Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3)

by Gemma Halliday

  Dang. So much for my theory.

  "So what did it?" I asked.

  He shook his head.

  But before he could shoot me down again, I quickly added, "The sooner I have my story, the sooner I can leave. And the less time I spend at a crime scene, the better mood my mom will be in later."

  He narrowed his eyes at me again. But this time my logic must have hit a nerve, as he finally said, "Fine. Off the record…" Raley paused, glancing at the filming Creepers. "…which means I do not want to see you talking about it on YouTube."

  I held up my hand. "I swear you won't." Something I could promise, as I knew Raley would never watch YouTube.

  "It looks as though Simon sustained an injury to the head."

  "So, he fell?" I asked, feeling Raley was holding something back.

  "Something like that."

  "Something like that or exactly that?" I asked, noticing he was avoiding my gaze.

  He sighed. "It will be all over the news soon anyway," he said, though I'm not sure if he was reasoning with me or himself. "We believe the attack was intentional."

  "Attack?" I asked, a clearer picture forming. "Wait—you mean someone killed Simon?"

  "Keep your voice down," Raley shushed me, eyes flickering to the crowd.

  "Who?" I hissed, my eyes darting around the room.

  Raley shook his head. "It's too early to speculate. We need to process the evidence first."

  Which I took to mean they hadn't found anyone standing over the body.

  I glanced around at the assembled crowd. There was a good chance that the killer was still here, hidden in the costumed masses somewhere. I shivered at the realization.

  "What did they hit him with?" I asked.

  Raley sucked in more air, like he wasn't sure how many details to share. But, his earlier reasoning that it wasn't like he could keep all details out of the press anyway must have won him over, as he finally said, "It looks like he was hit on the back of the head with some sort of gaming console."

  I cringed, almost feeling the weight of one at my own noggin.

  "Any fingerprints? DNA? Clues?"

  Raley shot me a look that said I'd reached the end of his generosity. "Go home, Hartley."

  I sighed. "Fine."

  "I'd offer you a ride," he said, gaze darting to a couple of CSIs who were threading through the crowd. "But it looks like I'm going to be here awhile."

  "No prob. I came with Sam anyway," I said, gesturing behind me. Sam stood a few feet away, licking the last of her churro sugar off her fingers. Chase, however, was conspicuously absent. Not entirely surprising. Somehow he had a knack for disappearing when law enforcement was around.

  Raley gave me a nod before going back to the VizaSoft booth, ducking inside to presumably view the body. Not something I envied him doing.

  * * *

  "Click that link," I told Sam.

  "Which one?"

  "That one!"

  "Shhh!" a woman in a striped cardigan and knee socks told us, aiming a stern look our way.

  We were at the Orange Blossom Library on Main Street the next day, sitting in one of their research cubes in the back, reading up on Connor Simon for my article. Or, I should say, my next article.

  Getting the inside scoop from Raley had made Chase's eyes light up like Christmas, and while we'd sat outside the shut-down con waiting for the bus, we'd typed up a quick summary and posted it to the Homepage, getting it published just about as quickly as any news outlet. We'd immediately gotten a slew of comments and likes, and by the time Sam and I had gotten off the bus again, Chase had already texted me asking for a follow-up article as the investigation into Connor Simon's death progressed.

  As if I'd be privy to more inside info.

  Not likely, as Mom had had a near heart attack when I'd come home from the con and she'd found out why it had been shut down early that day. Not that she'd found out from me. I'd strategically waited until I'd seen her minivan leave for a Starbucks run before slipping into the house. But of course Raley had called her and told her all about it. Apparently, he and the SJPD had thought the incident warranted shutting the con down completely. But the con organizers—which included some big tech company backers who stood to lose a good deal of money if it was canceled—had argued to keep it open. A compromise had been reached, the con staying closed Sunday while police processed the scene and being allowed to reopen on Monday and extend an extra day in order to fit in all the events they had pre-planned. Raley had then given Mom just enough details about the crime itself that the SMother was activated in full force. I'd been on lockdown the rest of Saturday, and by Sunday morning she'd only calmed down enough to let me plead a case for meeting Sam at the library to do homework.

