Cole Perriman's Terminal Games (6 page)

“Syd, you sick bastard, you scared me half to death.”

“You’re getting soft, Nol. Your instincts and reflexes’ve gone to mush. This is what happens when I’m not around to nip at your ass.”

“So what’s this about retiring?”

“I’m gonna do it.”

“C’mon, Syd. You’ve been saying that ever since you moved up there.”

“This time I mean it.”

“I thought cops lived forever in that little paradise of yours.”

“You don’t know the half of it.
They get younger.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“Insidious is more the word. You see, when I moved up here, I was fifty-four years old. But now I’m forty-nine. And I’m going on my forty-eighth birthday.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Don’tcha see? I’ll
never reach retirement
age at this rate. It’s now or not at all.”

Nolan laughed. That was Crazy Syd’s typical brand of logic.

“Well, congratulations on your retirement, Syd. Invite me to your celebratory dinner, okay?”

“Hold on just a minute. I’m calling in a little favor here. Remember all the brilliance and expertise I bestowed upon you back when you were an ignorant whelp of a snot-nosed dumb-ass rookie? Remember how I untaught you all that textbook crap you’d picked up at the academy? Remember how I single-handedly turned you into a dauntless, rampaging hound of justice, admired by men, lusted over by women, and feared by wrongdoers everywhere? You owe me for all that stuff, son.”

“So what do you want?”

“You know what I want. You’ve got to come up here and take over my job.”

Nolan sighed. “Syd, we’ve been over this before. You know I can’t just pick up and move. Hell, I was born and raised here. My parents died here. And Louise. I’ve got roots.”

“Roots? In L.A.? Don’t make me barf.”

“I’m honored by the offer, Syd. I really am.”

“Good. So accept it.”

Nolan was quiet. He knew that Syd was absolutely sincere. And for some reason, Nolan didn’t quite want to give him a conclusive “no.”

“Give me some time to think about it,” Nolan said.

“Yeah, right. If I give you all the time you want, I’ll wind up seventeen again and have to go back to high school. Look, what have I got to say to persuade you? The fishing’s great up here. There’s a stream not a half hour away just swarming with rainbow trout and bass. I’m talking
telekinetic
fishing, Nol. You just look at the water and think positive thoughts and the fish come jumping out.”

“I don’t fish.”

“Neither did I. That’s another insidious thing about this place. You do stuff you’ve never done before. So what’s your answer?”

“I really need a little time to think it over, Syd.”

“Brother. How long do you want?”

“I don’t know. Whaddya say to a month? I’m up to my neck in that Judson killing. You probably heard about it.”

“Yeah. Couldn’t’ve happened to a nicer guy.”

“Right. We just want to find the killer so we can give him a humanitarian medal. But it looks like this perp’s the modest type who doesn’t want to bask in a lot of public glory. It’s a bitch of a case, Syd. I don’t know how long it’s going to take to wrap it up. I wish you were here to help.”

“Well, I’m not there, and I’m sure not coming back. So wrap it up and call me. If I don’t hear from you in a month, I’m giving the job to Andy of Mayberry.”

Syd hung up. Syd always hung up the phone without saying goodbye. Nolan held the receiver stupidly in his hands until the dial tone buzzed. Then he hung up, too.

The truth was, Nolan was tempted to go. He had always imagined that law enforcement in a town like Syd’s was mostly a matter of an occasional stolen bicycle, a little vandalism from time to time, and a few loud parties. That was naive, of course. Nolan knew perfectly well that gangs and drugs were creeping into semi-rural communities like Syd’s. But it could be nothing like L.A.

It would be nice to be someplace where my work at least
counted
for something, where it made some sort of real difference to somebody.

Then he grumbled under his breath, “Damn you, Syd, it’s not like I didn’t already have enough on my mind.”

Nolan stalked away from his desk.

*

Marianne drummed her fingers against the obnoxious end table with the curlicue edges. She leaned back against the headboard of her hotel room bed and cradled the phone receiver against her shoulder. She was waiting to be taken off hold. It had been at least three minutes now.

Guess they’re not terribly anxious to receive phone tips. After all, it was only the murder of one of the country’s most famous tycoons.

“Sergeant Wertsch here,” a voice said.

Marianne felt her heart jump. “Sergeant, I … I believe I might have some information pertinent to the G. K. Judson killing,” she said.

“Yes?”

Marianne was silent.
How
can I explain it?
She suddenly wished she’d written down all the details.

“I belong to computer network called Insomnimania,” she explained uneasily. “It’s a recreational network with a number of different rooms.”

“Rooms?”

“Yes. Virtual spaces where you can engage in different kinds of activities. Do you understand?”

