Nobody spoke as the blonde detective took out a pair of clear surgical gloves. “ID?” she queried flatly, pulling the elastic material up to her wrists.
Ron was all serious now. “Justin Norris,” he stated. “Music producer. Or a wannabe rock star. Depends on your taste. I wouldn’t recommend listening to his stuff. Not unless you plan on torturing yourself.”
Ron smiled, somewhat hesitantly. The woman remained flat-lipped, and ignored him to concentrate on the body. She showed none of Ron’s squeamishness, or any adverse reaction as she walked by the signposted evidence: mobile phone, computer cable, broken beer bottle. The woman spent half a minute pacing around the corpse, then turned sharply to Vickers.
“You verified the C.O.D.?” she asked. Her tone was direct and ungentle.
Vickers said nothing, looking somewhat puzzled. Her eyes moved past the woman to Ron, who responded with a warm-faced shrug.
“I know you have a strictly by the book, no assumptions approach, Duvall.” Ron spoke slowly, as if testing the proverbial waters. “But strangulation by computer cable seems a safe bet. I’m sure you spotted the marks on his neck, the side that hasn’t turned to jelly yet. And we found no sockets here that the cable fits. But if you’d prefer a professional opinion…” He looked to Vickers.
Back in Duvall’s unflinching gaze, the forensics woman followed Ron’s lead. “Everything is consistent with asphyxiation. There’s some evidence of a struggle, but not much considering how long it would have taken. The only blood we’ve found belongs to the victim. It does suggest he was overpowered.”
“So the killer’s a strong guy?” Ron hypothesised.
“Above average.” Vickers looked over the broken glass, and the many bottles piled with the trash. “But Norris was a heavy drinker. Likely had been drinking the night of the murder. So…”
Duvall kept her unsmiling, statue-like pose. “So?” she pressed.
“This is only a hunch,” Vickers said, confidence waning. “But we might not be looking for a two hundred pound Sumo wrestler. Doubt whether I’d be strong enough to do that, but either of you could have.”
Duvall’s eyes hardened even more at the suggestion. She kept Vickers squarely in her sights, and maintained a silent, accusing glare that almost demanded an apology.
“For example,” Vickers added quickly.
“When you come up with a more plausible suspect, let me know.”
Duvall turned back to her partner. Released from her gaze, Vickers let out a relieved sigh and moved to a quiet, out-of-the-way corner.
Ron directed Duvall to the control panel. Forensics had moved Norris’ phone and the computer cable to the top while they’d been talking.
“The emergency call was made from this phone,” Ron told Duvall. “Norris wasn’t the original owner. Must have bought it second hand, which is why we didn’t trace the address sooner. Some cheerful well-wisher left a message. Listen to this.”
Ron pressed some buttons, using arrow keys to highlight Voice Messages in a retro-fonted menu. He navigated to the most recent received call, and pressed the play key. There was a pause, followed by a heavy breath. A three second delay, and then another breath.
Duvall gave Ron an unimpressed glance. He raised a calming hand before she could speak, and extended his flat palm at the cellphone.
“The only limit… is ambition,” the stuttering caller said. “At Taurus studios… we expect… loyalty.”
Duvall flinched back, her icy, no-nonsense stare disappearing for a brief moment. Her lower lip dropped ever so slightly. Ron was focused on the mobile phone, and didn’t notice her unease.
“You didn’t… meet… my expectations,” the man concluded.
“End of message,” grated a computerised voice.
Ron switched off the cellphone and swung round to face Duvall. She recovered just in time to greet him with her usual iciness.
“Mysterious, threatening,” surmised Ron. “Could be our killer. Or at least a good bet. Don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” Duvall said. “You know my opinion about jumping to conclusions. Find anything else?”
“As it so happens…” Ron turned to shout to a forensics technician. “You got that note?”
The spectacled man brought over a single sheet of paper sealed in plastic bag. Ron took the evidence and spread it face-up on Norris’ desk. He shifted aside to let Duvall see over his shoulder.
