Game of Death (18 page)

She leans her head back and looks at the ceiling. ‘Goddamnit! I’m such a fool!’ she screams.

‘If it makes you feel any better, I think you’re generally a starting point. From what I’ve been told, most people mix and match different features and body parts, so
there’s probably very few times where you’re used in full. And there are several hundred others, too.’

‘It’s still fucked-up,’ she says. ‘And what does it have to do with these murders?’

‘The three murdered girls were also models for the project,’ Killkenny says. ‘We wanted to talk to you and let you know that.’

She just stares at him for a long time. ‘So, am I in danger?’ she asks at last.

‘We can’t say that for sure.’

‘You can’t say for sure? Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

He shakes his head. ‘No. But it might help us to know whether you’ve had any contact with anyone from the company recently.’

‘You’re kidding, right? After the way I described my experience, you think I’d have anything to do with anyone from that company?’

I have to bite my lip as I listen to her. I want to apologize for my company. I want to defend my company. I want to tell her that the company I’ve spent the last four years working for
– the company that pulled me and Ma back from the brink of despair – is not the same company she’s talking about. I keep my mouth shut, though, and bear her justifiable rage in
silence.

‘How about anyone else? Any random men you’ve come into contact with who’ve expressed more than casual interest?’

‘How do you define casual interest?’ she asks, an eyebrow raised.

‘I mean more than conversation. Random men who seem to want more from you, particularly in a sexual way, for example.’

She laughs ruefully. ‘Seriously? Do you go to bars, Detective? I don’t think I’ve spoken to a random guy in the past ten years who didn’t want something more from me
– particularly in a sexual way. That’s the way of the world.’

‘Fair enough.’ Killkenny gets up and walks to the window, looks out on Worcester Square. ‘And the guy you kicked out before letting us in?’ he asks.

She straightens. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Yes, you do.’

She’s looking at his back, and he turns around and meets her gaze. She tries to hold the look, but it lasts less than ten seconds before she looks away. ‘He’s . . . he’s
a friend.’

‘For how long?’

‘He’s okay.’

‘For how long? Last night?’

She looks back up at him. ‘Night before last.’

‘You got a name?’

‘He’s okay.’

‘I guess that’s your call. I can have him checked out if you want, but if you want to keep it to yourself, there’s nothing I can do. I’m just trying to help.’

She looks down at the floor. ‘You really think he could be dangerous?’

‘I have no idea. I do know that there is someone out there who is dangerous and who has murdered three women who were involved in the same modeling project you participated in. Do you
really want to take a chance?’

‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ she mutters, shaking her head.

‘Like I say, it’s your decision.’

‘Jake, she says after a moment. ‘He bartends down at a bar called the Sandstone.’

‘Last name?’

She shoots Killkenny a look like he’s an idiot.

‘Right. No last name.’

‘I live my life,’ she says.

‘So I gather.’

She is still holding her bra in her hands and she looks down at it, spreads it out and smoothes it out on her lap. ‘I live my life,’ she whispers, more to herself than to us. She
takes a deep breath and looks up at Killkenny. ‘So what happens now?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean do you provide me with some kind of protection?’

‘You strike me as the kind of girl who keeps plenty of protection handy.’

‘Fuck you, I’m serious,’ she says. ‘Are you gonna have someone watching the apartment, at least?’

He shakes his head. ‘That’s not possible. We don’t have the manpower.’

‘So, you just show up and tell me that I’m in danger, and then you do nothing?’

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card, hands it to her. ‘You call me if anything out of the ordinary happens.’

She looks at the card. ‘What do you consider out of the ordinary?’

‘In your case I have no idea.’

She looks at me. ‘Can I get your partner’s card, too?’

‘You call me, I’ll answer,’ Killkenny says.

‘Your partner’s better-looking,’ she says, still looking at me. I give her a half smile, mainly because I know she said it primarily to annoy Killkenny and I appreciate the
spite. She returns my smile, and I can see the weariness in it. ‘He’s awful quiet, though.’

Killkenny walks toward the door. ‘That’s him, the strong, silent type. C’mon, Gary Cooper, we have other fans of yours we need to talk to.’

