by Peter May
“What?”
“That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”
Her head swivelled to look at him as if he were mad. Then she smiled and shook her head. “What do you want to know?”
“How it’s done.”
“Why?”
“Just curious, that’s all.”
“Jesus! Men! Doesn’t matter what other kind of shit’s going down, you only ever think of one thing. Figuring on trying it out on Doobie Littlething?”
“No, I am not.”
“She’s got a sexy AV.”
“Janey, are you going to tell me, or are you going to tease me?”
She sat up. “Okay. But you know, it’s really very simple. There are any number of shops that sell sex beds, sex rugs, stuff like that. And they all come with built-in animations. A menu appears on the screen and you can choose from a selection of animations. Making out, cuddling, sleeping, or having sex. The more it costs, usually, the bigger the choice. You can have missionary, blow-job, doggy, her on top, him on top, gay, lesbian, you name it. There are usually two poseballs. Three or more, if you’re kinky.” She grinned. “You just jump on to the poseball and your AV will be animated in the act of your choice.”
“So it is just cartoons humping. Not much fun in that.”
“Well, it’s not so much what you do, as what you say while you’re doing it. Sex in SL is just like sex in RL. Mostly in the mind. The best lovers conjure up the most vivid imagery and turn their partners on. Of course, the doing of it in SL would just be in your imagination and in the animation of your AV. While…well, while you masturbated in RL.”
Michael blew air out through pressed lips as an expression of his distaste. “I think it might be more fun in the shower.”
Janey laughed. “Only if there’s someone else with you.” They lapsed into another silence and Janey topped up their glasses from the last of the bottle. “What’s wrong with me, Mike?”
He looked at her, surprised. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Janey.”
“So how come no one’s interested?”
“I’m sure they are.”
“I’m sure they’re not. And if they are, they’re pretty damned good at hiding it. The only guys interested in me seem to be in Second Life.”
“But you’re a guy in Second Life!”
She laughed. “That’s my point. I’ve taken to frequenting the gay clubs. Seems the only way I can get myself a man. I’ve had some interesting experiences.”
She turned and gazed off into an unfocused middle distance, and he took the opportunity to reappraise her. It wasn’t that she was ugly. Just plain. And plenty of plain girls got themselves men. And it certainly wasn’t that she lacked personality. But, he supposed, there was something innately asexual about her. She would always be your best friend, never your girlfriend, because somehow you would just never see her that way. She’d always only be one of the boys. He felt suddenly very sorry for her. He had lost Mora, but at least they’d had their time together. Janey had never, to his knowledge, had anyone. He said, “Any guy would be glad to have a girl like you, Janey.” And in almost every respect he meant it.
She turned to look at him. He saw a hurt in her eyes as she went straight to the one respect in which he didn’t mean it. “You?”
And he couldn’t hold her gaze. “You know I’m still not over Mora. Not by a long way.”
A small, sad smile crept across her face, and she turned her gaze back toward the cosmos and her future solitude.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The sun fell in long wedges across the cream shag of the bedroom carpet, zigzagging in broken patterns over the rumpled sheets of the bed. Michael felt the warmth of it on his naked leg and turned over to see from the beside clock that it was after nine.
He almost fell out of bed. The world had already started turning. He was losing time. He hurried barefoot across the carpet to the sliding doors of his wardrobe and stopped, leaning against the wall, giddy, almost faint. He was feeling the effects of his ordeal the night before. And the two bottles of wine that he and Janey had managed to consume between them were doing nothing to ameliorate the pain in his head. But a toxic mix of fear and adrenalin was urging him on in the cold light of day.
He selected a fresh pair of jeans and a cream polo shirt, and pulled on a pair of brown leather deck shoes. No time for a shower. He quickly brushed his teeth and dragged a comb through his hair. For a moment he stopped to take in the view from his bedroom window, across the reflecting pool, to the island and the peninsula beyond. It was that light that he loved so much. So clear, so luminous. Palm trees never still, even in the gentlest of breezes that blew in off the sea. He really was going to miss this place. If he ever lived to miss anything again.
