The Never Game
Page 10
Never trust the internet.
This one too was so obvious Ashton didn’t bother to codify it in his Never rulebook.
Colter, Dorion and Russell read constantly, and Colter was drawn to the legal books in particular, of which there were hundreds. For some reason, on the exodus from Berkeley to the wilderness east of Fresno, Ashton had brought along enough jurisprudential texts to open a law firm. Colter was fascinated with the casebooks—collections of court decisions on topics like contracts, constitutional law, torts, criminal law and domestic relations. He liked the stories behind each of the cases, what had led the parties to court, who would prevail and why. His father taught his children the rules for physical survival; law provided the rules for social survival.
After college—he graduated cum laude from the University of Michigan—Shaw returned to California and interned in a public defender’s office. This taught him two things. First, he would never, ever work in an office again, thus ending any thoughts of law school and a legal career. Second, he’d been right about the law: it was a brilliant weapon for offense and defense, like an over-under shotgun or a bow or a slingshot.
Now, sitting in an interview room in the sterile lockup attached to the Joint Major Crimes Task Force, Colter Shaw was summoning up what criminal law he knew. He’d been arrested more than a few times in his career. Though he’d never been convicted of any crime, the nature of his work meant he occasionally butted heads with the police, who, depending on their mood and the circumstances, might haul him in front of a booking desk.
He massaged his right arm, which had taken the brunt of deflecting the tumbling Sophie Mulliner, and calmly, in an orderly way, prepared his defense. This didn’t take long.
The door opened and a balding man, slim, in his fifties, walked inside. His scalp was shiny, as if it had been waxed, and Shaw had to force himself not to look at it. The man wore a light gray suit, with a badge on his belt. His tie was a bold floral, the knot perfectly symmetrical. Colter Shaw had last worn a tie . . . Well, he couldn’t exactly remember. Margot had said he looked “distinguished.”
“Mr. Shaw.”
A nod.
The man introduced himself as “Joint Task Force Senior Supervisor Cummings,” a mouthful that spoke more about the man’s nature than about the job description. “Fred” or “Stan” would have painted him better.
Cummings sat across the table from Shaw. The table, like the benches, was bolted down and made of sturdy metal. Cummings had a notebook and a pen. Shaw couldn’t spot the cameras, but they’d be here.
“The detention officer said you wanted to talk to me. So you’ve changed your mind about waiving your right to speak to us without an attorney.”
“I didn’t change my mind. I wouldn’t speak to Detective Wiley, with or without an attorney. I’ll speak to you.”
The lean man digested this, tapping the end of the Bic against a notepad. “I’m at a disadvantage here. This happened pretty fast and I don’t have all the facts. There’s something about a reward that the victim’s father was offering? You’re trying to get that?”
While Shaw preferred “earn,” he nodded.
“That’s your job?”
“It is. And it’s not relevant to our conversation.”
Cummings processed once more. “Dan Wiley can be a difficult person to deal with. But he’s a good officer.”
“Have there ever been complaints against him? Women officers, for instance?”
Cummings gave no response. “He tells me that you stole evidence from a crime scene. With the evidence missing, it would have looked like you were the only one who found the girl. And that meant you’d be entitled to the reward.”
Shaw had to give Wiley credit. Clever.
“Now, what we’ll do—and Detective Wiley’s on board with this—is knock down the obstruction to tampering. Misdemeanor. You forget about that reward and leave the area—you live in the Sierra Nevadas, right?”
“That’s my residence.”
“We’ll do recognizance. And you can walk now. The prosecutor’s got the paperwork ready.”
Shaw was tired. A long day—from Molotov cocktail to murder—and it was only 6 p.m.
“Supervisor Cummings, Detective Wiley arrested me because he needs to steer this whole ship in a different direction. If I don’t pursue the reward and I leave town, it doesn’t look like Wiley screwed up and a civilian solved his case.”
“Hold on, Mr. Shaw.”
But Shaw didn’t hold on. “Wiley had all the information he needed to realize this was an active kidnapping. He should’ve had twenty-five uniforms in and around San Miguel Park to search for Sophie Mulliner. And if he had, they would’ve found her—because I found her by myself in a half hour—and Kyle Butler’d be alive right now and, likely, you’d have your unsub in custody.”
“Mr. Shaw, the fact is you removed evidence from a crime scene. That’s an offense. The law is black-and-white on that.”
Cummings had helpfully walked right into Shaw’s trap.
Shaw leaned forward ever so slightly. “One, I took that rock to have a DNA test done, at my own expense, to prove that Sophie’d been kidnapped—because none of you believed it. Two”—Shaw held up a hand to silence Cummings’s impending sputter—“San Miguel Park wasn’t a crime scene. Dan Wiley never declared it one. I picked up a piece of granite in a county park. Now, Supervisor Cummings, I’m ending our conversation. You can discuss all this with your DA or I’ll call my attorney and she’ll take it from there.”
20.
Shaw opted for one of those packets of peanut butter crackers.