I nod to Jennifer Quincy. ‘Ma’am,’ I say, figuring I might as well play up the stereotype now that it’s established.

‘Bye, Gary,’ she says, watching me leave. ‘I waitress at the Nines down in the Back Bay, if you’re ever hungry.’

I give her the half smile again, touch the brim of my imaginary hat and walk out the door.

‘You were pretty rough on her, weren’t you?’

Killkenny and I are back in his car, headed to the home of the next woman on the list, who lives in Brookline, around five miles outside of Boston. We travel north on Massachusetts Avenue,
toward the Charles, then peel off onto Commonwealth, inch our way through the traffic at Fenway and then pick up some speed out to the western suburb. It’s about a fifteen-minute trip.

‘She chose her life,’ Killkenny says.

‘Don’t we all?’

‘Yeah. But not all girls choose to pose nude and have a train of random guys trekking through their bedroom. She’s getting what she asked for.’

‘Right. And you strike me as the monogamous type.’

‘That’s different. I’m a guy.’

‘So?’

‘We’re the hunters. They’re the prey. That’s just the way it is. It’s nature. We’re genetically programmed to spread our seed. Women – at least the ones
who aren’t screwed up in the head – are programmed to nail us down. It’s the way the human race has survived through the years.’

‘That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘It’s science. Don’t you read?’

‘They’re the gatherers, not the prey.’

‘What?’ He looks over at me, confused.

‘You want to get into the science – if you want to call it that – men were the hunters and women were the gatherers, not the prey. The prey was the wooly mammoths, or the
bison, or whatever it was we were hunting. And by the way, there’s evidence that the women participated in the hunt, too.’

‘Huh!’ He digests that for a moment, but it seems to have little impact. ‘It’s still fucked-up. All this bullshit about gender equality is just that. Men and women are
different, and they should act different.’

I give up. ‘I have to call Yvette.’ I want to see what she’s been able to learn. I pull out my cellphone and dial her number. It rings four times before she picks up.

‘Hey,’ she says.

‘Hey. Where are you?’

‘The office. Your office, actually.’

‘Still?’

‘I’m on a tear,’ she says. ‘You know how I get.’

‘I do.’ I glance over at Killkenny. He seems focused on driving, but I still don’t want him to know that we are working a different angle without keeping him in the loop. I
realize I have to be a little careful about what I say on the phone when he can hear me. ‘How’s it going?’ I figure that’s unspecific enough that it won’t raise
Killkenny’s suspicions.

She hesitates. ‘I don’t want to say, yet. I still need to nail some things down. It’s complicated.’

‘That sounds promising.’

‘It may be. I’m still not entirely sure, though.’

I can’t deal with the suspense. ‘Can you give me an idea of what we’re talking about, at least?’

‘You sound strange. Is Killkenny there?’

‘Yup.’

‘Ah, I get it.’

‘Good for you. Can you give me a little more detail?’

She sighs over the phone. ‘Fine. I’ve found pieces of
De Sade
’s LifeScenes on the system. At least I think I’ve found portions of them on the system.
They’re just fragments. If these things were created on the system, though, whoever did it did a damn good job of trying to wipe them out, or at least make it so that it would be awfully
difficult to reconstruct them.’

‘How?’

‘Most frag programs simply unhook the data. Whoever did this went at least one step further.’

‘I’m not sure I’m following you,’ I say.

‘Think of the data stream that makes up the LifeScene as a series of data packets that are hooked together, like a train. When they are transmitted over the Internet, or over any network
for that matter, the cars in the train are decoupled so they can travel separately, which is way more efficient and necessary for the network to transport significant volumes of data from multiple
sources. Each packet is given the information about the destination, and then they’re also given a code at the beginning and ending of the packet, so that the stream can be reassembled at the
other end. Most frag programs simply remove those identifiers, so it’s hard to put the pieces back together.’

‘But it’s still possible to do, right?’

‘Yeah, it just takes a little time and work. If you can find the data fragments and identify them by similar structures, it’s possible to start reassembling them. At least,
that’s normally true. In this case, though, whoever created these LifeScenes seems to have gone further, so that even when I identify the fragments by their properties, I’m having
trouble reassembling them because it seems like they’re allergic to each other.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I didn’t either, at first. But whoever did this seems to have come up with a way to not only remove the sequence identifiers, but also make it so that the data fragments no longer
want to be put together. It’s like they’re repelling each other. It’s very sophisticated.’

