“Thank you,” she wheezed.
“Hang on!” the man said as he dragged her to safety.
Lit by the cycle headlamp, the teenage Adrian Pryce was far untidier than the businessman he’d one day become. His dirty shirt hung out of his tracksuit pants, and the zip of his bomber jacket was bent out of shape.
Lucy blushed, and looked up at her brown-haired saviour with sweetness and affection. Adrian removed his jacket and wrapped it around Lucy’s wet, mud-stained body. She might have been freezing cold, but the blossoming relationship was warm.
***
Ron nodded thoughtfully and finished his coffee. The redneck had left the diner during his talk with Lucy, and now they were the only customers present.
“A lifesaver,” Ron said. “Wondered why you cared so much for the guy who dumped you. Now it makes sense. Actually it doesn’t. But it’s good to know you weren’t being totally irrational.”
Lucy looked uneasy, perhaps troubled by the flashback. “I nearly died, Ron,” she mumbled. “I should have died. If not for Adrian, I would have.”
“Hey.” Ron reached over to lift his partner’s chin up. “That was then. This is now. One act of kindness doesn’t make the man a hero. Not when he grew up to be a woman-hating scumbag.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Lucy didn’t sound too convinced. “It’s just… When someone saves your life, you feel obligated to them.”
“You almost drowned. Sophie Gallier wasn’t so lucky. Maybe it’s not a coincidence. Maybe Pryce still has feelings for you, started to wonder what if. And maybe drowning that girl in his backyard pool was some way of living out a personal fantasy.”
Lucy smiled. Only a faint lip-twist, but her shell was starting to crack. “That’s a lot of maybes. And you know…”
“Detective Duvall only deals in facts.” Ron smiled warmly. “Well, how are these for facts? Adrian Pryce messed with the wrong woman four years ago. Made the mistake of his life by saving that drunk, drugged-up college kid. And his bullshit, cooked-up story isn’t going to stop her nailing him to the wall.”
“We can agree on that.”
Chapter Ten
Lieutenant Blake bit down on the filter stub of his cigarette, outer teeth grinding together. He sucked in deep then exhaled. His cheeks swelled as smoke puffed through his nostrils onto the two-way mirror. The bald policeman resembled an angry caricature, with a pumped-out chest and twisted eyebrows. He was either building up to a bollocking, or - more likely given Lucy’s glum, unsettled expression - was still in a foul mood after reading the riot act.
“I should have said something,” Lucy apologised. “Told you about our history.”
“But you didn’t,” Blake grunted, removing his squashed cigarette. “You let your personal feelings for a suspect interfere with a murder investigation.”
Adrian was in the interview room, wrists handcuffed to the chair. His head wound had been covered by a sticky plaster, but he looked distinctly uncomfortable. Ron sat opposite and set up the recording equipment. Every switch click and button press came through clear over the intercom.
“I don’t have personal feelings for him,” Lucy told Blake. “Not any more.”
She was stood beside the Lieutenant, just beyond arm’s reach. They both looked forward at the window. Neither of them had turned to face the other during their uneasy conversation.
Dawson joined them in the observation booth. The attorney wore another expensive suit - olive green with ivory buttons - and carried a fine, chocolate-brown leather satchel with MD monogrammed in gold under the handle.
Dawson rolled up his sleeve, and checked his expensive Cartier wristwatch. “Time is money, Lieutenant. And since you’re wasting my time with these trumped up charges, I expect to be compensated in due course. Not to mention holding an innocent man. You should be out there combing the streets. A Taurus Studios employee was just murdered. What are you doing to find this nutcase?”
“Questioning the prime suspect.” Blake flicked ash off his cigarette. “Getting to the truth. You may want to check the evidence stacked against your client before you make any more threats.”
“I’d hardly call it stacked. It’s a stretch to even call it circumstantial. What about the cut on his head? Mister Pryce was attacked in his own home. Is this how the police department normally treat victims of crime?”
Lucy drew her index finger across her forehead, cutting skin with her sharp nail. She showed a flattened drop of blood to the astonished Dawson. “Not that hard to hurt yourself,” she postulated. “Are you sure your client’s innocent?”
