by Peter May
And something else came back to him now, too. Something that had slipped by completely unnoticed. Although it must have lodged somewhere in his brain, as if waiting impatiently to be discovered and swept back into the flow of mainstream information where it might make more sense.
A throwaway line in their conversation with Jennifer Mathews’ brother, Richard. His bitterness at learning from his sister that their father was salting away a tax-free inheritance for her in Second Life. She told me about it, you see. Rubbing my nose in it. There always was a spiteful side to her. Like father, like daughter. And no amount of expensive therapy could ever remove that nasty little character trait.
Michael flipped open his cellphone and pulled up a number from its memory. He clamped it to his ear and listened to it ring.
“Yeh?”
“Is that Stan or Ollie?”
“Stanley. Who wants to know?”
“It’s Michael, Stan. Have you heard?”
He held his breath. This was the moment of truth. If word had got back about him from Laguna, then this conversation would be short-lived.
“Shit, yeh. About Plain Jane? Jesus, man, I can’t believe it. I was talking to her just this afternoon.”
Michael controlled his breathing. It seemed he wasn’t in the frame just yet. “Stan, I need some information.”
“About Janey?”
“No. About Arnold Smitts and Jennifer Mathews.”
“Jesus, Mike! You and Janey both. She was bugging me for info this afternoon. What are you two, detectives all of a sudden?”
“Stan, it’s important. It might explain why she’s dead. What did she want to know?”
He could hear Laurel breathing heavily at the other end of the phone, wondering perhaps if he should tell him or not. “She wanted to know if Smitts and Mathews consulted with the same therapist. Seems like she’d been digging in the Smitts file and come up with a name.”
“And did they?”
Laurel grunted. “What if they did? It wouldn’t be unusual for two people in the same small town to be seeing the same therapist. This ain’t LA.”
“Who was it, Stan?”
But he knew, even before Laurel told him. “Some psychology consultant called Angela Monachino.”
Michael closed his eyes and saw again the little plaster cherub clutched in Janey’s hand. Only it wasn’t, he knew now, a cherub. It was an angel. In her dying moments, even through all her pain and the certain knowledge of imminent death, she had found a way of telling him who had killed her.
“Mike? You still there, Mike? Hang on. There’s some kinda weird shit coming in from Laguna Beach on the other line.”
Michael snapped his cellphone shut. He could imagine only too well just exactly what that weird shit might be. Weird shit that was about to hit the fan.
He gripped the steering wheel even more tightly and cursed his frustration into the night. Angela had set him up right from the start. She had manipulated him into Second Life with the promise of continuing his therapy in her SL group. It must have been Angela who somehow contrived to transfer Smitts’ millions into Chas’ account. Though God only knew why.
Michael turned the key in the ignition. There would probably be alerts going out on every police radio in the next few minutes. And this was his last known whereabouts. He pulled out into the southbound stream of traffic on PCH and headed up to Jamboree, where he took a right. At the foot of the hill, he drove past the Cosmetic Care plastic surgery center on his left and the Newport Beach Yacht Club on his right, to cross the bridge over the channel to Balboa Island. He found a parking spot right across the street from Starbucks on Marine Avenue. Through the rain he could see that the coffee shop was nearly empty. Just a handful of customers sitting at tables in the window. He slipped his computer beneath his jacket again, and hurried across the road, the rain bouncing off the tarmac as he ran. By the time he pulled open the door and got himself in out of the rain, he was soaked to the skin and breathing hard.
The few customers there were in the place turned to look at him. Two middle-aged women in jogpants and training shoes, taking shelter, mid-jog, from the unexpected rain. A young woman with long hair tied back from a pale face, engrossed in a laptop. A middle-aged man in shorts and a yellow tee-shirt plastered to his chest and shoulders. He had clearly been drenched in the downpour, wet, dark hair swept back from his forehead. An elderly, silver-haired woman sitting in the corner, face buried in her MacBook. She dragged her eyes away from her screen for a moment to look up to give him a sympathetic smile.
