by Karen Rose
“Um, Eve, it’s not your house. Legally, it’s his.”
“Greedy SOB, thinking he can run all his mother’s tenants out. Wouldn’t surprise me if he was up on the roof with an ice pick himself, making the damn leaks.”
“Now you’re sounding paranoid. So was the asshole on the phone the greedy SOB?”
“No, that was a roofer who does not fix roofs. He only talks to people buying new roofs. Who needs a brand-new roof, for God’s sake?”
“Sounds like you do. You shouldn’t be paying for repairs on somebody else’s house anyway. It’s not your responsibility. It might even be a lease violation.”
“Well, it’s moot, because I can’t get anyone to do it. I’m thinking that roofing would be a good skill to master. Lately I’ve done plumbing, some minor wiring…”
Callie’s eyes widened. “You’re not planning to fix your roof. You don’t like heights.”
“I like Myron less. I even called an old friend this morning to ask how I should do it.”
“What did he say?”
“I got his voicemail. He’ll call me back when he’s off shift.”
“You know him from the bar?”
“No, from back home. He’s a firefighter.”
“You touch your scar when you talk about Chicago,” Callie said quietly.
Eve yanked her hand from her cheek. “Which is why I don’t talk about it.”
“Don’t you miss them?” Callie asked. “Your family?”
Dana, Caroline, and Mia. The thought of them and their growing families, so far away, made Eve’s heart ache. Not a day went by that she didn’t miss them. “Yes. But I couldn’t stay.” To stay was to remember. To hide in the dark.
“At least Tom is here,” Callie said. “And me. But I ain’t helping with your roof.”
“Tom offered. He said he’d bring a half dozen friends when the season is over.”
Callie’s smile became wry. “Tom Hunter plus six college basketball players. On your roof. In the winter. You’re a foolish girl. If you’d wait till summer they’d work shirtless.”
“If I wait till summer, everything I own will be underwater and Myron Daulton will have won. I’ve got to go. I’ve got Abnormal in fifteen.” Eve reached to shut down her laptop, then stopped. Abruptly. “Oh my God,” she murmured staring at her email inbox.
“Eve, who is Martha Brisbane and why do you have her on Google Alert?”
Eve had put Martha on Google Alert a week ago, after she’d been missing from Shadowland for two days. Any mention of Martha on the Internet would be flagged.
And it had indeed. Her heart in her throat, Eve read the short article that had been published in today’s Mirror. Martha Brisbane, 42, was found dead in her apartment last night, the victim of an apparent suicide. She had hanged herself. The article went on, giving statistics of Twin Cities suicides, but Eve could only see one line.
Suicide. I should have seen this coming. I should have stopped it.
But Martha had spent eighteen hours a day in Shadowland for months before joining their study. Who knew what had driven her to do so? Still… Martha was dead.
And Eve wasn’t even supposed to know she’d existed.
“Eve?” Callie tapped her shoulder gently. “Who is she?”
“Just someone I know.” Someone I shouldn’t have known. But I did. Eve closed her laptop with a snap. “I have to get to class.”
Callie hung back, studying her. “Will you go to the funeral?”
She slid her laptop into her computer bag. “If I can figure out where it is, yes.”
“You want me to go with you?”
Eve drew a shaky breath. “Yes. Thanks.”
“You bet. Don’t go climbing on the roof by yourself.”
Eve made herself smile. Her roof was now the least of her concerns. “I won’t.”
Monday, February 22, 9:40 a.m.
“Thank you for seeing us.” Jack set his hat next to Noah’s on the coffee table.
Mrs. Altman’s hands were clutched tightly in her lap. “What is this about?”
“Your daughter, ma’am,” Noah said. He’d lost the toss again. “We know Samantha’s death was ruled a suicide, but you and your husband weren’t convinced.”
“It’s a mortal sin. Samantha was a good Catholic. She never missed Mass.”
“We believe your daughter didn’t commit suicide. She may have been murdered.”