“Go on.”

“One of the rooms is called the Snuff Room. People act out murders there.”

“Act them out?”

Marianne took another deep breath. “Insomnimania users create animated cartoon characters. They’re called ‘alters.’ And in the Snuff Room, they make up cartoon skits that portray murders of one kind or another.
Fictional
murders, supposedly. It’s all a game, you see?”

“Go on.”

“At about midnight last night, I saw Mr. Judson’s murder acted out in the Snuff Room. At least
I think
it was his murder. I’m staying at the Quenton Parks Hotel and I’ve seen the crime scene. The stain on the wall was exactly like the one in the snuff.”

“Are you saying that you witnessed Judson’s murder?”

“No, I witnessed a
reenactment of
the murder.”

“Who reenacted it?”

Marianne felt overwhelmed by the weirdness of
what she was about to say next.

“A clown,” she said.

“A clown?”

“Look, it was a
cartoon character.
Named Auggie.”

“Not a real person?”

Marianne groaned. “Sergeant, I tried to make it clear that I saw this on my computer screen. Didn’t you understand that part?”

“Yes, you made it very clear,” Sergeant Wertsch said. “Would you give me your name, ma’am, along with some information as to how we can reach you?”

Marianne did so.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Sergeant Wertsch said. “We’ll give you a call if
we need any more information.”

“Wait a minute!” Marianne exclaimed. “I don’t think you understand. Somebody in Insomnimania seems to have known a great deal about Mr. Judson’s murder. Doesn’t that interest you at all?”

“Any information pertaining to Mr. Judson’s murder interests us a great deal. Thank you very much for your help, Ms. Hedison.”

The line went dead. Marianne miserably hung up the phone and leaned back on her pillow.

A bust. A complete, unequivocal disaster.

She felt her face flush. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed at having made a blithering idiot of herself. After all, she was next to anonymous. But she had failed to convey her shock at the similarities between the crime scene and the Snuff Room skit, and this failure truly disturbed her.

What’s the matter with me? Why did I panic with that other cop—What’s-His-Name—right there at the scene?

She felt lousy about this failed phone call. Couldn’t she have been more forceful, more persuasive, more
clear?
Why did she have to sound like a complete nut case? And what was she going to do now? Call up Sergeant Wertsch again and demand his undivided attention? Or go confront the detectives on the case?

She couldn’t prove what she had seen on the computer monitor, and she still only half-believed it herself. Wasn’t it possible that she had dreamed or hallucinated at least part of it? She was chronically tired these days. She was usually in a truly exhausted state by the time she logged onto Insomnimania. Maybe the idea that a real-life murder and a computer-simulated murder were somehow the same was another chimera—like that traveler on the ice.

Besides, Renee was on Auggie’s trail now, and she would undoubtedly get to the bottom of this mystery. Marianne was sure of one thing. If their situations were reversed, Renee wouldn’t have let the cop on the phone treat her like a crackpot, and she wouldn’t have run away from a detective at a crime scene. Renee was more intrepid than Marianne—and certainly more worldly.

Hell, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm is more worldly than I am. This is what happens when you live in Santa Barbara for a couple of years. You lose your capacity to act decisively in weird situations.

Marianne had freed herself of Evan and of an aimless life that had never truly been hers. But her recurring glimpses of that figure on the ice and this little incident with the police both suggested that she had not yet come into her own.
That was one of the reasons Renee made me feel sad …

She looked at her watch. It was five-thirty.

Well, no time to brood. I’ve got just enough time to grab some food before the conference starts …

*

“So did you talk to the folks at the airline?” Clayton asked Nolan when the two of them met at their facing desks to talk over the day’s activities.

“Yeah,” Nolan said tiredly. “So far, everybody’s playing it just like the guys we talked to yesterday. They say Judson was here to make a few brief remarks and give a plaque to some V.P. for setting some kind of regional record. Then they were all going to play a little golf. Just an excuse for Judson to come to La-La Land. They say he doesn’t spend much time in Chicago in the winter.
That
part I can believe.”

“We got any kind of profile on him at all? Other than official stuff?”

“The people in L.A. claim not to have known him real well—not personally. A little gossip is all. They say he screwed around a lot.”

“I guess you’ll learn more in Chicago.”

Nolan nodded. He sat down, removed his shoes, and began to rub his feet.

“So what’s the word from your pals?” Nolan asked.

Clayton frowned. He got a sour taste in his mouth from just thinking about his small circle of informants—a motley collection of pushers, pimps, addicts, gang members, and petty thieves. He’d never gotten used to the idea of letting those scum run free in exchange for what was usually an inconsequential trickle of information. “They aren’t my ‘pals,’” he said.