The bearded barista smiled at him warmly across the counter. “How are you today, Michael? What can I get you? The usual?”
In truth, Michael didn’t want another coffee. But he needed the excuse to be here. “Sure.”
He carried his coffee to a free table and sat down to open up his laptop. He immediately received a warning that his battery was low. He muttered a mouthful of imprecations under his breath. He was going to have to be quick.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Twist’s office was frustratingly slow to rez. Chas stood impatiently watching as hair sprouted from his bald head and clothes slowly took form on his grey body. Finally his skin morphed into tanned flesh. A ching alerted him to a waiting IM. It was from Doobie.
Doobie: Hey, Chas, when you pick this up, drop me a line and I’ll send you a TP.
Chas responded immediately.
Chas: I’m back, Doobs. TP me now.
An invitation to join Doobie Littlething in Camelot appeared, and he clicked to accept.
He dropped from darkness on to a mosaic-patterned bridge with waterfalls tumbling on either side. Lush, green gardens rezzed all around, and he saw Doobie’s name on his radar. But it took nearly thirty seconds for her to appear. She was wearing a cross-over blue top and tight black pants cut off just above the calf. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, with a fringe falling loosely across her forehead.
Doobie: Stay in IM, Chas. There are too many people around here. Follow me.
She set off across the bridge on to a wide plaza with an open log fire burning at the far side, and up steps leading toward a vast mansion that overlooked the gardens. Chas followed her on to the stairway.
Chas: What is this place?
Doobie: Oh, it’s a kind of romantic garden and country house. I sometimes bring clients here for a dance before we go back to my place. It’s not always all about sex. One or two like the romance fantasy thrown in as part of the deal.
Chas: So why are you here now?
Doobie: LOLOL. I was with a client, Chas. Dumped him as soon as I got your IM.
Chas: Oh. Okay.
They passed between two suits of armour guarding the entrance to the mansion. Flaming torches burned on either side of the door, and a box on the step offered a free Tux for the discerning dancer. They entered a vast, baronial hall, its walls lined with renaissance portraits. Circular stairs led to an upper level where the floor was made of glass.
Doobie: Click on a slow-dance poseball, and we can dance and talk undisturbed.
Doobie and Chas fell into a close embrace and swayed to the soft, romantic music plumbed into the Camelot sound channel. The entrance hall below them was disconcertingly visible beneath their feet, as if they were floating on air. In any other circumstance, Chas might have been seduced by the moment. But right now, romance was the furthest thing from his mind.
Doobie: When we spoke a short time ago, you said you thought that Janey had left you message.
Chas: She did. Doobs, I know who the killer is. It’s my therapist, Angela Monachino. It was her who got me to come into Second Life in the first place. And both Smitts and Mathews were patients of hers.
Doobie: So she has an AV in here?
Chas: Yes. Angel Catchpole. She appears as a witch. At least, she did in therapy.
Doobie: So it must have been her that transferred the money into your account.
Chas: I guess she must have. Although I can’t thi
nk why. Somehow she has got hold of Wicked Wilson’s Super Gun, and she is murdering wealthy clients for their money.
Doobie: That doesn’t make sense, though, Chas. Why would she need to murder them? Enough, surely, just to kill the AV, erase the account, transferring the money to hers.
Chas: Unless the RL victims knew who had killed their SL AVs. Then she would have to cover her tracks.
Doobie: So Janey found out it was her?
Chas: Yes. The idiot must have gone and confronted her. Goddamnit! Why didn’t she wait for me?
Doobie: So Angela killed her and tried to make it look like it was you?
Chas: The problem is going to be proving it, Doobs. There’s no evidence. In fact, all the available evidence points at me. And how am I going to explain the three million plus in my account? Always assuming the mob don’t kill me before I get the chance to explain anything.