“If you’re looking for psychos,” Dawson said, “check the mirror. There’s a couple of them right here.” He sneered at Lucy and slouched out, letting the door slam behind him.
Blake stubbed his cigarette in the dirty ashtray, and watched closely as Dawson entered the interview room and bent forward to whisper quietly in Adrian’s ear.
“What was that about?” Blake asked Lucy.
“Just taking him out of his comfort zone.”
Blake looked unimpressed. “Before you get cocky, Duvall, the only reason you haven’t been canned is because your partner vouched for you. I do believe things are over between you and Pryce. Doesn’t mean I want you in the box together, but this case has gotten messy. Last thing this city needs at Christmas is a serial killer. We’re under pressure to get a quick result. If that means giving you one more chance…”
The unfriendly manner in which Blake spoke implied it was to be Lucy’s last chance.
“You think he’ll talk to me with his lawyer present?” Lucy studied Adrian, who appeared a lot less nervous with Dawson beside him. “Doubt it, boss. Like you said, things are over between us.”
“It’s worth a shot. As of now, Wallace is the lead investigator. You support him, and offer any information you feel is relevant.”
***
Lucy walked into the interview room carrying a portable cassette recorder. It was a bulky piece of equipment, an inefficient relic by modern standards. There were so many scratches the black plastic appeared almost grey.
“Our forensics woman doesn’t like modern gear,” Lucy explained. “Can’t say I blame her. This is a recording she made of a 911 call. A little crackly, but I’m sure you’ll recognise the voice.”
Lucy turned sharply on the spot, eyes boring into Adrian as she pressed the play button. She held the device above the table, with the speaker side angled down slightly.
“She’s dead,” the caller said - clearly Adrian’s voice despite whiny interference. “Sophie. I… killed her.” The sentences were mismatched, with a lengthy pause between the snippets.
“Sir?” queried a confused male dispatcher. “Who are you referring to?”
“This is… Adrian Pryce. I’m at home… waiting for… the authorities.”
Lucy stopped the tape. Ron leant across, and put himself right in Adrian’s face. “Seems to a habit of yours,” he said. “Calling 911 after a murder. Like the attention?”
“Come on, Detective.” Dawson laughed off Ron’s theory. “I’m no computer whiz, but even I can tell that recording’s been doctored. Somebody’s been creative, editing audio to put words in my client’s mouth. He never made that call.”
“I think he did,” Lucy said accusingly. “It’s a trick to throw us off. Who’d kill somebody in their own home and call 911 to confess? A crude diversion, but that’s your style isn’t it, Adrian? Crude.”
“I’m being set up!” Adrian flung his fists on the table. “I didn’t kill them. What does it take to convince you?”
A cellphone rang, playing a simple, vibrant rendition of classical Italian opera. Everyone in the interview room looked at Dawson. Not fazed at being the centre of attention, he took the phone from his inside suit pocket, glanced at the screen, and took the call.
“Dawson,” he answered, cupping one hand around his ear.
The person on the line was inaudible, and the only clue Dawson gave
the detectives was a solemn-faced nod as he terminated the call.
“I have proof,” Dawson said grimly.
“You don’t sound that happy,” Ron mused. “So I’m assuming this proof isn’t very concrete.”
Dawson lifted his satchel onto his knees, sprung the locking catches, and removed a laptop computer. He placed the bottom keyboard section on the table, opened the top, and turned the unit sideways so everyone could see the raised screen. Ron gave Lucy a puzzled glance, but she was completely focused on the computer.
“Show us,” she said.
“That was my assistant Lisa on the phone,” Dawson explained while the laptop booted up. “She said the footage was horrifying. Apparently it was only uploaded a minute ago, so the site administrators haven’t had chance to block the transmission. This is being streamed all over the Internet.”
“What’s being streamed?” asked Adrian.
Dawson clicked on a Web browser icon, then a search bar. He typed in Pryce Pool Murder. On two occasions the shaky-fingered attorney backspaced after making a typo. Adrian swallowed as he saw his name appear, while Ron looked on apprehensively.
