“I’d never spoken to her in my life,” he said, “and I don’t think she has the slightest idea who I was, but I had to tell her that her son had been killed. And then as soon as I’d gotten through that conversation, the father called. Because the mother told him and he didn’t believe her. Or me. I only know that he was really pissed off and kept yelling. He didn’t believe me until I gave him Detective Murdoch’s phone number, and maybe not even then.”
Charlie lay back in his office chair, drawn eyes gazing sightlessly at the plush Pinky and the Brain dolls sitting atop his monitor. The tasteful functionality of his spacious office-huge desk, computer, monitor, and huge video displays-provided a contrast with their owner. Dense stubble coated Charlie’s cheeks and chin, and great sweat patches bloomed beneath the arms of his pastel shirt. The police had been present till after eleven at night, and after that, Charlie had been too busy to leave.
He both looked and smelled as if he’d slept on his office couch, which he had. At midmorning he’d sent his secretary out to buy some new clothes, and there were showers in the exercise room, which he’d use as soon as he had something to change into.
Dagmar did not possess an assistant who would buy clothes for her. She needed to do a laundry and was wearing yesterday’s clothes. She’d thought she’d at least had clean underwear, but apparently she’d miscounted.
“Have you heard anything from the police,” Dagmar asked, “about who did it and why? ”
“The police,” said Charlie, “do not confide in me. But I overheard some of them talking to Murdoch-they said they didn’t get the call early enough to track the killer with their camera drones, so nobody knows who he is or where the hell he went. We looked at the security cams and found out that the one on the door didn’t see anything, and the one at the parking lot entrance saw only the top of the guy’s helmet-so the police are fucking out of luck.”
Charlie waved a listless arm as he spoke, and then let it fall. Dagmar looked at his supine figure.
“Do you need coffee or something? ” she asked.
“Coffee’s all I’ve had for the last dozen hours,” Charlie said. “I can’t look at food right now. The sight of it makes me-well, it doesn’t make me sick, it just makes me not want food.”
“Yeah,” Dagmar said. “I know what you mean.”
She was floating on coffee as well, quarts and quarts of the stuff, and the only food she’d eaten was a piece of dry toast she’d choked down with a handful of vitamins. Unlike Charlie, she’d gotten home the previous night, but she’d barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes she saw a blood-spattered Austin lying on the blacktop, mouth slack and open, the Yankees cap rolled off his head and lying by his hand.
Do you think you might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder? he’d asked.
Her answer had been less than serious, but she’d give a different one now. She’d seen dreadful things in Indonesia, but she’d had the consolation of going home afterward and looking at them from a safe distance.
The atrocities were no longer at arm’s length. They were right in her lap.
“Murdoch asked me,” Dagmar said, “if Austin had any enemies. And when I said he didn’t, they didn’t believe me.”
“Would you? ” Charlie’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “They asked me if he had any connection to organized crime.”
Dagmar was overwhelmed by a feeling of disgust at the question.
“Christ,” she said, “that’s stupid.”
Charlie gave her an irritated look.
“It was a drive-by shooting,” he said. “A contract killing, most likely. Murdoch was only asking the obvious questions.”
Dagmar felt herself dig in her heels. Austin was not some kind of mafioso or drug dealer, and he didn’t deal with them, and any investigation aimed in that direction was not only wrong, it was a waste of the time that could be spent finding the killer.
“If it was a contract killing,” she said, “they hit the wrong man.”
An idea brushed against her mind, but she was too weary to catch at it, and it faded.
“Listen,” she said. “We’ve got a problem.”
Charlie turned again to Pinky and the Brain, gazed at them bleakly, then closed his eyes.
“Oh yeah? ” he said. “Is it important? ”
“I’m afraid so.” She gathered her strength, then spoke. “A video of the killing turned up on Video Us, along with pictures of the shooter. They were taken with a zoom lens from-I don’t know-across the highway, maybe.”
Charlie’s eyes were wide open and staring at her. “Do the police know? ”
“I called Murdoch and gave him the URL. I had to explain about the game-I don’t think he quite understood it.”
“If they catch the guy,” Charlie judged, “what Murdoch understands doesn’t matter. Who took the pictures? ”
“A new gamer who uses the handle Consuelo. But I think she’s a sock puppet for someone like Hermes or Joe Clever-one of our Dumpster divers.”
“Jesus.” Charlie sagged in his chair again. “At least one of those bastards finally did something useful.”
“It means we’re being stalked by someone pretty serious,” Dagmar said.
Charlie flapped a hand. “Who cares? We’ve been stalked before.”
“But not by a contract killer,” Dagmar said. “If we look in the rearview mirror and see someone following us, is it Joe Clever or is it somebody with a gun? ”
Charlie gave her an unreadable look. “We are not the targets here,” he said.
“Crazy people exist,” Dagmar said. “None of the people we work or play with are exactly models of middle-American thought and behavior.” She banged a hand on the arm of her chair. “Someone killed Austin, for Christ’s sake!”
“Right. Shit. Damn.” Charlie hesitated. “Do you think I should put out a warning to our employees? ”
“They might overreact.” Dagmar thought for a long moment. “But if you failed to put out a warning and someone got hurt, then you might be liable.”
That decided it.
“Right. I’ll have Karin send out an email when she gets back.”
Dagmar hesitated. “There’s another problem,” she said.
“Can it wait? ”
“No.” Again she hesitated. She didn’t want to acknowledge this.
“The Video Us site,” she said, “has had nearly half a million hits since the video was posted.”
Charlie’s lip twisted. “Sick fucks,” he said.
“No,” Dagmar said. “Confused fucks. Consuelo’s a gamer-she posted the link on Our Reality Network and nowhere else. Nobody knows whether the video is real or a part of the game. The Our Reality people have been speculating on their live feed continually since eight o’clock last night, and they’re not slowing down.”
“Jesus.” Charlie rubbed his eyes.
“The buzz is huge,” she said. “It’s spreading outside the usual channels. And normally we want buzz, just not the kind we’re getting.”
“Screw the buzz,” Charlie said. “You’ve got a subscription to their live feed, right? ”
“Yeah. Under one of my handles.”
Anger edged Charlie’s tones, burned in his eyes. He jabbed a finger into the laminate surface of his desk.
“So go online,” he said, “blow your cover as Dagmar, and tell them that Austin’s death was not a part of the game but a real-life tragedy. And they should shut the fuck up already. Got that? ”
“Right.” Again she hesitated. “But it might be too late.”
“Too late for what? ”
Dagmar looked at the savagery crackling behind Charlie’s eyes and decided not to answer.
“Never mind.” She rose. “I’ll go post the announcement.”
Unspoken objections still clattered in her mind, objections that had nothing to do with Austin’s death or the investigation.