Mrs. Altman closed her eyes. “Dear God.”
Jack gave her a moment. “Do you have the clothing your daughter was wearing?”
“We put everything in a box,” she murmured. “We haven’t been able to look at it.”
“What about the stool found in her bedroom?” Jack asked.
“I gave it to a thrift shop. I couldn’t look at it.”
Noah wanted to sigh. “Can you tell us which location you took it to?”
“Grand Avenue. Why?”
“It may be important,” Noah said, then damned the toss he’d lost. He suspected Jack kept a two-faced coin in his pocket, because Noah lost the toss most of the time. “To rule your daughter’s death a homicide, we need to examine your daughter’s body.”
Mrs. Altman’s eyes filled with tears. “No. I won’t allow it. It’s a desecration.”
“I won’t say I understand how you feel,” Noah said gently, “because there is no way that I can. But please know we’d never take this action if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. If someone killed your daughter, he needs to be caught. Stopped. Punished.”
She was rocking pitifully, tears streaming down her face. “You can’t do this to her.”
“Mrs. Altman,” Noah said, his voice still gentle, “there’s nothing stopping the person who killed your Samantha from killing someone else’s daughter. I know you don’t want that. You don’t want another family to go through the pain you’ve endured.”
“No,” she whispered. “We don’t.” She looked away, closed her eyes. “All right.”
“Thank you,” Noah said. “If you tell us where you put her things, we’ll be going.”
She stood up, still crying. “In the spare bedroom closet.”
“I’ll get it,” Jack said while Mrs. Altman covered her face with her hands and wept.
Exhumation was like waiting until a wound had almost healed, then ripping it open again in the vilest of ways. “Sit down, ma’am,” Noah said, patting her back as she cried.
Jack returned and Mrs. Altman stood uncertainly as Noah and Jack put on their hats.
“Detective Phelps and I will update you on the investigation ourselves. And don’t worry. We’ll make sure they put the ground back the way it was.”
Mrs. Altman shook her head. “She’s not in the ground yet.”
Noah’s brows lifted. “Excuse me?”
“Our family has been buried in the same cemetery for generations. They don’t have a backhoe so they can’t dig yet. The ground’s still frozen. We’d planned to bury her in the spring.” Her chin lifted, her eyes now sharp as they met Noah’s. “That will make it faster, won’t it, Detective? That way you can find the monster that did this to my child.”
“Yes, ma’am. This will speed things up considerably. Thank you.”
Neither Jack nor Noah spoke until they reached the car. Jack cleared his throat, no humor in his eyes. “I’m glad you lost the toss. I never know what to say.”
“She reminded me of my mom.” Who worried about him constantly. She was a cop’s widow. Noah supposed she was entitled to worry about her son.
“All the old ladies remind you of your mom.”
“I always hoped somebody would be kind to her if something happened to me first.”
Jack frowned. “Don’t talk like that.”
“We all gotta go sometime, Jack,” Noah said, as he always did.
“I’m not anxious to go today,” Jack replied, as he always did. “Let’s find that stool.”
“And then to Brisbane’s apartment, see if Mrs. Kobre
cki has returned.”
“And with her, the panty fiend grandson, Taylor.”
“Exactly.”
Monday, February 22, 11:15 a.m.
Eve stood outside her advisor’s office, her heart beating way too fast. For an hour she’d sat through her Abnormal seminar, unable to concentrate. Martha’s dead.
You have to do something. But what? Martha’s suicide might not have been related to her participation in Eve’s study. But I don’t know that it wasn’t.
She had five more red-zones, whose game time had skyrocketed in recent weeks. None had been ultra-users before. They’d never played a role play game before. But when they’d been introduced to Shadow-land, they’d been sucked in, just the same.
Lightly she rapped her knuckles on her grad advisor’s office door. “Dr. Donner?”
Donner looked up. “Miss Wilson. I thought our meeting wasn’t until Thursday.”