All the other snacks in the Joint Major Crimes Task Force lobby were of the sweet variety, other than some unpopped cheddar popcorn, though how a visitor might prepare it was a mystery, there being no microwave that he could see.
He bought a bottled water too. The coffee, he figured, would be undrinkable.
He’d just finished the delicacy when Cummings’s assistant, a sharp-eyed young man, entered the lobby through the submarine-quality security door and said that, unfortunately, Shaw’s car had been towed to the pound.
Shaw didn’t bother to ask why. So while he’d been released, his wheels were still in detention.
“I’m not being charged.”
“I know that, sir.”
“But I can’t get my car?”
“No, sir. Some evidence was found in the car. I need a detective to sign off on it.”
“Supervisor Cummings will.”
“Well, he’s gone home. We’re looking for a supervising detective who can authorize the release.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“There’s paperwork. Usually four, five hours.”
It was a rental; maybe he’d just leave it and get a new one. Then he decided there might be some penalty. He always bought the collision damage waiver option. On the other hand, rental contracts had a lot of fine print. There was possibly a provision that voided the protection if a customer intentionally abandoned the car at the police pound.
“We have your phone number. We’ll call when it’s ready to be released.”
“Do you know if the suspect has been identified?”
“Suspect?” The tone: Which one?
“The Sophie Mulliner abduction.”
“I wouldn’t know.” The assistant was swallowed up through the doomsday door, which clicked shut with reverberation.
Shaw looked out the front of the Task Force headquarters. Four news station vans were there. Reporters and camera operators jockeyed. Shaw had been cleared as a suspect in the heinous crime of putting evidence in a Walgreens bag and there would be no indictment or arraignment details in public records featuring his name. But he was a participant and had been spotted, surely, by a keen-eyed reporter or two at the crime scene. With his gunslinger kind
of job and his resemblance to a movie star, even if a generic one, Colter Shaw could be media fodder.
He returned to the officer behind the bulletproof glass—not the one who’d made the copy for him—and said to her, “You have a side entrance here?”
She debated, eyeing the reporters outside and assuming he’d been booked for something and didn’t want his wife to see him on the eleven o’clock news. She pointed to a windowless door not far from the vending machines.
“Thanks.”
Shaw left via this side corridor. A flash of brilliant early-evening sunlight fired into his eyes as he stepped out. He walked up the street, passing bail bond storefronts and the small offices of hardscrabble lawyers. He was about to summon an Uber to hitch a ride to the Winnebago when he found a bar. Mexican-themed, which appealed to him.
A few minutes later a freezing can of Tecate was in his hand. He worked a lime wedge through the opening. He never squeezed the fruit juice in; Shaw thought a float in the can was enough.
A long swallow. Another, as he looked over the menu.
His phone hummed and he recognized the number. “Mr. Mulliner?”
“Make it Frank. Please.”
“Okay, Frank.”
“I don’t know where to begin.” Breathless.
“How’s Sophie?”
“She’s home. Really shaken up, you can imagine. The break’s bad. But the cast doesn’t cover her fingers, so she can still use a keyboard. And text her friends.” The laugh went quiet quickly. He would be deciding how to control the sudden urge to cry. “They checked her out at the hospital. Everything else is okay.”
A euphemism, “everything else.” There’d been no sexual assault, words a father would find so very difficult to utter.
“But . . . you? How are you?”
“Fine.”
“The police said somebody helped them find her. Sophie said you were the only one.”
“The cops played cavalry.”
“She said they took you away, they arrested you!”
“Not a worry. It got worked out. Is her mother coming?”
A pause. “She’ll be here in a couple of days. She had a meeting—a board meeting. She said it was important.” Which told Shaw all about the former Mrs. Mulliner. “Mr. . . . Colter, I owe you everything . . . I just can’t describe it. Well, you’ve probably heard that before.”
He had.
“But . . . Kyle.” Frank’s voice had lowered and Shaw supposed Sophie was nearby. “Jesus.”
“That was a shame.”
“Listen, Colter. I have your reward. I want to give it to you in person.”
“I’ll come over tomorrow. The police must’ve debriefed Sophie?”
“A detective was here, yes. Detective Standish.”
The elusive partner had surfaced—now that the case had proved to be real.
“Do they have any leads?”
“No.”
Shaw said, “Did the Task Force leave a car out front of your house, Frank?”
“A squad car? Yes.”
“Good.”
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
“No. But better to be safe.”
They arranged a time to meet tomorrow and disconnected.
Shaw was about to order the carne asada when his iPhone buzzed once more. He recognized this number too. He hit ACCEPT. “Hello.”
“It’s me. Pushy Girl.”
The redhead from the café. “Maddie?”
“You remembered! I saw the news. They found that girl you were looking for. The police saved her. They said a ‘concerned citizen’ helped. That was you, right?”
“It was me.”
“Somebody was killed. Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“They didn’t catch him, I heard.”
“Not yet, no.”
A pause. “So. You’re wondering, what’s up with stalker chick?”
He said nothing.
“Do you like Colter or Colt?”