  Being Sunday, the library was almost empty. It was also deadly quiet, which made the librarian look up in our direction every time we even threatened to whisper to each other.

  "Click the link about his childhood," I whispered to Sam as she scrolled through search results.

  She did, hitting a line of text that took us to a page with Simon's official bio on the VizaSoft website.

  "Dude, he was so cute," Sam said as photos of the young Simon popped up. She scrolled down. "Whoa. And hot," she said, reaching more recent snapshots.

  I had to agree, he wasn't altogether unpleasant to look at. He'd been in his early twenties, tall, and had blond hair that was cut long in front to give him a skater look. He wore slim jeans in the picture, with a dark T-shirt and a hoodie over it in a blue that brought out his eyes. I bit my lip. It was kind of eerie and sad at the same time to see a picture of someone so young who was so hot and so not there anymore.

  "I wonder if I could get Kyle to start wearing his hair like that," Sam mused, cocking her head at the photo.

  "I thought you liked Kyle's hair?" Kyle was Sam's boyfriend and head of the rugby team at school. He was currently sporting a buzz cut to avoid other players yanking his hair.

  Sam sighed. "Yeah, I did at first, but…" She trailed off.

  "But what?"

  She turned to me. "But did you ever notice that Kyle has kind of an egg-shaped head?"

  I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle. "No way."

  "Yes way!" Sam insisted, nodding. "And now all I can think every time I look at him is eggs." She sighed.

  "I'm sure rugby season won't last forever," I reassured her.

  "I hope not!"

  "Shhhh!" the cardigan lady admonished us again.

  I gave her an apologetic smile and made a zipping-my-mouth-shut-and-throwing-away-the-key motion.

  Then Sam and I went back to the page, reading the article in silence.

  Connor Simon was, as Ellen had mentioned, something of a gaming rock star. He'd started out as a player, taking the competitive gaming world of eSports by storm when he'd won his first national competition at age twelve. By age fifteen, he was considered unbeatable. At sixteen he'd taken on a partner to start his own company, Peak Games. They'd put out a total of four titles together, all set in the mythical world of ancient goddesses, before Simon had branched out on his own. He'd been picked up by gaming giant, VizaSoft, who were about to release his first solo game, the much anticipated Athena's Quest.

  I sat back, having reached the end of the article, and chewed on a fingernail.

  "I don't get it," Sam said, leaning in. "Why would anyone want him dead?"

  I shrugged. Great question. "Maybe the game isn't as great as everyone thinks?"

  "Or maybe it was personal and has nothing to do with his game," Sam pointed out. "I mean, don't they say most crimes are committed by loved ones?"

  I remembered the tall, blonde woman I'd seen dabbing her eyes at the scene. She'd looked about Simon's age.

  "Did he have a girlfriend?" I asked.

  Sam shrugged then typed connor simon girlfriend into the search engine. A few seconds later we were looking at a bunch of photos of Simon and the same tall blonde—at the VGAs, at PAX Prime in Seattle last
year, and at Comic-Con in San Diego. I couldn't help but notice that the girl bore a striking resemblance to the Athena character I'd seen in the posters for Connor's game.

  "Sophia Larson," Sam said, reading the caption beneath one of the photos. "It says here she's a model."

  Figured. At a hair under 5'2" myself, I had just a touch of height envy. Which I swear did not play into my next decision at all.

  "Let's go talk to the girlfriend."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Thanks to our friend Google and Sophia's many social media posts, we gleaned that she lived in a "totally cute" condo in Santana Row "totally close" to a "totally cute" new boutique that sold "totally cute" kitty cat handbags. While her vocabulary might not have been in the SAT range, we figured the description was good enough to get us close.

  Half an hour and one bus ride later, we were at Santana Row, a planned neighborhood that was almost like a mini city all in itself. Bars and restaurants, a movie theater, and a ton of shops where you could buy everything from a Gucci bag to a Tesla car to paperback books from an actual Amazon bookstore. They all mingled together in neat rows amidst narrow streets engineered to be pedestrian friendly. Above the shops were condos and apartments that cost almost as much as their Manhattan counterparts. Sophia must have been a pretty popular model if she could afford to live there.