Lucy kept her cool. “Go on,” she urged Dawson.
The attorney pressed the enter key, and a video window opened automatically. The footage began with a scream. Sophie - trapped in Adrian’s swimming pool by the gloved, off-camera killer - fought bravely to free herself. She fell silent as the assailant tightened the pearl necklace around her throat and forced her underwater. Sophie flapped her arms wildly about. Droplets showered the camera lens.
Adrian turned his head away. “God…” he muttered. “Turn it off!”
“You’re a real piece of work.” Ron twisted his face in disgust. “Uploading a snuff video to the world. How sick is that?”
Sophie’s gurgles came across the laptop speaker. Ron’s hands clenched into fists. Lucy gave Adrian a spiteful stare, doing nothing to calm her partner.
“The only reason you’re not on the floor right now,” Ron said, barely containing his fury, “is because you’re going down for this.”
“Detective!” Dawson interrupted him. “The screen…”
The attorney gesticulated at the laptop. Ron turned slowly, and saw a second window open inside the first. It was a local news feed, with a pretty blonde presenter reading headlines from behind a studio desk. A digital clock superimposed in the corner showed the time as 10:14. Dawson held out his wrist. According to his Cartier watch, it was quarter past ten.
“Wallace,” Lucy said resignedly. “It’s live. This video is being transmitted now. Adrian’s not our guy.”
Ron looked at her disbelievingly. “What if he—”
“He’s not our guy, Ron. We screwed up.”
Dawson closed the laptop, stowed it away in his briefcase, and gave his client a comforting pat on the shoulder. Lucy unlocked Adrian’s handcuffs. She paused afterwards to look down regretfully at the freed prisoner.
“I screwed up,” she added.
“Satisified, Detectives?” Dawson inserted himself between her and Adrian. He glared at the mirror - and the unseen Blake. “You charged in and arrested my client with no thought for his well being. Gung-ho and amateurish. Well, you can expect a formal complaint from my office. And a lawsuit to follow.”
Lucy walked to the mirror, paying little attention to his outburst. “The killer played us for fools.”
“You got that right,” Dawson said. “The fools you are.”
“He wanted us to arrest Adrian,” Lucy continued her analysis. “First Norris. Now Sophie. Then you. He’s going after your company. This isn’t over. You’re still in danger.”
Adrian looked into Lucy’s eyes. There was a moment of understanding - if not reconciliation - before the attorney pulled his client away.
“We’re all in danger from you lunatics,” snorted Dawson. “If you need to talk to my client, you know where he lives.”
“Not so fast.” Ron met Dawson’s glare with his own. “Sophie Gallier worked on the Crimson Shadow project, right? Like Norris. That loophole… you know, the lucrative contract you had with the musician. Now she’s dead, do her royalty payments default to Taurus, too? Maybe we got a bit hasty and jumped to the wrong conclusion. Thanks for setting us back on track. This isn’t about revenge or love, but money. That’s your department, isn’t it Mister Dawson?”
“You don’t know when to quit, do you?” Dawson confronted Ron face-to-face. “Expect us to file for damages by the end of the week. You should worry about your own money, Detective.”
“Wallace!” Blake shouted across the intercom. “Enough! Let them walk.”
“You should listen to your boss,” Dawson advised Ron - with a threatening glance at Lucy. “While you still have jobs.”
He escorted his client to the door.
“Adrian!” Lucy shouted after them. “I’m sorry. You probably don’t want to talk right now, but if you think of anything relevant, anyone who might have reason to hate you or your company, you call me. Okay?”
Adrian turned around and gave Lucy the gentlest of nods. His expression was somewhere between unfriendly and lukewarm. “You might want to start by questioning my employees,” he suggested.
“For routine enquiries, of course,” Dawson was quick to add. “We run background checks on everyone we hire. None of them have criminal history, unless you’re worried about parking tickets.”
“Why them, Adrian?” Lucy asked. “And not an outside rival?”
