Virtually Dead

by Peter May

  He had blood now on his hands and shoes, and bile rising in his throat. The room blurred as tears filled his eyes, and he blinked furiously to clear them and stop himself from crying. As he stood up, something glinting on the carpet caught his eye, an eye trained by practice to notice the smallest detail at a crime scene.

  He stepped over Janey’s body and bent down to pick up a pair of broken reading glasses. And with a sudden start, he realised that they were his, missing from his desk at home for some days. One of Mora’s final gifts. He straightened up, looking at them in disbelief. What on earth were they doing here? Had Janey taken them? And why?

  And then it dawned on him. He was being set up. This was supposed to look like he had done it. He glanced at the blood on his hands and shoes, and thought about the trail of fresh fingerprints he had left throughout the house. There were shards of broken lens from his reading glasses lost in the pile of the carpet. Shards that would be recovered when the FSS team arrived to do their work. He turned toward the monitors, and saw, on one of them, the figure of Twist O’Lemon, standing in the hangar at Abbotts Aerodrome where he had last seen him. Only there was no longer a gun in his hand, and his arms hung at his sides, head tipped forward as if asleep in the standing position. Next to his name tag a fragment of text read, Away.

  Someone had sat right here, manipulating Janey’s AV, while Janey herself lay dead or dying on the floor. Someone who had shot her, then used Twist to try to erase Chas and blame it all on Michael.

  Michael started looking around, panic rising now in his chest. There was very probably more incriminating evidence lying around. How could he explain any of this? And when they started to investigate, they would want to know how he had suddenly acquired more than three million dollars to pay off his home loan. If Janey’s killer had succeeded in erasing Chas, then there would have been no trail leading back to his Second Life account. No way of accounting for it. Even so, he was still in big trouble.

  His eye was drawn to something white lying beneath the computer desk. He stooped to pick it up. It was a bloodstained white handkerchief, his initials embroidered on it in blue. MK. Mora had ordered them each sets of embroidered handkerchiefs when they first got married. His and Hers. He always carried one with him. Somehow, someone with access to his house, had taken one. Along with his reading glasses. And God knew what else.

  But his search for further evidence was cut short almost before it began by the sound of an approaching police siren. There was no doubt in his mind that the police were on their way here. He had been set up and stitched up so tightly he really couldn’t see any way out.

  As the sound of the siren grew louder, he went through to the kitchen and hurriedly washed the blood from his hands. He carefully wrapped his broken glasses in kitchen paper and slipped them into his shirt pocket. Then he took a deep breath, and walked to the front door as a police patrol car pulled up, lights flashing, immediately behind his SUV. He looked further along the street and saw that his minders had decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and had embarked on an exit strategy. Their black Lincoln was turning right at the far end of the street, on a one-way road that would take them all the way back down to PCH.

  Michael ran down the steps, snapping on a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, as two uniformed officers climbed toward him. They met halfway. The older man was an officer Michael knew from way back, which meant he wouldn’t have to explain himself.

  “Hey, Mike. How did you get here so fast?”

  “I was in Laguna on other business when they called, Sam.” It was amazing, he thought, how easy it was to lie.

  “You been inside?”

  Michael nodded. He didn’t need to look shocked, or grave, or pale. He was all of those things anyway. “It’s Janey Amat, Sam. She’s dead.”

  Sam stopped in his tracks, eyes wide, and stared at Michael in horror. “Jesus Christ, Mike! That plain little FSS girl you worked with?” Michael nodded. Suddenly that’s what Janey had been reduced to. That plain little FSS girl that Mike Kapinsky worked with. “What happened?”

  “She’s been shot. You’d better call in a full team. I’m going to get my stuff from the trunk.”

  The younger officer said, “You’d better be careful there, sir. You got blood on your shoe.”

  “Yes, I know. I wasn’t expecting…Well, you know. She was a friend. I had to establish she was dead.”

  Sam put a hand on his shoulder. “Tough break, Mike. Never good when it’s someone you know.”

