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Callan perched on a velvet armchair. “When did you last see your husband, Mrs. Garofalo?”
She worried a silk handkerchief between her fingers. “Maybe two weeks ago? He was only home briefly to grab some clothes and cash. Wouldn’t tell me where he was going. Just said he had business to take care of.” Her voice quivered again. Vinnie’s disappearance must have taken an emotional toll on her.
Callan exchanged a look with Brandon, both likely thinking the same thing—two weeks ago aligned with the Game Master’s livestream murder. “Did he seem different at all that last time you saw him? Nervous or worried?”
Gina considered the question. “I suppose he did seem rather preoccupied. On edge even, glancing constantly out the windows.” She turned tearful eyes to Callan. “Do you… do you think he’s in some kind of trouble?”
Gently, Callan covered her hand with his in reassurance. “We’re not sure yet. But I promise we’ll do everything we can to find your husband and make sure he’s safe. Can you think of anywhere specific he would go to feel secure?”
Dabbing her eyes delicately with the handkerchief, Gina pondered his question before shaking her head. “I’m afraid not. Vinnie always preferred keeping his business very private, even from me.” She sighed. “But something had him very paranoid those last few days. I’d never seen him so jittery.”
Callan nodded, squeezing her hand supportively as he stood. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Garofalo. We’ll keep in touch if we learn anything more about your husband’s whereabouts.”
Escorting them politely to the door, Gina managed a trembling but grateful smile. “Please find him, detectives. I just want my Vinnie home safe again.”
Back at the car, Brandon exhaled. “Man, she has no idea her husband’s dead. This case just gets more twisted.”
Callan agreed. “She gave us some useful context, though. Vinnie was on high alert those final days, like he knew someone was after him. Too bad he didn’t realize the real danger was the Game Master’s virtual reach.” If only they could have saved him from that sadistic fate. But it was too late for regrets. Now, they had to keep others from meeting the same violent end.
Starting the car, Brandon looked at Callan. “You still need me for anything else? Wanna grab some lunch?”
Checking his watch, Callan contemplated their next moves. “No lunch. I should follow up with a few other contacts this afternoon. Plus, I’ll need to update my new partner… if she’s awake.”
Brandon grinned knowingly as he started the car. “Ah, yes, Roseline! Noelle gushes over her friend, and I admit I do, too. She’s a genius yet elusive computer sorceress.” He threw a teasing glance Callan’s way. “And I saw you making eyes at her when the commander first introduced us when we first started here.”
Callan’s face heated, but he kept his tone light. Truthfully, he’d been intrigued by Roseline ever since arriving in New Orleans. But he wasn’t about to admit that, especially not to the boyfriend of Roseline’s friend Noelle.
“I maintain a professional demeanor, thank you very much,” Callan replied casually. “But yes, her skills are impressive. We could use more tech experts like her.”
“Uh huh, strictly professional, I’m sure.” Brandon chuckled. “Come on, you can admit it if you think she’s hot. I won’t judge.”
Callan just shook his head with a wry smile. “All right, buddy, that’s enough.” As they pulled into the station to part ways, he gave Brandon a pointed look. “Let’s show Roseline that same respect. She deals with enough dismissive crap around here from what I saw.”
Brandon’s smile faded. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s only teasing. Roseline is a sweetheart, don’t get me wrong.”
Callan stepped out onto the sidewalk, pausing to process their exchange. Brandon meant no ill intent, but his teasing revealed the lingering boys’ club mentality Roseline still endured daily. Callan vowed he would always treat Roseline as she deserved—like the brilliant, professional equal she was. Her formidable intellect commanded nothing short of admiration.
Still, after Callan climbed into his own car and navigated the bustling streets, he’d be lying if he denied occasionally… noticing certain attributes of his new partner. But he would keep those observations strictly private. What mattered most was blending their complementary skill sets into an unstoppable team. Personal attractions had no place in compromising the integrity of their work.
Abruptly, Callan decided to head back to his apartment to gather his thoughts. Spreading the case files across his kitchen table, he meticulously recorded their findings so far in a notebook. He always preferred his old-school methods of compiling handwritten notes. It helped clarify his racing thoughts, drawing conceptual connections as he wrote.
Reviewing his scrawled observations, Callan had to acknowledge they still only grasped the edge of the labyrinth confronting them. But this early intel gathering was critical. Right now, their priority was constructing an initial profile of how the Game Master operated, including tracking his digital movements in tandem with any street contacts linked to his crimes.
One definite detail so far: the Game Master’s deadly theatrics seemed designed specifically to terrorize New Orleans’ criminal underworld through unpredictable violence. Would this detail become a pattern?
First, the Game Master had targeted a Mafia boss, leaving that community shaken. Who might be next? This fear of the unknown was deliberate on the Game Master’s part, fueling his God-like persona.
Shutting the notebook, Callan stood and stretched his stiff limbs. Time to circle back with Roseline. He hoped she had gotten some much-needed rest. She’d been working tirelessly, analyzing the Game Master’s digital trail over the night, and seemed totally spent.
Callan didn’t want her burning out when they were just getting started. Both of them were counting on that amazing brain of hers to help find a way through this bloody mess.
CHAPTER SIX
Roseline awoke slowly, her mind foggy as she tried to shake off the clinging remnants of a fitful sleep. Blearily glancing at the alarm clock by her bed, she saw it was already past 9 a.m. She had slept for the remainder of the previous day and all night! She should have been up hours ago. With a groan, Roseline forced her eyes open wider and sat up, the soft sheet pooling around her waist.
She rubbed her face roughly, trying to stimulate some alertness. Her whole body felt heavy and sluggish, like she was trying to move through quicksand. It seemed her all-nighter, tracking the enigmatic Game Master, had caught up to her. She knew it was vital police work, but the grueling hours hunched over glowing computer screens took their toll.
A chill ran through her as the gravity of their situation came flooding back. Somewhere out there, a depraved killer was roaming free, turning New Orleans into his own virtual hunting ground. She pictured the terrified face of mob boss Vincent Garofalo, strapped helplessly to that chair on an unknown stage while a sea of invisible spectators voted eagerly on how best to end his life. The image turned her stomach.