“Sorry.”

“When’re you gonna stop saying that?”

“I said I’m sorry. What do they know?”

“Not a damned thing.”

“Are they holding out?”

“There’s no reason they’d know anything about Judson unless he was mixed up in drug deals or shuffling funds. The only reason they’d hold out is if he was big-time Mafioso. They all swear they never heard of him.”

“You believe them?”

“Yeah.”

“So we still ain’t got a laugh,” Nolan observed.

“Nope. Not even a giggle.”

Nolan slipped his shoes back on. “I’m going on home to read over some reports about Apex. Then I’m turning in early. My plane goes out at six
a.m.
”

Clayton nodded. “Be sure to wear your mittens and earmuffs.”

“Yeah, and fuck you, too. See you next week.”

Nolan padded away through the detective bay area. Clayton sat quietly for a moment. He was not looking forward with pleasure to the report he was going to have to write concerning today’s work.

Clayton heard an audible moan of discouragement across the aisle. He turned and saw Sergeant Rudolph Wertsch, who had just hung up the phone at his desk. The blond, Aryan-looking, crew cut-sporting rookie had been assigned to take phone tips concerning the Judson case. Clayton had noticed that Wertsch, while never being exactly uncivil, never really made eye contact with him, either. Well, he wasn’t the only one like that on the job.

Whiter than white. God save me from having one of these types for a partner someday.

“So, Rudy,” he said cordially, “you crack the case yet?”

“I’m well on my way,” said Wertsch impassively. “Listen to some of this great stuff. One lady called to say that Judson was slain by the Angel Michael for his sins against the poor.”

“Beats having no suspects at all.”

“It gets better. Some guy called and said he’d seen a UFO hovering over the Quenton Parks the night Judson got it. Somebody else says he can link the murder to a neo-Communist conspiracy. But my favorite one of the bunch is the lady from Santa Barbara who figures Judson was killed by a little clown who lives in her computer.”

Clayton chuckled half-heartedly. “Keep up the good work,” he said.

The Insomnimania User’s Manual

CAN’T SLEEP?

Welcome to the club!

Come on. You’re among friends. Admit it. You’re exceptional. A genius. A rainmaker. A mover and a shaker. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be reading these words. You’d never have found out
about Insomnimania unless you heard about us from a high-powered friend or business associate, saw us
mentioned in a sophisticated periodical, or responded to our brochure (sent only to a very select mailing list)—in short, unless you were
in the know.

And that’s what makes you sleepless. You live a high-
bandwidth life. The day never really ends for you. The global village, with its faxes and e-mail, never sleeps. And you stay awake with it. You can’t help it. Sure, there’s nothing like another dreary Mensa meeting to
send you roaring into a power snooze. But who wants to go
every night?

When evening rolls around, you want to play. But you don’t need another game of racquetball or tennis. You need recreation for the neurons, a synaptic Disneyland. And that’s what Insomnimania’s all about: real-time fun and games for real-time people.

You’ll find our instructions clear and our programming cozy and responsive. You don’t have to be a computer wizard to use Insomnimania—although you can get plenty of exercise if you are one!

Your Insomnimania membership packet is enclosed. Here’s what it includes:

A computer disk with Insomnimania software. You will find an easy-to-use array of choices for network participation—including exciting graphic and verbal capabilities to enhance your real-time communications.

Your temporary password, which you can change any time you’re logged on. Your password is encrypted by our state-of-the-art protective system, so that it can never be read by anyone else.
Your actual identity is protected at all times.

This manual, which explains how to install Insomnimania software, how to create an on-screen personality, how to log in and use all aspects of the Insomnimania network, and how to expand this exciting cyber-reality to your own imaginative specifications.

Any addenda to the manual made since this printing. Since Insomnimania members have the option of requesting changes and making additions to the network, we’ll send you frequent updates.

Remember, Insomnimania is not just another virtual world. It’s an alternate universe that operates in real time—and you’ll soon discover that it’s a lot more vivid than that mundane three-dimensional realm where you spend your days. And unlike other sites, this one is strictly nocturnal; it comes on at eight p.m. Pacific Time and goes off at five a.m. Pacific Time. For those of you who live out east and don’t like those hours—well, that’s tough. Move to California.

We have a motto at Insomnimania:
“Mutability is our most important product.”
Insomnimania is a constantly growing, constantly evolving labyrinth. It would be a dull playground indeed if it didn’t allow you to make your own rules, your own games, your own
worlds
if you so desire. So help yourself to a literally infinite smorgasbord of creative possibilities. In Insomnimania, you’re more than a participant; you’re a deity. So boot up—and be all that you can be!