“Either.”
“It’s Poole, by the way. Last name.”
Commitment . . .
“Did you get the reward?”
“Not yet.”
“They pay in cash? I’m just wondering.” Maddie’s mind seemed to dance like a water droplet on a hot skillet. “Okay, I’m getting a feel for you. You don’t like to answer pointless questions. Noted and absorbed. What’ve you been up to since you saved her?”
Jail. And Tecate with lime.
“Nothing much.”
“So you’re not doing anything now? This minute? Immediately?”
“No.”
“There’s something I want to show you. You game?”
Shaw pictured her angelic face, the wispy hair, the athletic figure.
“Sure. I don’t have wheels.”
“That’s cool. I’ll pick you up.”
He asked the bartender for a card and gave Maddie the address of the restaurant.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“I just gave you a clue,” she said breezily. “You can figure it out.” The line went dead.
21.
Colter Shaw had never seen anything like it in his life.
He stood at the entrance to an endless convention center—easily a half mile square—and was being assaulted by a million electronically generated sounds, from ray guns to automatic weapons to explosions to chest-drumming music to the actorly voices of demons and superheroes—not to mention the occasional dinosaur roar. And the visuals: theatrical spotlights, LEDs, backlit banners, epilepsy-inducing flashers, lasers and high-definition displays the size of school buses.
You game?
Maddie Poole’s clue: Not as in “Are you game?” but “Do you game?”
Clever.
For this, apparently, was ground zero of the video gaming world, the international C3 Conference at the San Jose Convention Center. Tens of thousands of attendees moved like slow fish in a densely inhabited aquarium. The light here was eerily dim, presumably to make the images on the screens pop.
Beside him Maddie was a kid in a candy store, gazing around in delight. She wore a black stocking cap, a purple hoodie with UCLA on the chest, jeans and boots. She had a small tat of three Asian-language characters on her neck; he hadn’t noticed them earlier. As at the café, she tugged at her lush hair—those strands that escaped the cap. Her unpolished nails were short, the flesh of her fingertips was wrinkled and red—he wondered what profession or hobby had done that. She wore no makeup. On her cheeks and the bridge of her nose was a dusting of freckles that some women would have covered up. Shaw was glad she didn’t.
Maddie had given him the rundown on the drive here. Video gaming companies from around the world came to exhibit their wares at elaborate booths, where attendees could try out the latest products. There’d be tournaments between teams for purses of a million dollars, and cosplay competition among fans dressing up as their favorite characters. Film crews would roam the aisles for live streaming broadcasts. A highlight would be press conferences where company executives would announce new products—and field questions from journalists and fans about the minutiae of the games.
They eased past the booths, filled with players at gaming stations. He saw signs above some of them. TEN-MINUTE LIMIT. THERE’S A LOT OF OTHER SHIT TO SEE. And: MATURE 17+ ESRB. Presumably a rating board designation for games.
“What’re we doing here?” he shouted. He foresaw a raspy throat by the end of the evening.
“You’ll see.” She was being coy.
Shaw was not a big fan of surprises. But he decided to play along.
He paused at a huge overhead monitor, which glowed white with blue type:
WELCOME TO C3
WHERE TODAY MEETS THE FUTURE . . .
Below that, stats scrolled:
DID YOU KNOW . . .
THE VIDEO GAMING INDUSTRY REVENUES WERE $142 BILLION LAST YEAR, UP 15% FROM THE YEAR BEFORE.
THE INDUSTRY IS BIGGER THAN HOLLYWOOD.
180 MILLION AMERICANS REGULARLY PLAY VIDEO GAMES.
135 MILLION AMERICANS OVER 18 REGULARLY PLAY.
40 MILLION AMERICANS OVER 50 REGULARLY PLAY.
FOUR OUT OF FIVE HOUSEHOLDS IN AMERICA OWN A DEVICE THAT WILL PLAY GAMES.
THE MOST POPULAR CATEGORIES ARE:
—ACTION/ADVENTURE: 30%
—SHOOTERS: 22%
—SPORTS: 14%
—SOCIAL: 10%
THE MOST POPULAR PLATFORMS ARE:
—TABLETS AND SMARTPHONES: 45%
—CONSOLES: 26%
—COMPUTERS: 25%
SMARTPHONE GAMING IS THE FASTEST-GROWING SEGMENT.
Shaw’d had no idea about the industry’s size and popularity.
They made their way through a crowd clustering around the booth for Fortnite, which seemed to attract the most attention in this portion of the hall. Some attendees within the cordoned-off portion of the booth were at computers, playing the game, in which avatars ran around the landscape and homemade structures—forts, he assumed. The characters would blast away at creatures and occasionally break into a bizarre dance.
“This way,” Maddie said. “Come on.” She clearly had a mission. She called, “What was your favorite game growing up?”
His turn to be wry. He said, “Venison.”
A brief moment passed. Maddie laughed, a light, high voice, as she got the joke. Then she eyed him. “Serious? You hunt too?”
Too? One of those something-in-common moments? He nodded.