A company logo was printed in the upper right corner of the page: a cartoonist’s impression of a red bull’s face. The creature looked angry and dangerous, with smoking nostrils and gleaming, solid-gold horns. Stencilled underneath that was TAURUS STUDIOS in bold black, with hoofprints in place of the three letter Us. The paper was creased across the centre third, as if it had been folded in two.
Duvall moved her gloved hand slowly down the printed text, pausing to manually scan each line. We value team players at Taurus, people who put colleagues’ well being above their own personal gain. You failed to meet our standards, Mr. Norris. Consider your employment terminated.
“Seems someone wasn’t too happy with his job performance,” observed Ron. “We found that stuffed in his pocket. That note’s cleaner than anything else in this dump, so we’re assuming the killer left it.” He nodded at the title. “Taurus studios. Rings a bell. Sure I heard that name mentioned somewhere recently.”
Duvall moved her fingers back to the top, and scanned the entire letter again.
Ron raised his eyebrows in curiosity. “Already checked the company out,” he said. “Some big computer game firm. I called to book an appointment with the president, a guy called Adrian Pryce. Apparently he’s famous, but I never heard of him. Didn’t tell him what it was about. Figured it would be best to surprise him with the bad news.”
Ron looked up at his partner - who hadn’t moved or taken her eyes off the bagged letter.
“You coming?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she replied frostily. “Let’s see what Mister Pryce has to say.”
Chapter Three
Underneath the morning Sun, central Philadelphia was a repetitive landscape of glass, steel, and concrete. The tallest corporate skyscrapers positively sparkled, silver-tinted apexes catching the light beautifully. Less grand buildings were literally left in their shadow. Seen from overhead, rush hour traffic appeared dense but organised, with neat lines of cars, trucks and minivans queued at nearly every intersection. A vehicle horn broke the silence, quickly followed by another. And then a chorus of dozens. Despite the noise, nobody gave way to their fellow motorists. Pedestrians - little people who meandered about on pavements and cross-walks - wore thick thermal coats and scarves, bodies wrapped up for a cold winter day’s commute.
One relatively nondescript car - a dull, forest-green sedan with a wide dent in its roof - sped across a four-way junction. It crossed the marked yellow square just before a garbage truck roared behind. Ron was the incredulous passenger, barely managing to hold onto a polystyrene cup. Creamed coffee spilled through the lid’s mouth hole, forming a puddle inside the outer rim.
“Mind slowing it down?” Ron yelled. “You’re giving women drivers a bad name.”
Duvall’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, her intense eyes focused on the traffic ahead. She remained silent, her hovering foot poised to push the accelerator pedal should an opportunity to overtake present itself.
Ron sipped the spilt coffee, and followed up with a proper mouthful. “Something about this case bothering you?” he asked.
“A dead guy,” Duvall replied bluntly. “Brutally strangled to death in his own apartment. That doesn’t bother you?”
“We’re homicide cops. We do this stuff every damn day. Get woken up in the middle of the night, travel halfway across town to find someone smelly and dead, get all the gory details from Vickers. Nothing new about this one.” Ron paused to take another sip of coffee, studying his partner through slightly-narrowed eyes. “Apart from the unusual choice of murder weapon,
and that letter. What’s got you on edge? You have history with Taurus Studios? An old case or something?”
“I’m not on edge.” Duvall relaxed her grip on the wheel as if to prove her point. “I just hate wasting time in rush hour.”
She sounded the horn, but only got louder beeps in response. The traffic lights turned green, and Duvall followed the vehicle ahead through the intersection. There was barely a ten-foot gap between the cars.
“I’d suggest using the siren,” Ron said, “if you weren’t so particular about your rules. For emergency use only. Though I might class this situation as one. Lucy Duvall getting frustrated. So there is actually a human being under that wall of ice. Who would have guessed—”
“Up ahead,” Lucy interrupted him. “Taurus Studios.”