In the kitchen, he stopped at the phone and pulled Sherri’s number up from its memory. As it rang, he considered eating a cold slice of pizza from the box he had left untouched on the breakfast bar the night before. He flipped open the lid, and saw that there were only two slices left. For a moment he looked at it in puzzled astonishment. Surely he hadn’t eaten the rest and forgotten? And then realisation dawned. Those bastards who had abducted him the night before. They’d eaten his pizza! Somehow it only seemed to add insult to injury and puffed him up with indignation. Sherri saved him from an outpouring of profanity.
“Yes, Michael.” She had clearly seen that it was him from her caller ID and prepared her chilliest tone.
“Sherri, the house is mine. No mortgage. You get me three-and-a-half million for it by…” He thought about it for a moment. “…by the time the banks close tonight, and I’ll give you fifteen percent.” If he at least had a promise of the money, surely they wouldn’t kill him?
He heard her excitement. “Can I have that in writing?”
“Twelve hours, Sherri.” And he hung up. He didn’t hold out much hope, but the more options he opened up, the better.
***
Hal Bender sat across the desk from Michael and cocked a quizzical eyebrow in his direction.
“Three and a quarter million, Michael? Are you insane?”
Michael looked at him with a mixture of hatred and disdain. Only desperation had brought him here. Bender worked from his opulent home high on the hillside above Newport. His study overlooked the harbour, the obligatory view for the richest residents of this wealthy Southern California town. And it was from those very residents that Bender had made his money, investing their wealth, sometimes wisely, sometimes not. But never to his disadvantage.
“It’s a pity Mora didn’t ask you the same when you persuaded her to take out that home loan.”
Bender pursed his lips. He had been Mora’s financial adviser through good times and bad. Mostly bad. Michael had removed her remaining investments from his control after her death, but today had forced himself to swallow his pride to make the drive up the hill. If anyone knew how to raise three million fast, it was Hal Bender.
“It was always a risky investment, Michael. If it had paid off, it would have paid out big. Borrowing against the house was the only way she could raise the cash. And she was a bit desperate by then. In the end, it was her decision, not mine.”
Michael bit back a retort.
“What do you want it for?”
“To pay off a debt.”
Bender smiled. “Borrowing from Peter to pay Paul?”
“Something like that.”
“How do things stand with the house?”
“It’s mine. Good for collateral.”
Bender raised his eyebrow again. This time in surprise. But if he was wondering how Michael had managed to pay off the loan, he wasn’t going to ask. “When do you need it by?”
“Tonight.”
This time both eyebrows pushed themselves up his forehead. “You’re kidding!”
“I’ve never been more serious.”
Bender shook his head. “I could probably get you the three and a quarter. But not by tonight. If you want that kind of mon
ey that fast you’re going to have to go to people who don’t ask too many questions. People who will charge you so much interest that you’ll be in debt before the ink is even dry on the contract. People who will take your house off you without a qualm the minute the capital repayment is due, and take your kneecaps when you can’t pay the interest.”
Michael’s mouth was so dry he found it hard to swallow. “So how would I get in touch with people like that?”
“Jesus, Michael, what kind of trouble are you in?
“Let’s just say it’s a matter of life and death. Literally.” He paused, and the two men eyed each other in cautious silence. “So?”
“So what?”
“So how do I get in touch with people like that?”
Bender almost laughed, but in the end it came out more like a gasp. He shook his head. “Michael, I haven’t the faintest idea.”
***
Michael walked down the steps from Bender’s front door through a lush, semitropical garden and waited for the electronic buzz that would unlock the gate. The sun was rising now in the palest of blue skies, and he felt the heat of it on his skin. For a moment he closed his eyes, and when he opened them saw a black Lincoln saloon parked on the other side of the street. Two dark-suited gentlemen were making no attempt to conceal the fact that they were watching him. The driver smiled, raised his hand at the open window and gave him a small wave. His passenger puffed on a cigarette and fixed Michael in his gaze with dark, passive eyes.
