phone. “The address is Madison at Eighty-Eight.”
“And what’s that supposed to be?” Surani asked.
“Charles Prescott’s girlfriend.” He looked down at a sheet of paper. “Sonia Dietrich.”
“This is all very fucking complicated,” Surani griped.
“You’re been cussing a lot lately,” Kepler said. “Not like you.”
“Not like me? Because people of South Asian heritage — that’s Indian to you, but not your kind of Indian — don’t swear? People who work in call centers don’t swear?”
“That’s racist,” Kepler said indignantly. “What do you mean, ‘my kind of Indian’? I don’t go to the casinos.”
“Casinos?” Surani riposted. “My point exactly. There you go.” His gray-complexioned face turned to his partner with a look of smug triumph. He took off his suit jacket and hung it over a chair.
Kepler was continually surprised at how his partner could be so slim, yet so muscular. The man played soccer most weekends. Cricket sometimes, a game Kepler simply couldn’t get his head around.
Thinking he really should get serious about the golf, Kepler waved his hand, which meant the argument was over.
A figure appeared in the doorway of the operations room.
“Ah, it’s Rookie Three-name,” Kepler said, eyeing the name badge.
“Fred Stanford Chapman reporting for duty,” the young blond officer said; his tone evidenced a bit of attitude, Kepler thought.
“And if you’re interested, for the record I swear all the fucking time,” said the kid, who’d apparently overheard the conversation. “Anyway, swearing isn’t swearing anymore. It’s different.”