Ron followed her gaze. A black-windowed office building dominated the view through the sedan’s front windscreen, rising thirty stories high. The enormous, cuboid edifice resembled some ancient monolith, with glass sheets joined seamlessly along their edges to create a smooth, continuous surface. In front of the main entrance doors was a roundabout-enclosed garden, and - at the centre of that - a sculpture of a bull’s head carved from dark red clay. It was the same shape as the logo from the letterhead, with gold-painted horns to match.
“Almost missed the signpost,” quipped Ron. “Do you think they could make it a little more obvious?”
Duvall circled the roundabout, drove into the parking lot to the right, and stopped the sedan in the nearest vacant bay. Her expression remained stern through the whole manoeuvre, and she said nothing as she yanked the hand brake.
***
The Taurus Studios lobby was enormous, measuring a hundred yards from wall to wall, and at least half that to the railed, first-floor balcony. A dark marble reception desk faced the sliding entrance doors. There were dozens of chrome benches behind it, and plenty of space left over. Twin, black-glass-stepped staircases went all the way to the top, alternating direction every other level. For those that didn’t fancy the long climb, there were four elevators: disc-shaped platforms that moved up and down tracks in sealed, transparent tubes. The office tower’s tinted windows dimmed the natural sunlight. Inverted pyramid-shaded bulbs underneath the balcony made up the deficit.
Geeky high-school-age teenagers - boys and girls wearing sweaty shirts, jeans and branded trainers - gathered around a huge television screen to watch a demonstration of a street racing game. The graphics were next generation, and the depiction of New York City - and its famous landmarks - so stunningly detailed it could easily be confused with real-life video footage.
Lucy headed straight for the reception, paying little attention to the teens or the glossy banners hung from the balcony. Some were cleaner versions of the Crimson Shadow poster from Norris’ warehouse. Others featured the busty lady ninja posed in different stances: a rear shot of her red-clothed thighs and buttocks, a side view of the masked woman readying a throwing star, and a shadowy image of her perched on a rooftop ledge.
Ron nodded at one particularly exploitative poster as he walked past: a frontal view of the woman’s body, with the katana held so its blade crossed her curvaceous breasts. “Tits and action,” he said. “Who says it doesn’t sell?”
His gaze shifted to the receptionist behind the desk. She was a shapely brunette in her early twenties, wearing the Crimson Shadow outfit minus the mask, weapons, and gloves. Her glossy lipstick, nail polish, and eye shadow were all blood-red, her raven-black hair glistening and shiny. She had the same height, build, and busty figure as - and probably was - the model photographed for the game posters.
As the two detectives approached, the sultry lady leant forward across the desk, and rested her thigh on the rounded inside edge. “Can I help you?” she enquired in a soft - almost seductive - voice.
Lucy opened her mouth to speak, but the receptionist hadn’t finished.
“We’re not releasing Crimson Shadow until late December, but I’m available to give you a sneak preview…” She stretched further, moving her breasts to within inches of Ron’s suit. “…if you’re interested.”
Ron’s eyes shifted downward. The receptionist responded with an acknowledging smile that vanished when Lucy held out her opened wallet.
“We’re not,” she said bluntly. “Detective Duvall. This is my partner Detective Wallace. We didn’t come here to sample your products, so if you’re done flirting, show us to the boss.”
The receptionist retreated to a standing position, and nervously brushed her hair back to reveal a wireless communicator around her ear. She reached for a touch-screen panel on her desk: a simple, life-size image of a telephone keypad.
“Which boss?” the woman asked, sounding a lot less sexy.
“Which do you think?” replied Lucy.
Ron gave the receptionist a tension-easing smile. “As you can see, my partner’s not one for being messed around. So let’s cut out the middle management. Why don’t you take us on a ride on those fancy elevators over there, all the way to the top?”
***
The president’s office - as Ron had correctly assumed - was on the uppermost floor. Its four panoramic, single-paned windows weren’t tinted black like those downstairs. The skies were clear except for the tips of the only two skyscrapers taller than the Taurus Studios tower.
Taking up the full width and breadth of the building, the cubical chamber was even emptier than the lobby. The L-shaped, chrome-and-black-glass computer desk, swivel chairs, and pyramid-topped lamp pillars took up very little floorspace, leaving plenty of walking room around display pedestals that showcased Taurus-designed games and electronic gadgetry.
