Донна Эндрюс - Click here for murder

This book made available by the Internet Archive.

I continue to owe more than I can say to those who helped me with Turing’s first appearance in print: Natalee, my editor; Ellen, my agent; Elizabeth, Lauren, Mary, Maria, Suzanne, and Kathy, who read and critiqued the book in draft; and all my family and friends, for continuing to talk to me when Em obsessed with a book and can’t talk about anything else.

And with this book, I owe special thanks to two groups of people:

To Dave, Paul, Kevin, Rose, and Don, who took me to Sin-nett Cave in January 2002 and, during the long drive to West Virginia, helped me come up with the idea for Turing’s second adventure.

And to all the readers who, like Maude and Tim, didn’t have any problem believing that Turing was real.

One a - n - Saturday night- Or Sunday morning. A car passed, and the shadows in the alley shifted to reveal a figure standing where a dumpster screened him from the mouth of the alley.

He sighed, hiked the strap of a laptop case higher on his left shoulder, and blotted the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Not that he minded the heat. During the day, the heat had been an enemy, sapping his energy and muddling his thoughts. The faded heat that survived the sunset was more like an old acquaintance.

He checked the time again, and shifted the laptop to the other shoulder. He supposed he should have left it in the car, but he never felt comfortable doing that. He’d mind if they took the Audi, but not the way he’d mind if they took his laptop.

He heard a noise behind him, from the wrong end of the alley. He hid his surprise, and paused before turning. Schooled his expression to show that this silly cloak-and-dagger stuff was just what he had expected.

But this wasn’t who he had expected to see.

And he hadn’t expected the gun.

Sorry, Turing, he thought. I’ve blown it, big time. If only I’d told you about—

Donna Andrews

2

2 a . n •

Tim Pincoski pulled up the collar of his

trench coat to keep the persistent, cold drizzle from dripping down his neck. He tugged the brim of his hat a little iower. He glanced up and down the alley, and listened.

At the other end, he saw the usual sleeping wino. By now, Tim was sure the wino wasn’t a real wino. He was doing surveillance for someone—or something. Tim didn’t want to know. Well, okay, he very much wanted to know, but trying to find out could have a detrimental effect on his life expectancy. So he wasn’t going to pry—yet. Not until he had a lot more experience, and maybe some allies. Right now, he was having a hard enough time just finding his way around the city’s underworld and staying alive.

He walked down the steps that led to the Cellar. Pushed open a grimy door and descended another short flight of stairs into the bar. Two or three occupants frankly inspected the new arrival. The rest were probably just more subtle.

He strode to the bar, trying for just the right walk. Not a swagger that might challenge anyone who claimed the Cellar as his turf, but Tim didn’t want to look timid, either.

“Scotch and water,” he said, putting a ten-dollar bill on the bar.

The bartender nodded without looking up and reached for a bottle. Tim put one foot on the bar rail and turned to keep an eye on the bar’s other denizens.

Time to get down to business, Tim thought, as the bartender delivered his drink.

“I’m looking for some information,” he began.

Click Here for Murder

3

The bartender flicked him a glance, nodded slightly, then returned to surveying the bar.

Tim took a deep breath.

“Di tiy jbiw a nab baned Cadt?” he said.

“What’s that?” the bartender said, looking at Tim and not quite suppressing a snicker.

Tim looked down at his fingers. He’d gotten so caught up in the game that he’d moved his right hand one key over from where it was supposed to be.

“Sorry,” he typed. “I meant to say, ‘Do you know a man named Cady?’ ”

“LOL,” typed the player in the bartender’s role. “Maybe I shouldn’t serve you if you can’t hold your liquor any better than that.”

“Learn to type, dude,” suggested another player, whose little character icon Tim would see on the screen near a circle representing a table.

“U NEED A NEW KEYBOARD, MAN,” commented another barfly.

“Jeez, kid; ease up on the caps key and stop shouting,” the bartender said.

Tim sighed, and pushed his chair back from his desk. In the game world, he remained sitting silently at the bar while the Cellar crowd made fun of him for a few more minutes. He ignored them. In real life, he looked around his office and realized he should have gone home hours ago.

He’d turned on the computer to catch up on some paperwork while waiting for a potential client to call back. He’d only meant to play for a few minutes. But that was at

Donna Andrews

4

6 P.M., and now it was—holy smoke—after two. So the evening was shot; he might as well pack it in till Monday. After he finished this game session, of course. It would take time to pry the information his PI character needed from the bartender. Assuming the bartender even knew, and would tell. For what it was worth, he now knew that the bartender was played by a real person, rather than controlled by the computer that ran the game. Did that mean it would be easier to get information out of him, or harder? Tim hadn’t played Beyond Paranoia long enough to guess.

But he wasn’t in the mood anymore. Although, come to think of it, he wasn’t really ready to return to real life, either. Especially since he had the nagging feeling he should be someplace else, doing . . . what?

Not something for Turing. She’d have seen him online and reminded him. And not Maude either; she’d have asked Turing to remind him.

Ray. Damn. He was supposed to meet Ray Santiago. To help him out with something—Ray, typically, didn’t say what.

Tim grabbed the phone and called Ray’s number.

No answer. He hung up after ten rings.

He glanced back at the screen. In Beyond Paranoia, the bartender was asking him if he wanted another round. He had his on-screen character shake his head.

He rummaged through his desk for the paper where he’d written down the information: 10 p.m. at the Aztech Maze.

“It’s just a dance club,” Ray had said, seeing Tim’s dubious look. “No ritual sacrifices to the harvest gods or anything like that.”

Click Here for Murder

s

“I don’t dance a lot,” Tim said. “In fact, I don’t usually dance at all.”

“I promise, you won’t have to dance,” Ray said. “If you’re afraid someone will kidnap you and force you to dance, you don’t even have to go in; just meet me in front. Where we’re going is nearby.”

“Okay,” Tim said. “But where are we going? And what are we supposed to be doing there?”

Ray hesitated.

“It’s a long story,” Ray said. “And I still know only part of it myself. I’ll fill you in Saturday. Hell, it may even be a false alarm, and when I tell you about it, you can have a good laugh at me.”

Tim hoped it had turned out to be a false alarm. Or that his help wasn’t irreplaceable. He’d have to apologize to Ray on Monday.

On a sudden impulse, he called his own home voice mail.

Two new calls.

The first, at ten thirty-one, was from Ray. He could hear a hum of voices and Latin music in the background.

“Hey, Tim—you there? I’m down at the Aztech, waiting. Hope you’re on your way. See you.”

The second, at eleven twenty-four, was also from Ray. Or so he assumed. Same background noise. But no message. Just ten or fifteen seconds of the music, and then a hangup.