Doobie: Shit!
Chas: What?
Doobie: An IM from my boss at Sinful Seductions. There’s a client asking for me back at the club. I’m in the bad books already because of you. If I don’t go now she’ll sack me.
Chas: Jesus, Doobs, it’s just a job!
Doobie: No, it’s not! It took me ages to get that job. You don’t know how tough the competition for dancing work is in here these days. I’ll go and deal with it, and IM you as soon as I’m free.
She detached herself from the poseball and vanished, leaving Chas dancing solo around the glass floor.
He jumped off his poseball and looked self-consciously about at the dancing couples who all seemed to be glancing in his direction. Had he just been jilted by a lover or offended the girl he was courting? The by-now familiar ching drew his attention to an incoming IM, and his heart very nearly stopped. It was from Angel. He hesitated to open it, feeling a strange cocktail of emotions. Anger, fear, apprehension, murderous intent.
Angel: Hi, Chas. We need to talk.
Chas: I thought you were indisposed due to a family bereavement.
Angel: I didn’t say it was family.
And Chas realised then that she had been talking about Janey, and he felt a surge of anger rise up through him like molten lava. But he resisted the urge to let it erupt. She didn’t know he knew. And he wanted to keep it that way.
Chas: Oh. Right. So what was it you wanted to talk about, Angel?
Angel: Well, I’d rather do it face-to-face, Chas. There are some things I need to discuss with you.
Chas: Where do you want to meet?
Angel: Here at The Blackhouse, Chas. Where you came for your group therapy session. Do you still have the LM?
Chas: Yes.
Angel: Well, TP over. I’ll be waiting for you in the main hall.
Chas stared at the dialogue box and felt tension tighten across his chest. She was going to kill him. What other reason could she have for luring him there? She’d failed to do it as Twist. Now the gloves were off. No more pretending. It would be crazy to go, he knew that. But he needed proof of some kind, some way of implicating his therapist—his extherapist—in the whole Goddamned mess. And at least he still had the element of surprise on his side. She had no reason to suspect that he knew about the Smitts and Mathews connection, or that she had killed Janey.
He went into his Inventory and attached all his weapons HUDS, so that he had an array of defensive and attacking firepower just a click away. He drew a deep breath, opened up his Landmarks folder, and double-clicked on The Blackhouse.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
It was dark when he landed on the stretch of beach opposite The Blackhouse. The empty sandy wastes all around shimmered silver under the moonlight, and the big, square block of The Blackhouse itself stood out against a starry sky. Even from here he could see that there were lights inside, the flickering flames of dozens of torches lining the interior walls throwing dancing shadows out of huge windows into the night.
Chas waded through the water channel that separated him from the neighbouring parcel and approached the huge metal doors of The Blackhouse with caution. The red eyes of the carved devil heads glowed in the dark and seemed to be fixed upon him as he got nearer.
Just inside, the same pool of blood lay shimmering on the floor, shockingly vivid in the flitting half light of the torches, the same bloody claw marks leading off into darkness. He hesitated here. The last time he had come, they had watched him from the inside. Some concealed camera, perhaps. The devil eyes that held him in their gaze, transmitting his image to the hidden eyes within.
He knew that those eyes would be watching him now, aware of his approach. There was still time for him to TP away. Still time to log out of SL and go to the police, tell them what he knew, place himself at the mercy of the California justice system, and ask for police protection from the mob. But somehow the thought failed to inspire him with confidence. He needed to face Angel down, to force a confrontation himself. To get to the truth and survive to tell it.