  Michael was nearly at the foot of the steps when he was struck by a thought. “Hey, Sam.” He called back up the stairs. “Who called this in?”

  Sam turned at the front door. “No idea, Mike. Anonymous tip-off.” The two officers turned away again to move cautiously into the house, and Michael jumped into his SUV and started the motor. There was no sign of his mob minders. If they were doing a circuit, they hadn’t come back around yet. This was his chance to lose them. He took the SUV through a quick three-point turn, and drove off at speed in the opposite direction from the one they had taken. He had to hold the steering wheel very tightly to keep his hands steady.

  His twenty-four hours were up, and now he was on the run from both the mob and the police. He couldn’t see any way for any of this to end, except in tears. Or worse.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The drive back along the Pacific Coast Highway to Corona del Mar passed in a blur. Michael was having to force himself to think clearly, which, given the events of the last twenty-four hours, was far from easy. Going back to Dolphin Terrace was no longer an option. The police would come looking for him at home sooner rather than later, and his misplaced minders would almost certainly come back to stake it out.

  But he needed Internet access. The only person left in the world, it seemed, who could help him, was a Second Life avatar called Doobie Littlething.

  He reached the junction where Jamboree crossed PCH heading down to the ocean and Balboa Island. There was the Starbucks on the island, where he regularly bought coffee. He would be able to log on to the Internet there. But parking was an issue. And then he remembered that there was another Starbucks about half a mile further on, still on PCH, just past the Porsche franchise. It had its own carpark. He accelerated across Jamboree as the lights changed.

  Three minutes later he slotted his SUV between two compacts and carried his laptop into the Starbucks coffee shop. Frustratingly, it was busy, and he had to wait nearly ten minutes to get served with his usual caramel machiatto. He carried it quickly to a table at the window, freshly vacated by two teenage girls, and opened up his laptop. As he sipped on his coffee and waited for the system to load, he remembered that he didn’t have the Second Life software on this computer.

  He cursed aloud, then looked up self-consciously at the faces turning in his direction.

  “Sorry.” He blushed and lowered his head and tapped Second Life into the Google search engine to get a link to the website. It took several more minutes to download the software and go through all the disclaimers, before he was able to enter his avatar name and password. Finally, he was back in.

  ***

  Chas stood waiting for several seconds while Twist’s office rezzed around him. He checked his Friends List and saw that Twist was still online, and his face stung from the shock of knowing that while Twist might still be around, the real life person who had created him was dead.

  He let his eyes wander about the office. All the tiny details. The pictures on the wall, the friendship bear on the desk, the laptop computer with its joke welcome page for Third Life, the potted plants. Every item here had been bought or made, and placed by Janey. The world she had built. Her escape from a life that was disappointing her, to a place where she could re-make herself and take control. And Chas felt the pain of knowing he would never see her again. Never hear her laugh or tell her his troubles. In some strange way, by comparison, Mora’s death seemed to have retreated to a distant place and time. To have
gained a perspective he had never been able to find. And he reflected how, in just a few short days, he himself had changed almost beyond recognition. Become someone else.

  But he had no time to dwell on it. Time had become a luxury. It was a commodity he could no longer afford. He saw, with relief, that Doobie was still online, and he opened up an IM.

  Chas: Hey Doobs!

  Doobie: How you doing, lover?

  Chas: Not good. I need to talk to you.

  Doobie: I’m still dancing, Chas. Come down to the club.

  A teleport invitation to Sinful Seductions arrived almost immediately, and Chas clicked to accept.

  The club was half empty when he arrived, and the few customers at tables or gathered around the stage rezzed slowly. Soft, sexy, jazz sax oozed around the auditorium, a bored-looking DJ sitting behind his desk, idling through piles of DVDs. There were only two dancers on stage, Doobie and another called Pennyweather Boozehound, a tall, willowy, blond with a small group of admirers urging her to take off more items of clothing as she gyrated around the pole for their pleasure.