“The Web address, the one that came up when Miles accessed the video. I recognised it. The video footage was transmitted from the Taurus Studios server.”
“Adrian,” Dawson cautioned him. “You need to think very carefully what to disclose.”
Adrian wasn’t deterred. “Nobody can access our server from a remote location. That means whoever sent that video… whoever killed Sophie… sent it from the Taurus building. I think you were right about someone holding a grudge against me. And whoever it is, they work for Taurus.”
***
A silhouetted man hunched over a work desk, his gender betrayed by the thick black hair growing from his wrists. His creased, red-and-white-striped shirt was drenched in sweat, his left kneecap visible through a nylon-spanned hole in his black jeans.
The junk-cluttered room was dark, with faint sunlight filtering through tears in the dusty curtains. Virtually all the newspaper clippings push-pinned to a cork notice board were articles relating to Taurus Studios and/or Adrian Pryce. The few that weren’t provided commentary on computer games or historic Pennsylvania serial killer cases.
The seated man worked with rusty-bladed scissors. He carefully cut around the front page of a local paper. Its lead story was PR EXEC FOUND DEAD IN PRYCE’S POOL. The man added the latest clipping to a pile on his desk. There were seven of them, all about the Sophie Gallier murder. Among the blunt, direct headlines were more imaginative attention-grabbers: CRIMSON SHADOW FALLS ON PHILADELPHIA and IS THE GURU OF GAMING THE TAURUS STRANGLER?
The hairy-armed man’s unshaven cheeks glowed soft blue. The light source was a television screen mounted above an unmade, coffee-stained bed. Or more specifically, the flashy title sequence of Philly Lowdown with Kristina Malloy. The man pulled a remote control from under the news clippings and unmuted the volume. Music blended into applause as the on-screen titles faded and a glamorous female presenter appeared in close up.
Kristina Malloy had shoulder-length, blonde hair and gleaming white teeth. The camera panned back slowly to reveal her smart casual clothes: a honey-brown shirt fitted with a wireless microphone, loose dark grey trousers that stopped at her ankles, and low-heeled, practical shoes. The woman in the presenter’s chair was young - probably mid-to-late twenties - but projected confidence as she addressed her viewers.
“With me today in the studio is James Fitzroy, chief reviewer for Gamer Online.” Kristina finished the rehearsed introduction with a gesture to her right.
The camera angle
changed to a wide shot of Kristina and her studio guest. Fitzroy - dressed in the plain T-shirt and red-lensed glasses he’d worn for the Taurus expo - teetered on the edge of his leather recliner seat.
“Thank you, Kristina,” he said after the applause died down. “It’s a pleasure to be here today. To share my thoughts with the world.”
“I wish it were under better circumstances,” Kristina said solemnly. “But it seems that once again life has imitated art. With two murders and speculation rife that Adrian Pryce is the so-called Taurus strangler, do you think it’s finally time publishers took another look at violence in computer games? That perhaps the medium should be used to set a more positive example to society?”
“The Taurus Strangler,” Fitzroy repeated admiringly. “Such a great name. Brilliant and edgy. Simple, but with an aura of menace. He’s out there right now. Watching, ready to strike again.”
Fitzroy thrust his hands forward, palms and thumbs bent into an unbroken ellipse. Kristina retreated into her chair, mortified as Fitzroy tightened his grip around an imaginary person’s neck. He shook about, seat legs vibrating as he throttled his pretend victim.
“If you could answer the question, Mister Fitzroy,” Kristina said assertively.
The studio guest relaxed, and placed his hands on his still knees. “Just making my point. We’re a violent race. We always have been.”
In the darkened room, the seated man opened his desk drawer. Inside it was a semi-automatic pistol. The gun was the cleanest item in view, its black barrel polished and free of dust. The man lifted up the weapon, and closed his hairy hand around the handle. He aimed at the notice board, and lined up a newspaper photo of Adrian in the sights.
“Our ancestors battled it out in arenas,” Fitzroy said to Kristina. “We battle it out online. The idea is the same. Have games become more realistic? Yes, and themes more mature. Greed, sex. Death, hatred, revenge.”
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