He turned up the volume on his laptop, anxious to hear the least sound that might betray another presence, and advanced into the corridor that led around the side of the building to the main arena. It got darker here. And up ahead, where the passage curved away out of sight, he could see only the faintest of feeble flickering. But as he moved forward, the air became filled with the crackling of flames, which got louder as he passed successive torches, and he was guided by their light, finally, to the vast floorspace of the main hall, which opened up before him. He saw the stage on the far side, where he had sat for his group session. Moonlight fell in through all the windows and lay in silver slabs across the floor. The blood spill in the centre of the arena glimmered in the dead light of the moon, vapour rising from it like smoke. And there, with the mist swirling around her feet, blood on the floor reflecting on her pale witch’s face, stood Angel, multiple shadows cavorting about her like demented ghosts. She held her oxblood book of spells in the crook of her arm, as before, and wore the same long, purple gown, its plunging neckline divided by her opal pendant. She wore a curious half-smile on her face, red lips almost black in this strange light, and her eyes burned in the glow of the torches.
Angel: Hello, Chas. I’m so glad you could make it.
Chas: What is it you wanted to speak about, Angel?
Angel: Well, I didn’t want to talk in open chat, or even in IM. Nothing much seems very secure in SL these days. Too many people writing spy software, creating gadgets to follow an AV and record his conversation. Too many ways of being observed without knowing it. And most of the poor souls who inhabit this wonderful virtual world of ours haven’t the least idea of what is really going on. They’re all too busy shopping or having sex. And what a waste of an extraordinary technology that is.
She took several steps toward him, and he felt himself flinch, almost involuntarily.
Angel: I wanted this communication to take place between just you and me, Chas. I didn’t want any chance of it being overheard. So I’ve prepared a notecard.
The offer of a notecard from Angel Catchpole appeared. He accepted it, and the notecard opened up. He looked at it for several seconds in some consternation. It was entitled A Sorry Tale and was completely blank.
Chas: I don’t understand.
Angel: What’s not to understand, Chas? Read it.
Chas: It’s blank, Angel.
Angel: Nonsense. I’m looking at a copy of it right here.
A beep on his radar alerted Chas to another presence. He saw the name Dark Daley appear on his list.
Dark: I’m afraid he’s right, Angel.
They both turned to see Dark descending the stairs from the upper level. He was, as before, bare-chested, his nipple ring glinting in the reflected moonlight. He wore black jeans and studded biker boots. His shock of brown hair seemed darker than Chas remembered it, shot through now with silver.
Angel: What are you doing here, Dark? You don’t have an appointment.
Dark: I didn’t think I’d need an appointment, Doctor Catchpole. I thought you mi
ght be interested, finally, to hear about my deepest, darkest fantasies. That’s why I erased your little notecard. I can’t let you go sharing too much with strangers.
Angel: What are you talking about, Dark? How could you do that?
Dark: It’s easy when you know how, my little Angel. Easy, too, to kill when you get a taste for it. A simple transition from fantasy to reality. The act played out in the imagination to the act carried out in fact.
Chas was caught off-guard by the speed with which the Super Gun appeared in Dark’s hand, his arm extended straight ahead of him, his head tipped slightly to one side, one eye closed to line up his target—Chas.
Dark: Just like this.
He swivelled through ninety degrees and fired three times. Each shot blew a ragged hole in Angel’s AV. Chas felt something strike him, and his own AV staggered back. He glanced down to see blood and fragments of AV flesh on his shirt and pants.
Angel stood for a moment in what seemed like shocked disbelief. Most of her chest and stomach were gone. And then she simply folded up, almost dissolving in a bloody pile on the floor, her book of spells still clutched in the crook of her arm.
An IM flashed up in Chas’ dialogue box.
Doobie: Okay, Chas, I’m free now. TP me.
Chas awoke, startled, from his shock.
Chas: Doobie, I was wrong. It’s not Angel. It’s one of her patients. Dark Daley. He’s just killed her.
Doobie: Jesus, Chas! Where are you? Get out of there, wherever you are!
Dark turned toward Chas, his mouth stretched open in grotesque facsimile of a smile.
Dark: Never could stand the bitch. Too fucking smug by half. And you, my friend, know way too much for your own good. Or mine.