Michael turned away, fear tightening across his chest, like the onset of cardiac arrest. It appeared they did not intend letting him out of their sight until the transfer was made. He walked to his SUV on legs that trembled beneath him and climbed into the driver’s seat. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. It had become only too painfully clear to him that he was not going to be able to raise the money in time.
The only alternative was to try to find out who really killed Smitts, and why.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Stan Laurel looked up, surprised, as Janey laid a plastic cup of sweet, hot coffee on the desk in front of him. Michael settled himself in Hardy’s seat on the other side of it and took a sip from his own. He peered at Laurel over the top of the detective’s computer screen. Laurel’s surprise turned to suspicion. “What are you two after?”
“Nothing,” Janey said. “Just dropping off some files. We were getting some coffee from the machine and saw you sitting over here all on your lonesome, looking like a man who could do with some caffeine.”
“Damned right I could. Been a helluva morning. That Brockman case? The guy who broke into the museum? Went to court this morning, and they kicked us into touch.”
“Shit, why?” Janey perched on the edge of his desk.
“Someone forgot to read him his rights.”
“No! Who?”
Laurel fixed his eyes on the screensaver in front of him and took a sip of his coffee, the cup trembling in bony fingers.
“Stanley, you didn’t!”
He slapped his palm flat on the desk. “I was fucking sure I had. I always do. It’s like breathing. You don’t think about it.”
Michael said, “So he walked?”
“He walked. And I am in deep shit.”
“It’s a shot of something stronger you want in that coffee, then.”
“Huh! That’s all I’d need. Caught drinking on the job. I’d be out the front door with a broken pension in my back pocket before you could say do detectives think.”
Janey craned her neck casually to look at the file in front of him. “Still on the Mathews case?”
“That and twenty others.”
Janey turned to Michael. “You remember that one, Mike? That’s the one that gave me the idea for your welcome back party. Young woman shot in the chest. We were at the crime scene that afternoon. An apartment overlooking the marina.”
“I remember.” Michael brought back to mind the fleeting image of the girl spreadeagled on the bed, but he was having great difficulty containing his impatience or trying to sound natural. Time was slipping away, and they needed more information.
Janey turned back to Laurel. “So…any breaks on it?”
“Nothing. Not a dickie bird. Interesting background, though. Her daddy’s Jack Mathews, the property developer. Owns that big island out in the bay. Rumour has it he’s terminally ill, and she’d have got all his cash. There’s a brother, too, but he and the old man don’t get on. Cut out of the will completely, from all accounts.”
“Good motive for murder, then,” Janey said.
Laurel grunted. “Except that he was in New York at the time.”
Michael said casually, “What about the Arnold Smitts case? Anything happening there?”
“Nah. Same story. Ollie’s been looking after that one. Having trouble finding a motive. And you guys didn’t come up with anything.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Damn, that’s good. Interesting coincidence, though.”
“What’s that?” Michael leaned back in the chair, affecting disinterest.
“Well, you know how he was into that Second Life shit—first Internet port of call for lost souls and losers?”
Janey shifted uncomfortably. “Yeh.”
“And how his account had been erased from the computer database?”
Michael said, “Ollie did mention something about that.”
Laurel slapped the back of his hand across the file in front of him. “Same shit.”
“What, the Mathews girl was in SL, too?” Janey frowned.
“Sure was. And just like Smitts, no record of her account in the database.”
“That’s a helluva coincidence,” Michael said.
“Well, yes and no. I mean, who knows how meticulous these Linden Lab people are at keeping records. The database could be a shambles for all we know. And Ollie did some research. Apparently there’s nearly fourteen million people signed up for Second Life. That’s almost half the population of the state of California. So it’s not that big a coincidence if two random murder victims turn out to be Second Lifers.”
Janey stood up, and as she turned, her hand caught Laurel’s cup, and knocked the coffee into his lap. He leapt to his feet, cursing in shock and pain as it scalded him. “Jesus Christ!”
