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“Tell me everything, Kat, my sweet girl.”
Trixie the monkey shrieked, threw down her snack, and ran across her rope line. She leaped to Sci’s shoulder, where she squatted and chattered at Kat’s image on the screen.
“Hello, beautiful Trixie…. Anyway, this program seemed a little familiar, Sci. So I chased down a different program that’s a few years old but with a similar signature. That program was created by a gamer called Morbid. Don’t take this for more than it is, darling, please. It’s an educated guess, built on a rumor. I have been searching everywhere, though.”
“Kat, I can’t thank you enough. This is the closest thing I have to a lead yet.”
“I have to go in a few minutes,” Kat said. “I have just enough time…”
Kat unbuttoned her blouse, and techno music with a complex melody and a pounding beat came over the speakers. Sci’s thoughts about a spy program moved to the back of his mind as he locked Trixie in her cage and turned to Kit-Kat.
The very large, very lovely woman took a clip out of her thick blond hair and began to slip out of her clothes. “Tell me what you like tonight, my lover,” she said. “Then I will do the same.”
Chapter 61
LATER THAT NIGHT, Sci sat in the shadow of the fearsome, wondrous shark, his fingers on the keyboard, his eyes on the screen.
Since signing off with Kit-Kat, he’d run the name Morbid through his browser, coming up with trash bands Morbid Angel and Morbid Death, and morbidity in every absurd category imaginable.
When he’d exhausted Google and Bing, he signed on to one geek message board after another, searching for references to a spy-bot that cloned cell phones wirelessly and to a programmer called Morbid.
He ransacked every board he subscribed to and came up dry. So Sci e-mailed his good friend Darren in India. Darren worked for a major Internet provider and he responded to Sci’s e-mail with links to exclusive websites that were restricted to high-level tech professionals. Darren also sent Sci his IDs and passwords.
Sci made coffee and then prowled the back corridors of the Internet. He struck gold on a supergeek board he hadn’t even known existed, and that in itself was news. He plucked the name Morbid from a recent thread and read a post saying: “Morbid-the-great has taken to the streets. Rumor has it he’s a key player in a combat game IRL called Freek Night.”
Sci was virtually bolted to his chair, both excited and afraid that this lead might run into a wall. This was why Private was the best—they had the best resources, and they weren’t constrained in ways the police were. They operated with their own sense of justice.
Using his friend’s ID, Sci posted a query about Freek Night, and he got an instant message from a member who believed Sci to be Darren.
“Darren, dude. What I can tell you. Freek Night is so sick, it’s transcendent. It takes fantasy to a new level—real life.”
“How do you know about this?”
“A gamer named Scylla posted a couple of times on Extreme Combat. He said he was recruited into the game. Could be bullshit tho. I tried to get in myself. Never got a reply.”
“First I’ve heard of it,” Sci replied as Darren.
“Because you live in a dungeon in Mumbai. LOL. In most places, murder is not a game. Even so, Scylla must’ve been high when he wrote that post.”
Sci bookmarked the site, guessing that yes, Scylla was high. Like many addicted gamers, he no longer separated his real life from his virtual one—or even knew the difference. He’d become his screen name, invisible and invincible.
Sci searched the gamer board Extreme Combat until he found a post from Scylla: “Our game is warriors vs. sluts,” he had written. “Come Saturday night, think of me!”
A new thread was later started by a member called Trojan: “Saturday plays. Sunday pays. Scylla flew off his own terrace. Flying is easy. It’s hitting the pavement that’s hard.”
Sci opened the site’s user profile pages and found that Scylla had listed his name as Jason, his address as Los Angeles.
It was four a.m. in Los Angeles when a board administrator noticed that “Darren” was using an unapproved IP address and blocked Sci from the board.
Sci made fresh coffee. His fingers were stiff, and his hands were shaking.
He cupped his mug until his fingers relaxed, then he trawled a legitimate news blog for a man named Jason who had fallen from a terrace in Los Angeles the night Marguerite Esperanza was killed.
He found an article in the Times online, read it twice, then he called Mo-bot.
She growled at him, “Late-night phone calls are one of my least favorite things, Sci. Right behind having my tits in a mammogram sandwich.”
Sci told her what he’d found, and she listened to all of it before saying, “So who is this Morbid? I’m out of rocks to turn over. I’m calling Jack.”