  Chas watched for a few moments, mesmerised. Doobie had already divested herself of her top and wore nothing more than the skimpiest pair of lace panties, stockings, garters, and the inevitable high heels. She was a sexy AV, and her dance animation showed her body off to best effect. She twisted and arched, and thrust in a sexually provocative manner, encouraging a string of lewd comments from a customer sitting on a stool immediately below her, leaning forward, his elbows on the stage, his upturned face just above a tip jar showing donations of almost 2000 Lindens. So she’d had a good afternoon’s work.

  The last donation, of 200, had been made by Biglurch Pinion, the customer still drooling lasciviously in front of her. He was a big-built man with impossibly wide shoulders and even more impossibly narrow hips. His features were gross, but clearly his RL creator had thought them attractive. He wore a tight, black tee-shirt, and even tighter jeans. There was a cigarette burning between the fingers of his left hand. He was passing comment in open chat, rather than discreetly in IM.

  Biglurch: Man, you got great jugs, woman. I’d just love to get my hands on those.

  Doobie: Fifteen hundred an hour, Biglurch, and they’re all yours.

  Chas was alarmed. He didn’t want Doobie tying herself up for an hour.

  Chas: Doobie, I’ve got to talk to you.

  Doobie: It’ll have to wait, Chas. This guy’s about to drop another 500 in my tip jar to make me take off my panties. And I don’t want to disappoint either of us.

  Chas: Jesus Christ, Doobs!

  Chas walked up to Biglurch.

  Chas: Hey, Biglurch.

  Biglurch: Hey, Chas.

  Chas: Look, I don’t want to spoil your fun or anything, but I really need to talk to this lady. Could you give us a few minutes?

  Biglurch swivelled his head to glower at Chas.

  Biglurch: Piss off! I’ve got an investment going here.

  Doobie: And so have I, Chas. You’ll get me into trouble with the owner if you go bothering customers.

  Chas: This is important, Doobs!

  Dennis: What’s the problem here?

  Chas turned to see an enormous gorilla of a man called Dennis Ember towering over him. His tag labelled him Security. A glorified SL name for a bouncer.

  Chas: I just need to talk to Doobie for a few minutes

  Biglurch: She’s dancing for me, okay. I’ve got money in the jar.

  Dennis turned to Biglurch.

  Dennis: Is this AV bothering you, sir?

  Biglurch: Yes, he fucking is.

  Dennis: In that case, Mr. Chesnokov, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Mr. Pinion is a VIP member here.

  Chas: I don’t care if he’s the Sultan of Brunei.

  Dennis: And I don’t care for your tone. Goodbye.

  Chas found himself spinning through space and time, until he landed with a thump on some anonymous piece of featureless waste ground. He stood up and looked around, dazed and wondering what had happened.

  Doobie: You got ejected, you idiot! TP me.

  Chas sent her a TP, and she arrived in a sprinkling of light several seconds later. She was still topless, but as she rezzed Chas was relieved to see that she had not yet removed her panties.

  She was fuming.

  Doobie: Chas, I know you have big problems, but you’re going to get me the sack here.

  Chas: Doobie, Janey’s been murdered. And whoever did it took over her AV and tried to erase me with the Super Gun.

  Doobie stood still for a very long time, and the dialogue box remained inactive. Her silence spoke volumes more than anything she might have written in it. Then,

  Doobie: What happened?

  Chas: Someone shot her, then set it up to look like it was me. There was evidence planted all over the murder scene. I was the first there, so I didn’t know if she was dead till I checked. And I got her blood on my hands and clothes, left my fingerprints everywhere. So now the cops are going to think that I killed her. And I’m not so sure I wouldn’t be better off now in police custody, anyway. Because without that three million I’m a dead man.

  Doobie: Whoa, whoa. Calm down. Let’s take this slowly. Why would someone want to kill Janey?

  Chas: I have no idea.

  Doobie: She phoned you earlier, didn’t she? All excited because she said she’d found something to link you and the victims all together.

  Chas: Yes, but I don’t know what that was.

  Doobie: She was going to talk to someone, you said.