  We walked past a gelato shop, a couple of clothing boutiques, and Sephora, where I was sorely tempted to pop in and grab some new lip gloss, when Sam grabbed me by the arm and pointed. "Kitties!"

  I glanced toward the storefront across the street. Sure enough, a whole collection of handbags with ears and fur took up the display window.

  "This has got to be the place on Sophia's social media," Sam said.

  I nodded. "Agreed." I looked up. At least ten units looked close enough to the shop to be considered "totally close."

  We walked to the gated entrance to the Santana Sky Complex and luckily only had to wait a few minutes before someone was leaving and we slipped through the gates behind them. To our right was an elevator that led to the upper levels, and we jumped in, riding it to the second story first where we exited into a small courtyard. Five doors bordered it. One had a stroller parked outside of it—clearly not Sophia's. Two had potted plants near the entrance, and the other two were unadorned.

  Sam and I looked at each other. Sam shrugged. "We could try knocking on all of them."

  "Let's check the third floor first," I decided, hopping back into the elevator.

  We did a repeat of the ride and entered the third floor courtyard, which was almost identical to the second. Three doors were unadorned. One held a handmade wooden sign hanging from the knob that said welcome. And a fifth one had a sparkly pink wreath on the door that could only be described as "totally cute."

  Bingo.

  Sam smirked beside me. "Ten bucks says I know where Sophia lives."

  "You wouldn't rob your best friend that way," I told her, approaching the pink-adorned door. I knocked sharply, hoping she was home.

  Luckily, footsteps on the other side indicated she was, and a moment later the door opened and Sophia stood there in a slightly faded, black Juicy Couture tracksuit. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and a pair of oversized black sunglasses sat on her face. Despite the shades, I could see that the flawless skin, symmetrical features, and high cheekbones were the same as the ones we'd seen online.

  "Can I help you?" she asked in a voice that was soft, sweet, and belonged in a Disney movie.

  "Um, hi Sophia. I'm Hartley Featherstone from the Herbert Hoover High Homepage, and I was hoping we could talk to you for a few minutes." The words rushed from my mouth without a breath.

  She frowned and her eyebrows disappeared beneath the top rim of her glasses. "What is the Hoover Homepage?"

  "Uh, it's a newspaper." I hesitated to say school paper, thinking she might not take me seriously enough. "I'm writing an article about Gamer Con."

  "We were there yesterday when Connor Simon…" Sam trailed off, seemingly not able to come up with a polite way of describing the scene.

  Sophia choked back a soft sob, and I realized the sunglasses were probably not to shield her eyes from the glare inside her condo but to hide tears.

  "We're so sorry for your loss," I told her, feeling suddenly extremely intrusive. "You were seeing him, right?"

  She nodded. "Yeah," she said with a sniffle. "So, you're, like, with the media or something?"

  "Right," I said, feeling like I was fudging the truth a little. Okay, yes, I was with the media. But I could tell by the way Sophia said the word that she was thinking of the Mercury News or the perky Diane Dancy from Channel Two.

  I shot a glance Sam's way, but if my friend had any bones about lying to the beautiful woman in front of us, she didn't show it. She was craning her neck to get a look past Sophia into the apartment.

  "Uh, do you think you're up to talking to us about Connor?" I asked.

  She shrugged and did another loud sniffle. "I guess. Come on in."

  She stepped aside, and we walked into a small foyer that led to a tidy living room to our right. The walls, carpet, and most of the furniture was all done in bright modern white that instantly made me worried I'd stain something. Clearly Sophia had no children. Or pets. Or love of fruit punch. A white stone coffee table sat in front of a plush white sofa with lots of fluffy furry pillows on it. The only pops of color in the room were a vase of pink daisies on the fireplace mantel and a pink and white zebra striped rug.

  I glanced at the table as Sophia led the way into the room, and I spotted a brochure from the San Jose Community Arts Center.