The man behind the desk was about Lucy’s age and unquestionably handsome, his stubble-free chin creamy with aftershave. His straight-combed hair was light brown, trimmed around his middle neck and ears. He was dressed for business, wearing a maroon shirt, silvery silk tie, and a black trouser suit. His gold cufflinks were too well crafted to be imitations. The man’s eyes moved constantly between twin monitor screens.
“The head of Taurus,” Ron said loudly. He nodded at the trademark bull’s head embossed on the desk support. “Very appropriate.”
The receptionist trailed him into the room, shaking her head apologetically. “Sorry, Mister Pryce, but they insisted on seeing you without an appointment.”
“We’re the police,” said Lucy, following her in. “We don’t need an appointment.”
Adrian Pryce eased himself from the chair, and stepped around his desk. He opened a black-doored cabinet to reveal a stoppered crystal decanter and a tray of drinking glasses.
“Lucy Duvall,” Adrian said informally, filling a glass with still, clean water. “I must admit when my personal assistant mentioned your name, I thought it couldn’t be possibly be the same girl. She was too rebellious to be a cop.”
Ron gave Lucy an inquisitive glance. She ignored him, shifting further into the room while keeping her attention fixed on the president. Adrian filled the second glass, replaced the decanter stopper, and brought the drinks across.
“So what happened?” he asked Lucy, holding out the two glasses.
Ron accepted the drink and took a sip, but Lucy declined his hospitality by folding her arms. She took up an observation position by the window, with her back to the sunlight.
“This isn’t a college reunion, Mister Pryce.” Lucy said his name with brutally strict formality. “So enough small talk. We’re here about Justin Norris. Do you know him?”
Adrian remained composed as he drank from the glass he’d offered Lucy. She noticed the assistant give the president a nervous glance.
“Hold my calls, Sophie,” Adrian told her. “Go back downstairs and continue preparations for the expo. There’s no need to call security. I’ll handle this.”
Sophie left promptly, her low-heeled boots clacking on the marble tiles. The black glass doors slid shut with a click.
Adrian sat on his desktop and sipped his water. “Yeah,
I knew Justin. He used to be our lead composer.” He answered Ron’s quizzical-eyed response with a glance over at Lucy, who offered no reaction. “Do either of you play games?”
“We don’t have a lot of time for games, Mister Pryce,” Lucy said.
“Too busy solving crimes,” added Ron, pacing casually around the office.
“Well, this isn’t the eighties any more.” Adrian put down his empty drinking glass. “Beeps and buzzes worked well for Pacman and Space Invaders, but modern audiences have much greater expectations. And when they shot up, so did production values. These days it takes a lot more time - and money - to design a videogame.”
Ron walked around the desk. He tilted the primary monitor back, inspected the cable that linked it to the computer’s hard drive, and loosened the connecting pin’s locking screws.
“Customers want quality graphics.” Adrian was seemingly oblivious to what Ron was doing behind him. “Quality sound. And Justin was our sound man.”
Ron gently pried out the insecure connector, and lifted the cable above the monitor screen to show Lucy. The pins - shielded by a hard plastic case - glinted gold in the sunlight.
“Was?” Lucy kept her stony gaze on Adrian. “So he’s not any more?”
“I fired him six weeks ago,” the president explained. “Over a personal matter. Not something we need to go into. So what’s that ungrateful jerk accused me of this time? Intellectual property theft? Non-payment of royalties? Company dress policy?”
“First degree murder,” said Ron directly.
Adrian turned sharply, and saw the detective holding the cable. Ron twirled the connector in his hand, and lifted it so the plastic wire stretched straight. Adrian’s earlier calmness had gone. He pushed himself off the desk, and stood there with his mouth wide open.
“Lucy, I…”
Adrian looked to her for support, face creased with anguish. She gave him no reassurance at all.
Termination Notice (Action Girl Thrillers) Page 2