“It’s not. But something has come up.”
“Then come in,” he said, looking back at the journal he had been reading.
Eve had never liked him, not in the two years she’d been a grad student at Marshall. He’d asked to be her advisor, citing interest in her thesis concept. He thought it was publishable, critical in the “publish or perish” academic world. Everyone said he was overdue. He wouldn’t be pleased with what she was about to say.
“Well.” He tossed the journal onto a tall stack. “What did you need, Miss Wilson?”
“I’m having some concerns about a few of the test subjects, Dr. Donner.” She opened her notebook where she’d written the subjects’ ID numbers, as if she didn’t know them by heart. None of whose real names she was supposed to know.
“Well?” he asked impatiently. “What about them?”
“They’ve posted increases in game time of more than three hundred percent. I’m concerned they’re endangering quality of life and in some cases, their livelihood.”
Donner fixed his gaze upon Eve’s face and part of her wanted to back away. But of course she did not. She’d faced monsters far scarier than Donald Donner in her lifetime.
“Miss Wilson, how do you know how much time they’ve spent in game play?”
She was prepared for the question. “I can run a search to find out who’s in Shadowland at any given time. I’ve programmed my computer to run these searches multiple times every day and these numbers represent an average.” Which was no lie.
“Clever,” he murmured. “But can you prove these subjects are engaged in active play versus, perhaps, just forgetting to log out?”
Yes. Because I’m in there, too. Talking, interacting with them. Watching them.
His eyes narrowed when she didn’t answer. “Miss Wilson? Does your search differentiate active play time versus just forgetting to log out?”
“No, it doesn’t,” she murmured.
“Are they doing their self-esteem charts?”
“Yes, and the data is promising. Twenty percent indicate they are more confident in the real world after self-actualization exercises in the virtual world. But I’m concerned that the line between reality and imagination is blurring for some.”
He frowned. “They’ve exhibited quantifiable depression or personality changes?”
“No. But they haven’t been required to test for depression or personality changes in the last month. Most of these subjects aren’t due for testing for another few weeks.”
He relaxed. “Then in another few weeks we’ll find out if they have a problem.”
Not soon enough for Martha Brisbane. She’s already dead. In a few weeks Christy Lewis might be unemployed. “We should be testing more frequently,” she said firmly.
“So you’ve noted many times,” he said, condescendingly. “And as I’ve attempted to explain to you each time, we need to use independent third-party testers to ensure our double-blind status. That costs money for the university and time for the subjects.”
“There is surplus in the test budget. I’ve kept careful track of spending.”
“You’d have subjects dropping like flies if they had to come in more frequently.”
“But sir,” she started and Donner lifted his hand.
“Miss Wilson,” he said sharply, then smiled, but somehow a smile never worked on his face. “Eve. Your graduate research could help a lot of people. Role play in the real world has long been used to help our patients improve self-esteem. It’s timely and relevant to explore using the virtual world of the Internet to do the same.”
Timely, relevant, and publishable. She lifted her chin. “I never intended our subjects to participate to the point of ignoring their real lives. We’re responsible for them.”
His smile vanished. “Your subjects signed a release indemnifying us from liability. We are not responsible. Don’t ever indicate that we are, spoken or written. I don’t have time for this. I have a class to teach at noon, so if you’ll excuse me.”
Eve didn’t move from her chair. “Dr. Donner, please. What if our subjects show evidence of depression, even… suicidal thoughts? What would we do then?”
“We’d ensure that subject was treated by an independent third-party therapist.”
Eve looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap. Too late for Martha. “What if, hypothetically speaking, I knew one of our subjects was suicidal?”
“It’s moot,” he said coldly, warningly even. “You do not have that information.”
She looked up. His eyes were narrowed, daring her to continue. “But if I did?”
“Then you’d be facing discipline from the committee. Perhaps worse.”