  Chas: She never told me who.

  Doobie: And there was nothing at the scene that might have given you some idea of what that link was, or who she might have been going to see?

  Chas: No, nothing. Well, at least, not that I was aware of. She was murdered in her den. I didn’t have time to go through her things before the cops got there.

  And then, out of the blackness of his despair, came a pinpoint of light, the tiniest fragment of hope. A recollection of the bloody trail on the carpet, the smears on the wall, the tiny plaster cherub clutched in Janey’s blood-stained fingers. He hadn’t been able to understand at the time why she would have made such a determined effort to pull it off the wall. But now comprehension came to him, as clear as day.

  Chas: Jesus, Doobie. There was something. She left me a message. I just never realised it till now.

  Doobie: What was it?

  Chas: Oh, shit! RL! BRB.

  ***

  Michael dipped his head as the two police officers came through the door. They did not look immediately in his direction, but he knew they could not avoid seeing him on the way out. Cops always looked around, took in the lay of the land. It was their training and their instinct for self-preservation. He recognised one of them from the Newport Police Department, and knew that he would recognise him, too.

  Michael leaned on his elbow, resting his head casually in his hand, and turned to look out of the window, attempting to hide as much of his face as possible. He listened to them order nonfat cafe lattes, then spoil the low-fat effect by asking for two traditional chocolate donuts. What was it with cops and donuts?

  It was dark outside now, just the merest trace of light left in the western sky. All his options were rapidly running out, but if he was to confirm his revelation about the message left for him by Janey, there was only one course of action open to him.

  “Hey, Mike, how are you doing buddy?” It was the NPD cop.

  Michael turned around, feigning surprise. “Oh, hi. Didn’t see you coming in.” He nodded toward the bag of donuts. “I see you’re still working on your waistline.”

  The cop laughed too heartily. “Don’t tell the little lady; she’s had me on a diet for months. Can’t understand why I’m not losing weight.” He put his fingers to his lips. “Our secret, huh?” He winked.

  Michael smiled winningly. “Don’t worry, it’s safe with me.”

  He watched them go, his heart pulsing in his
throat. But at least one thing was clear. There was no APB out on him. If there were suspicions about his involvement in Janey’s murder, they hadn’t yet surfaced from the crime scene. He turned back to his computer.

  ***

  Chas: Doobie, you still there?

  Her AV was there, but she took several seconds to respond.

  Doobie: Sorry, yeh. I was in an IM with my boss. I’m in the shit. What’s happening?

  Chas: I can’t stay here. I’m going to have to move.

  Doobie: Where are you?

  Chas: I’m in a Starbucks. But I’ve been seen by a couple of cops. I’m going to transfer to another one over on Balboa Island. It’ll take me about ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.

  Doobie: Okay, IM me when you get back in. Oh, by the way, what was Janey’s message?

  But he had already logged out.

  ***

  From nowhere, it seemed, dark clouds had rolled in off the Pacific, pregnant with rain that was just beginning to fall in big, fat spots. Michael left the cover of Starbucks and ran for his car, his laptop clutched beneath his jacket. The rain was warm, like the air, and by the time he reached his SUV it was coming down from the heavens like stair-rods. He slipped into the driver’s seat, breathless and soaking. On the far horizon, splinters of scarlet fractured the skyline, glowing pink around the edges of burgeoning black clouds.

  He laid his laptop on the seat next to him and sat clutching the steering wheel, his eyes closed. He couldn’t clear the picture of Janey lying dead on the floor of her den. It was as if it had been etched permanently on his retinas, like an image burned onto a computer monitor by too constant exposure.

  He remembered the night she had come to his house to surprise him. Her mock seduction, which somehow, he felt, had really been a front for some more wishful intent. He remembered her laughter, her wicked sense of humour, jokes made so often at her own expense. And now she was dead. Because of him. Her blood staining the carpet of her den. Clutching fingers leaving smears of blood on the wall as she reached up to grasp the little plaster figurine. Her last act on this earth. Her last thought. A message for Mike.