“Oh, hey, I’m so sorry, Stanley. Here let me take you to the washroom and wipe you down.”
Laurel glared at her, wiping at himself with a paper tissue. “Well, there’s an offer I can refuse. Jesus Christ, Janey! You’re a clumsy fucking bitch, you know that. Goddamn!” And he went hurrying off toward the washroom.
Janey smirked across the desk at Michael. “Always spilling things, me.” Then her smile faded. “That’s fourteen million people worldwide, Mike. Not just in California. So I’d say it was more than a coincidence.” She bent over Laurel’s desk, ostensibly to mop up the pool of coffee that was dripping over the edge, and flipped open the Mathews file to squint at it. “What do we need to know?”
Michael stood up, hope returning with the prospect of something new to follow up. “Her AV name. Groups she was in. And the old man’s address would be good.”
Janey looked up at him and smiled conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “We gonna play real life detectives, too?”
“Whatever it takes, Janey.”
She grinned. “Good. I always wanted to be a cop.”
She swivelled the file toward her to take some quick notes, and the corner of it caught Laurel’s computer mouse. The movement swiftly banished his screensaver to reveal a familiar scene. A busy shopping mall, with AV’s moving back and forth viewing skins all along a back wall. In the foreground a tall, thin, good-looking avatar stood, head bowed, an Away sign attached to a tag revealing him to be Phat Botha. For a moment, Janey stared at it, confused. Then, “Jesus!” she whispered. “Look at this?”
Michael rounded the desk. He looked at the screen incomprehendingly. “It’s Second Life,” he said.
Janey’s face split into a g
rin. She put her hand over the mouse, and Phat Botha sprang to life. “First Internet port of call for lost souls and losers, huh? The damn hypocrite’s a Second-Lifer himself.”
***
The Mathews did not encourage visitors to their island. It was situated almost in the middle of the bay about halfway between Balboa and Lido islands. There was no bridge, no road, and they did not lay on water transport for casual visitors. Michael and Janey had to hire a boat from a rental outfit off Bayshore Drive and chug out across the channel, weaving between yachts at anchor and huge motor-driven cruisers that powered in and out of the harbour. Seagulls wheeled and cawed overhead, and Janey looked back at the two dark-suited figures who stood on the landing watching them go. She frowned.
“Who are these guys? Do you know them?”
Michael switched the tiller from one hand to the other and glanced back. He sighed. “I figure these are bastards who ate my pizza. They’re keeping an eye on their three million.”
Janey paled a little. “Oh, shit. Really?” Then she chuckled. “Well, I guess they must reckon they’ve lost you now, unless they can walk on water.”
“They’ll probably just wait for me at the four-by-four. They know I’m not going anywhere fast without it.”
The Mathews mansion occupied around 80 percent of the island. A huge two-storey classical Italian stone-faced villa with colonnaded terraces. The back wall went straight down into the water. The sides and front were ringed by beautifully manicured lawns screened from the curiosity of passing boat-owners by columns of palm trees and tall flowering shrubs. Beyond the grass a white-painted wooden landing stage extended along the front of the property, big enough to berth two fifty-footers at the same time. A short floating pier ran out at right angles, with half a dozen small craft bobbing on the swell. The Stars and Stripes hung limp from a tall flagpost in the midday heat. The breeze from the ocean had dropped, and the air fibrillated in the heat, vibrating to the hum of myriad insects.
Michael steered their rental boat into a berth at the pier and Janey leapt out to tie it up to a metal ring set in the planking. A water-borne ambulance was tethered to the main landing stage, and several smaller boats clunked and creaked alongside it, straining gently at their moorings. As they walked along the pier to the landing stage, Michael and Janey saw a small crowd of people gathered on the front lawn. On the landing stage they passed a couple of medics wheeling a stretcher across the boards to the ambulance. A bulky figure lay prone on the gurney, covered over with a white sheet. The group on the lawn began to disperse. Michael caught sight of a short, elderly Latina woman in a black dress with white trim. The maid. He hurried after her.