Eve wanted to close her eyes, wanted to retreat back into the dark. But this was real. Martha was really dead. They might have seen it had they tested more frequently. I should have insisted. A year ago she’d been happy to have her research approved and funded. Rocking the boat hadn’t seemed worthwhile. The situation had changed.
She took the copy she’d printed of Martha’s death article from her notebook. “This was subject 92.” Keeping her hand perfectly steady, she handed it to him over his desk.
He stared at the page, then grabbed it. His face darkened and Eve’s throat closed. This was it. He’d throw her out of the program. Cancel her research.
“I think that if we’d tested her more often, we might have been able to get her help,” she said. “Her death is on my head, Dr. Donner. I don’t want any more suicides.”
Deliberately he dropped the sheet onto his shredder and hit the switch. Instantly the page was gone and with it any minute respect she’d held for Donald Donner.
“I never saw that,” he said. “You never saw it. Are we clear, Miss Wilson?”
Eve’s knees were shaking, but she’d be damned before she’d let him see it. “Crystal.”
For a long time she sat at her desk, staring at nothing, trying to figure out what to do.
What would Dana do? Dana Dupinsky Buchanan, one of the women who’d all but raised her in Hanover House, a Chicago shelter. Dana, who’d risked her freedom and her life helping battered women find hope and safety. Helping runaways like me.
Dana would do whatever was necessary to keep those people safe. So should I.
Maybe no more bad things would happen. But if they did… I’ll do what I need to do. She knew where every one of her subjects resided in Shadowland. Now she’d seek them out in the real world, right here in Minneapolis. Starting with Christy Lewis.
If Donner found out, she’d be finished. But I’d rather forfeit it all and be able to look in the mirror. She’d do what she needed to do, but smartly. If I’m lucky, nobody will ever know. Her subjects would be safe and Donner would get his precious published study.
Then she’d get a new advisor. But first, Christy. She’d watched Christy’s Gwenivere for weeks in the virtual world. It was time to set Christy straight in the real one.
Monday, February 22, 2:10 p.m.
Noah had expected Mrs. Kobrecki to look meaner. So when a sweet little old lad
y answered his knock, he had to swiftly control his surprise. “Mrs. Kobrecki?”
“You must be the detectives.” She opened the door wide. “Please, sit down.”
“Thank you,” Jack said with an engaging smile. “You’re a hard woman to reach.”
“My cellular phone battery was dead. I was away for the weekend and returned just this morning. I called you all as soon as I saw the crime scene tape. Poor Martha.”
“How long had you known Ms. Brisbane, ma’am?” Noah asked.
“Eight years. We had our differences, but I never dreamed she’d do this.”
“What kind of differences?” Noah probed with a sympathetic smile.
“Her apartment,” Mrs. Kobrecki said archly, as if it were obvious. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but that woman lived in total filth.”
Noah thought of Martha’s spotless apartment. “When did you last see her?”
“Week ago, Saturday. She was going out, which was odd. She didn’t go out often.”
“Did she say where she was going?” Jack asked.
“No.” Mrs. Kobrecki’s lips thinned.
“Did you have an argument, Mrs. Kobrecki?” Noah asked.
“Yes. I told her that if she didn’t clean her place, I’d evict her. She just ignored me. That woman made me so mad.” Then she sighed. “But I never would have wanted this.”
“Of course not,” Noah said soothingly. “Did you see when Martha returned home?”
“No. I would have been too angry to talk to her anyway.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“It’s routine, ma’am. We’re trying to establish a time of death. For her family.”
“Her mother probably won’t care what time Martha died.”
Noah feigned surprised concern. “Martha didn’t get along with her mother?”
“No, and I don’t know why. I once went up to yell at Martha about the mess. I heard her through the door, on the phone, yelling at her mother. She came to the door crying.”
“Did you hear what they were saying to each other?” Jack asked.
“Not really. I did hear Martha tell her mother she was doing it for her. I assumed she meant that was why she worked all the time and never visited her.”