  Sophia must've noticed my gaze because she sat on the corner of a sofa and said, "I'm taking an acting class there."

  "That sounds fun," I told her as Sam and I sat in a pair of white club chairs opposite the sofa. I almost hesitated, not sure what my jeans might have picked up riding a city bus on the way there. But it felt more awkward to stand, so I carefully moved aside a couple furry pillows and perched on the edge of a chair.

  "I suppose some people act for fun, but this is for work," Sofia said, her soft, sweet voice taking on an edge. "I model, you know?"

  Sam nodded. "We saw your Instagram," she confessed. "You have a lot of followers."

  Sophia shrugged, but I could see a small smile of pride on her face. "I could have more. Anyway, my agent said the attention I was getting as Athena could open up some opportunities for me."

  "So you were the model for Connor's game?" I asked, having had the same thought myself.

  She nodded. "I was Connor's muse." She bit her lip and shook her head, as if suddenly remembering he was gone.

  "Had you two been together long?" Sam asked, her voice laced with sympathy.

  Sophia nodded. "Three years. We met when I was still in high school. He came to do a talk at an assembly about young people in business." She shook her head. "He was such a geek then."

  I thought of the pictures I'd seen online of Simon. He'd seemed pretty cool to me, but maybe my standards were different than a model's.

  "Anyway," she said, continuing, "I didn't start seeing Connor right away. I was a cheerleader back then." She gave me a knowing look like I should understand exactly what that meant.

  Sadly, I did not. "So, cheer kept you too busy to date…?" I guessed.

  She laughed, picking at her manicure. "Well, yeah, I guess. But I mean, Connor wasn't my type, you know? I mean, I usually dated guys who were, like, ripped. Into sports, you know, more like manly types?"

  Sam nodded. "I feel ya. My boyfriend plays rugby."

  "Right?" Sophia said. "So, like, yeah. I turned Connor down when he asked me out the first time. But, you know, he was cute. And persistent."

  Not to mention owned his own successful business. I wondered what his net worth had been back then. Clearly more than a high school cheerleader. The cynic in me wondered if Sophia finally going out with Connor had been less about him wearing he
r down and more about her realizing he could be a millionaire before thirty.

  "Things were good between you, then?" I asked.

  "Of course," she said quickly. "Why wouldn't they be?"

  "No reason," Sam covered for me. "I mean, it just must have been hard with both of your busy schedules. I imagine modeling takes up a lot of your time."

  I shot her a thankful look. Nice save, Sam.

  "It does," Sophia agreed, her expression softening again. "But we made the time for each other." She took in a deep, shuddering breath, the grief of losing him seeming to come in waves.

  I was about to ask more about their relationship, but before I could, Sophia jumped suddenly to her feet, causing me to flinch. "Can I get you something to drink? Or eat? Some friends have already stopped by with food. I thought that was something only old people did—bring food when someone has passed away. Anyway, there's a ton, and I don't know what to do with it, and well…" She wrung her hands, and it appeared that her emotions were getting the best of her.

  "I could use a bite," Sam piped up. She gave me a shrug, and I couldn't tell if she was truly hungry or wanted to appease our hostess.

  Sophia looked relieved, as if grateful to be doing something. Or maybe she was trying to prolong the company. No one wanted to sit in their misery alone. "Come into the kitchen," she said, leading the way.

  The kitchen was small but tricked out in lots of granite and stainless steel. A large peninsula jutted into the center, and four wooden stools sat around it. Sam and I sat on ones facing the shiny, new-looking appliances that I doubted got much use. Sophia opened her fridge and placed a tray of ready-made turkey and ham sandwiches, a quart of potato salad, a fruit basket, and a tin of brownies down in front of us. After grabbing some plates, utensils, and three bottles of sparkling water, she sat down on the other side of the counter, across from us.

  I looked from the spread to her size two figure. I'd expected a tray of celery and carrot sticks with a side of iceberg lettuce. This did not strike me as model food.

  "Help yourself. I'll never eat this," she confirmed, her voice wavering on the last word.