‘Can you fix it?’

‘I think so. That’s what I’m working on now. But if I’m right, and these data bits I’ve found are actually from
De Sade
’s LifeScenes, you know what
it means, right?’

I cast a quick glance over at Killkenny. He seems to be listening to my half of the conversation, and I realize we’re probably talking too much. ‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘I’ve got a good idea.’

‘It means that
De Sade
is here at the company – or at least that he has access to hardware that’s connected to the company’s system. And he’s someone with
some sick computer skills.’

‘Yeah, I get it. Keep at it.’

‘Will do, boss.’ I can’t tell over the phone whether there’s sarcasm in her voice. ‘How’s it going there?’

‘It’s a barrelful of laughs.’

‘Have you talked to any of the women yet?’

‘One.’

‘How did it go?’

‘It was interesting.’

‘I’m sure. How did the girl take it? Was she freaked out?’

‘She wasn’t happy,’ I say. ‘Who would be, when a cop shows up in the morning to tell you that there’s a psycho out there who might be interested in making you his
next victim? At least our good detective here was extremely sensitive.’

‘I’m sure his bedside manner is just great.’

‘He’s a regular Florence Nightingale.’ Killkenny looks over at me. ‘And his views on women are very enlightened.’

‘I’m shocked,’ Yvette says.

‘Fuck off!’ Killkenny says quietly.

‘I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘He seems displeased with me.’

‘Let me know how the rest of the day goes.’

‘Will do. And let me know how the rest of the research goes.’

‘You’ll be the first.’

‘You mean the only.’

‘Right. That’s what I meant.’ The line clicks dead. I put the phone back in my pocket.

‘Sounds like she’s working on something important,’ Killkenny says.

‘The company’s business goes on.’

‘I’m sure it does. Is this a new product?’

I look over at him. ‘Sorry, it’s proprietary. We’re not allowed to talk about the things that we’re working on.’

‘That’s smart. I usually operate under the same rules. I’m making an exception in this case, though, aren’t I? I mean, here you are going on a ride-along with me on the
investigation of a murder that involves your company.’

I decide to try to change the subject. ‘Who is the girl we’re talking to now?’

‘Taylor Westerbrooke,’ he says. ‘Next one on the pile.’

I open the file and flip to the next image. The striking young redhead from the LifeScene that Yvette GhostWalked the day before stares out at me, her smile thick with enthusiasm and
possibilities. ‘With luck, this will go better than the last one.’

We arrive at the Westerbrooke residence on Hilltop Avenue five minutes later. There is a large stone archway that we pass through, which leads to a wide, circular, cobbled
driveway. We park near the front door and get out, both looking up at the enormous house. It is a three-story stone Georgian building with two wings and columns out front. It’s on at least
two acres near the heart of the city.

‘Looks like her modeling career is going well,’ Killkenny says.

I nod, and we walk to the front door. We press the doorbell to the left of the door and we can hear the elaborate chimes sounding from inside. A moment later the door opens and we are greeted by
a very attractive redheaded woman in her early forties. ‘Can I help you?’ she says.

I am holding the file and I flip it open to the page for Taylor Westerbrooke, glancing from the photo to the woman. It looks like her, but the age is off.

‘Miss Westerbrooke?’ Killkenny says tentatively.

‘
Mrs
,’ she says with emphasis. ‘Mrs Westerbrooke, yes. How can I help you?’

‘Taylor Westerbrooke?’ I ask.

She frowns, the confusion apparently resolved. ‘Meghan Westerbrooke,’ she says. ‘You’re looking for my daughter.’

‘Yes, Killkenny says. ‘Does she live here?’

‘Just for the summer,’ she says. ‘She’s home from school. She’s a sophomore at Skidmore.’ Killkenny and I look at each other; we’ve both done the math
in our heads, and it doesn’t add up. He takes out his badge and holds it up for the woman to see. Her frown deepens. ‘What is this all about?’