him for a chair, then sagging into it. ‘There’s a total of twenty in the game.’
‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,’ Gino whispered.
Roadrunner flapped his arms, frustrated. ‘No, no, no, you don’t understand how this works! Yes, there are twenty murders in the game, but no one’s seen anything past murder seven.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Magozzi.
Roadrunner sighed impatiently. ‘Because I monitor this thing 24-7, that’s how. You have to solve one level before you can proceed to the next and none of the players on the site have gotten past murder seven. Some of them haven’t gotten that far.’
‘Oh, well, that’s a relief,’ Gino said. ‘Here I thought we were going to have a bunch of bodies cluttering up the city. Turns out we’ve only got five more to go.’
Magozzi was longing for a chair. A recliner, preferably, and maybe a few beers, and certainly a world where people didn’t kill each other for fun. ‘I assume you’ve got some kind of a registration list for the players who signed onto your test site.’
‘Sure. Name, address, phone number, e-mail.’ Annie pushed away from the counter and swished over to the one computer in the loft that looked like a human being might run it. The desk was deeply polished butternut, free of clutter, with a porcelain pot that held an artful arrangement of silk flowers precisely the same peacock blue as her dress. Magozzi wondered if she changed the flowers daily to match her wardrobe. ‘I’ll show you a list, for all the good it will do.’
‘And why’s that?’ Gino asked, closing in on her desk.
‘A lot of the entries are pure fabrication.’ She pointed to a name on her monitor, hypnotizing Gino with a white lacquered nail sprinkled with blue sparkles. ‘Take a look at this one. Claude Balls, and he lives on Wildcat’s Revenge Avenue.’
‘That is so old,’ Roadrunner complained.
‘Tell me about it. People have no imagination anymore.’
Gino leaned over Annie’s shoulder for a better look. ‘Your computer doesn’t catch things like that?’
Annie’s plump right shoulder rotated in an amazingly sensual shrug. Gino nearly had a heart attack. ‘Registration of any kind became an exercise in futility a long time ago. Most programs only require that certain fields be filled in; they don’t cross-check to make sure the entries are legit. And why would you? Are you going to refuse potential buyers access to the site, just because they want some privacy?’
‘So there’s no way you can find out Claude Balls’s real name.’
Annie smiled a little. ‘I didn’t say that. In theory, it’s pretty simple. Just trace back from where he signed onto the site, then get the membership records from his Internet service provider.’
Magozzi addressed his shoes because he didn’t want to look at the Monkeewrench partners. Not right now. If he told them what he needed and saw the slightest flicker of hesitation cross the face of any one of them, he thought perhaps he might pull out his gun and shoot them. ‘I want a copy of that registration list. I also want copies of every murder scenario in the game, especially the staged crime-scene photos. Now am I going to have a problem getting this stuff from you people without a warrant?’
‘Of course not,’ he heard Grace MacBride say. Her voice was shaking. She was standing perfectly erect, motionless, a tall, beautiful woman with a gun under her arm, and yet for some reason she looked totally helpless to Magozzi in that moment.
‘The man on the riverboat,’ she said to Harley. ‘Print it.’ And then she turned to Magozzi. ‘That’s the third murder. You’ve got to stop it.’
14
Magozzi was sitting alone in Mitch Cross’s office, phone hooked in his shoulder, drumming his fingers on a desk that looked sterile enough for surgery.
While Muzak bastardized the Beatles in his ear, he examined the room for evidence that a human being actually worked here, and found none. Not a single
‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,’ Gino whispered.
Roadrunner flapped his arms, frustrated. ‘No, no, no, you don’t understand how this works! Yes, there are twenty murders in the game, but no one’s seen anything past murder seven.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Magozzi.
Roadrunner sighed impatiently. ‘Because I monitor this thing 24-7, that’s how. You have to solve one level before you can proceed to the next and none of the players on the site have gotten past murder seven. Some of them haven’t gotten that far.’
‘Oh, well, that’s a relief,’ Gino said. ‘Here I thought we were going to have a bunch of bodies cluttering up the city. Turns out we’ve only got five more to go.’
Magozzi was longing for a chair. A recliner, preferably, and maybe a few beers, and certainly a world where people didn’t kill each other for fun. ‘I assume you’ve got some kind of a registration list for the players who signed onto your test site.’
‘Sure. Name, address, phone number, e-mail.’ Annie pushed away from the counter and swished over to the one computer in the loft that looked like a human being might run it. The desk was deeply polished butternut, free of clutter, with a porcelain pot that held an artful arrangement of silk flowers precisely the same peacock blue as her dress. Magozzi wondered if she changed the flowers daily to match her wardrobe. ‘I’ll show you a list, for all the good it will do.’
‘And why’s that?’ Gino asked, closing in on her desk.
‘A lot of the entries are pure fabrication.’ She pointed to a name on her monitor, hypnotizing Gino with a white lacquered nail sprinkled with blue sparkles. ‘Take a look at this one. Claude Balls, and he lives on Wildcat’s Revenge Avenue.’
‘That is so old,’ Roadrunner complained.
‘Tell me about it. People have no imagination anymore.’
Gino leaned over Annie’s shoulder for a better look. ‘Your computer doesn’t catch things like that?’
Annie’s plump right shoulder rotated in an amazingly sensual shrug. Gino nearly had a heart attack. ‘Registration of any kind became an exercise in futility a long time ago. Most programs only require that certain fields be filled in; they don’t cross-check to make sure the entries are legit. And why would you? Are you going to refuse potential buyers access to the site, just because they want some privacy?’
‘So there’s no way you can find out Claude Balls’s real name.’
Annie smiled a little. ‘I didn’t say that. In theory, it’s pretty simple. Just trace back from where he signed onto the site, then get the membership records from his Internet service provider.’
Magozzi addressed his shoes because he didn’t want to look at the Monkeewrench partners. Not right now. If he told them what he needed and saw the slightest flicker of hesitation cross the face of any one of them, he thought perhaps he might pull out his gun and shoot them. ‘I want a copy of that registration list. I also want copies of every murder scenario in the game, especially the staged crime-scene photos. Now am I going to have a problem getting this stuff from you people without a warrant?’
‘Of course not,’ he heard Grace MacBride say. Her voice was shaking. She was standing perfectly erect, motionless, a tall, beautiful woman with a gun under her arm, and yet for some reason she looked totally helpless to Magozzi in that moment.
‘The man on the riverboat,’ she said to Harley. ‘Print it.’ And then she turned to Magozzi. ‘That’s the third murder. You’ve got to stop it.’
14
Magozzi was sitting alone in Mitch Cross’s office, phone hooked in his shoulder, drumming his fingers on a desk that looked sterile enough for surgery.
While Muzak bastardized the Beatles in his ear, he examined the room for evidence that a human being actually worked here, and found none. Not a single
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