Walter Williams - This Is Not a Game

have got me. I’m staying in a motel here in L.A., just to get away

from distraction and get some work done. The game will be done in

another couple weeks, and then I can take some time off.

I tried to call you on my cell phone but for some reason I couldn’t

get a signal. I’m at the New Hollywood Inn, rm 118, and the phone

here is 818-733-3991.

I’ll try to call you later today.

Love,

D.

Dagmar had logged on to the AvN Soft servers using her old ID and password. She imagined the message lying there on the IMAP server, waiting for CRAPJOB to log on and discover her secret location.

Except that the email was a lie. She wasn’t actually sleeping in room 118-inspired by the way that Joe Clever had stalked Litvinov, she had taken a room across the courtyard, 115, separated from it by the shrubs of the filled-in swimming pool. She had rented 118 as well, paying in cash shoved beneath the bulletproof screen, because she didn’t want to be responsible for the lives of any innocent tourists who might camp there.

Now, though, she considered shifting to the decoy room, at least for the rest of the afternoon. She had a feeling that CRAPJOB might want to confirm her location.

She got her laptop and her room key, with its diamond-shaped plastic tag, and crossed the old swimming pool. She spent the afternoon working there, in the clean Lysol scent of the room, at the little round table by the window, where she became sufficiently engrossed in her work to give a start when the phone rang.

Her pulse raging, Dagmar stepped across the room and picked up the old-fashioned heavy black handset.

“This is Dagmar,” she said, and was answered only by a soft click.

“Hello to you, too,” she responded, fear turning in an instant to fury.

She mussed the bed in order to convince any enemy reconnaissance, and the maids, that the bed had been slept in. She drew the drapes, left a light on above the stained vanity mirror in the back of the room, and then withdrew to the safety of room 115.

The scout crept in a little after ten. The court was well-enough lit at night that the night-vision camera was hardly necessary; the video monitor clearly showed the wide-shouldered man enter from the street and slowly stroll the length of the walk in front of room 118. On the return journey, a few minutes later, the man stopped near 118 and studied the steel door in its orange steel frame. Fair hair glinted from beneath a dark cap.

Dagmar was amazed by her sudden rage. It was all she could do to keep herself from hurling open her door, striding across the swimming pool, ripping the cap from BJ’s head, and slapping him across the face.

Only the remains of her sanity, dangling above the abyss with quivering fingers, kept her still.

BJ, having seen what he came to see, ambled back to the street. A few minutes later she heard the big V-8 thunder into life, then roar away.

Dagmar began to take full breaths again. Her hands shivered as the anger receded, like the tide, in waves-the fury building, then falling, then returning, but each time diminished, with the pulses of lucidity lasting longer.

Coldly she considered what evidence she had just collected. BJ had come to her motel room, had stalked around outside, had left. Dagmar understood the homicidal intent, but would Murdoch? Would a jury?

She was inclined to think not.

She doubted that BJ would have bomb-building supplies in his apartment-if he wasn’t hiding them from the police, he was certainly hiding them from his roommate, Jacen. They might find evidence on his computer that he was CRAPJOB, but if he’d been smart, he would have used computers rented at Kinko’s or borrowed at the library.

If he had been foolish enough to use his own phone when contacting the players he’d used to deliver the bomb to the Fig, he’d have hanged himself-but Dagmar knew that BJ was smarter than that. Dagmar knew he would have used what on TV crime shows was called a burner-a cell phone with prepaid hours, purchased anonymously and after the crime destroyed.

There was nothing in any of this that would indict BJ, let alone convict him.

A bigger demonstration would be required.

In the morning she took Hollywood Boulevard west, toward the ocean, and found a place to park near where it became Sunset Boulevard. Between two shabby old office buildings, and beneath a billboard for Ray Corrigan’s new blockbuster, she found an old, steep stairway that connected Sunset and Santa Monica boulevards, and from this vantage viewed the building that contained Katanyan Associates.

She had been there many times, but she thought it might be useful to refresh her memory. The building was a four-story structure of dark glass. Austin’s company occupied the second floor. Cars were parked on a kind of concrete shelf cantilevered out over the slope, with a view of Century City beyond. There was a booth for a gate guard, but it was manned only during working hours.

The building across the street had CCTV cameras on its roof, but these were drooping downward-broken or unused.

It’s going to happen Tuesday night, she thought. When you’ve got Aram for your alibi.

It was lucky that Katanyan Associates was only a short distance from the New Hollywood Inn.

That would make things easier.

This Is Not an Assassin

Richard the Assassin sat behind his long, curving row of consoles, screen images winking in his eyes. Ninjas glared down from the upper shelves, fierce eyes gazing from masked faces.

“CRAPJOB’s starting to scare me,” he said. “He’s using your account to build a program that’s going to cause major damage. When he gives the word, it’s going to trash every record on our servers, starting with all Great Big Idea’s games, then going on to email and accounting files, then demolishing everything in AvN Soft that it can reach. We’ve got backups off-site, of course, but we can’t swear that every single thing is backed up.”

“He won’t move till after the Wednesday update,” Dagmar said. “He can’t afford to destroy anything until the players send his patch out.”

“I’m still worried,” said Richard.

She looked at him. “All right,” she said. “If we don’t track this guy down by Tuesday six P.M., lock him out. Eliminate his account, wipe out his little data bomb, and make sure-” She leaned forward, intent. “Make sure it’s Charlie’s patch that goes out to the players, not anything else.”

Richard shrugged. “Of course.”

Dagmar began to speak, then hesitated, then spoke anyway. Any residual loyalty to BJ had vanished at the point at which she’d seen him stalking up and down outside her conjectural motel room.

“While you’re doing that,” she said, “eliminate Boris Bustretski’s account.”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “You think he’s CRAPJOB? ”

“CRAPJOB appeared after BJ came on as a freelancer.”

The eyebrows lifted another millimeter.

“BJ? ”

“He’s an old friend,” Dagmar said, “but I don’t trust him.”

Richard made a sweeping motion with his hand, clean as the slice of a ninja sword.

“It’s done,” he said.

FROM: Consuelo

SUBJECT: Porn Invasion

Hey, Dagmar-

Why has my hard drive filled up with this awful Asian porn?

Is this any way for a detective to treat his partner?

Joe

FROM: Dagmar Shaw

SUBJECT: Re: Porn Invasion

Andy,

Your hard drive should keep its fly zipped.

Good detectives don’t go anywhere without a warrant.

Dagmar

FROM: Consuelo

SUBJECT: Re: re: Porn Invasion

Darn it, Dagmar, I thought we were friends!

FROM: Hippolyte

SUBJECT: Re: L.A. Games

Hi, Dagmar,

I’ve got the phone call from David! I’m supposed to help deliver data