Virtually Lace

by Uvi Poznansky

  High-Tech Crime Solvers

  Virtually Lace

  Expanded Edition

  USA Today

  Bestselling Author

  Uvi Poznansky

  From USA Today Bestselling Author, Uvi Poznansky, comes a gripping techno-thriller, part of a multi-author series tied together by an interlocking cast of characters, all centered around the fantastic new promise of high technology and the endless possibilities for crime that technology offers, in a world where getting away with murder can be not only plausible, but easy…if you just know how.

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  Praise for her Work:

  “Astonishingly well written, Uvi once again surprises us with the depth of her talent. This is one fine series to follow. Highly recommended.” ~Grady Harp, HALL OF FAME, TOP 100 REVIEWER

  “I felt as though I was in Michael's work environment whenever he was using Virtual Reality. Whether he was displaying Laguna Beach or the Northrop Grumman B -21 Raiders flying overhead, I not only was there but I could feel my heart pounding and my pulse racing…” ~Serenity, HALL OF FAME, TOP 10 REVIEWER

  “It would be an amazing tool to be able reconstruct events and see what really happened by applying VR. More importantly, the main characters are very well developed and vivid, making this book a real page-turner.” ~Kathy Parsons, TOP 1000 REVIEWER

  “Virtually Lace is a fast paced, well crafted suspense novel by Uvi Posnanski that is sure to keep you turning pages. I highly recommend it.” ~Richard Weatherly, Author

  “The artist's hand of the author is readily apparent in the character's creations, both real and virtual. Suspicions grow. Reality intersects with the virtual. And a well-sculpted plot tells it all. A fast, fun and enticing read.” ~Sheila Deeth, VINE VOICE

  “This is a totally satisfying venture into the use of virtual reality within crime scene investigation. It is new, refreshing, and unique in mystery” ~Glenda, VINE VOICE

  “I started reading the book and couldn't put it down, so I finished it in one day. Young people who are into those games will love this book! Older people who are into love will adore the two main characters and root for Michael to save Ash before it is too late.” ~B.J. Robinson, Author

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About this Book

  About High-Tech Crime Solvers

  About the Author

  About the Cover

  Acknowledgment

  A Note to the Reader

  Bonus Excerpts

  Books by Uviart

  Virtually Lace©2019 Uvi Poznansky

  Chapter 1

  Even before Michael Morse spotted the body, the idea of creating a simulation of the scene occurred to him. At sunset, the panoramic view of Laguna Beach was awe-inspiring. He wondered if he could render it convincingly in his model, the virtual reality model which he had been developing in the back of his garage for months, until the recent acquisition of his software by a military ops company.

  Could beauty be taken apart without loss of emotional impact? Could its data be synthesized, somehow, into a lifelike experience? In short, could he apply his analytical skills to fool his own senses?

  For now, these were purely academic questions. They occupied his mind, which helped him forget his loneliness. Michael brought his car to a stop at the corner of Cliff Drive and let it maneuver by itself into a tight parking spot. In all probability, this evening would be uneventful, or so he thought. It was the end of April. He had nothing to do and no one to do it with.

  Sitting there awhile, lost in his thoughts, how was he to know that in the coming days he was going to revisit this place, starting at this particular intersection, to examine every possible angle, every conceivable point of view?

  The shadow of the lamppost grew longer. It prowled over to the pavement on the other side, where it lost its sharpness. The evening breeze turned overhead with a shriek, only to fall into a whoosh. Michael imagined it whispering, of all things, of murder at dusk. What a crazy idea! Where did that come from?

  At 8:03pm came the sound of footfalls. A teenage girl was walking down the street so fast that the uneven click of her heels was already passing him by, leaving a faint whiff of perfume. No, that must have been some other fragrance, perhaps the saltiness of the sea, drifting over the sweetness of creek milkweeds and Belladonna lilies.

  Where had he seen her before?

  By the time he got out of the car, the girl had already crossed to the other side. With each step, the white dress whipped across her legs and fluttered, fold upon fold, in the cold wind.

  His soles beat an echo in the empty street. He didn’t mind the occasional squeak, because he had just bought them.

  Electric lights buzzed in the buildings behind him, and foxtail ferns hissed, swaying along the trail. Her shadow flitted over the shrubs, falling farther and farther out of reach.

  Before reaching the bend, she glanced over her shoulder and for a heartbeat, met his eyes. In some ways she reminded him of his ex-girlfriend, Ash, whom he hadn’t seen since the incident. What was it that drew him to this girl? Why was he looking, time and again, to save a damsel in distress?

  There was a certain quality about that look, which he couldn’t put into words. Anguish? No, it was more acute than that. The closest he could name it was fear.

  She gathered her skirt about her and hurried down the trail, swaying unsteadily on her feet. It was then that he saw the stain at the back of her dress. Was it blood?

  The path was tortuous, and so were his thoughts. Should he call out to her, ask if she needed help? And if he did, would she find it annoying, suspicious even?

  Why was he trying to catch up to a girl who wanted to be left alone? Would other passersby question his motives? If they did, he wouldn’t know how to answer, except to say that he was obeying some inexplicable instinct.

  A twig snapped behind him, and some leaves started swishing at his far left. By a sudden torment of imagination he felt, for the first time, as if he was the one being watched. Was he being followed? By whom?

  In the dim glow of sunset he could barely see his way. By now there were more shadows, crisscross shadows of California sycamore trees branching all around him.

  “Hey, babe,” said a voice, coming from below.

  “Late for a date?” said another.

  She answered, Michael was quite sure about that, but he could not make out the words.

  Two men, dressed in diving gear, came climbing up the slope towards him. Their fins thumped about, giving a distinct rubbery sound against the dirt.

  Michael brushed past them and went on. The trail snaked its way downwards around the cliffs, until it reached a ledge. There, he came to a standstill.

  The landscape shone before him. It seemed unreal, like a dream of the thing and not the thing itself. Far below at the waterline, scattered rocks radiated in the moonlight. In the fog—some distance away—a sailboat seemed to be floating in midair. From time to time, gusts of wind filled her sails. And from above came a flutter, an abrupt, startling flutter of a gull, swooping down on its prey.

  Why was he
following her? Even if she were in some trouble, it was not his place to save her. This girl needed to be alone, or so she seemed. He should turn back now. He really should.

  Instead, Michael lowered himself to sit on a bench, and only then did he notice that it was covered with a pile of rags. Out of it came a sigh, a deep, heart-wrenching sigh.

  In the feeble light, Michael could somehow discern heavy eyebrows and a beard. The old man was lying on the bench. He was gazing out there, at the hazy horizon. If despair had a face, this would be it.

  Startled, Michael rose into his feet. It was at that moment that the girl came into view one last time, far below him. She lifted her chin to the moonlight. He imagined how a smile might look on those lips.

  She kicked off her high-heels. Then, barefoot in the sand, she swung about into the shadows.

  At the bottom of the cliff he stepped onto the gravel. It crunched noisily underfoot, and then—slip!—he nearly lost his footing.

  From there on, every crackle, every clink became amplified by the beat of his heart. He was already of half a mind to climb back up the hill when suddenly, he heard a small, piping voice.

  “Look out—”

  Michael turned around, only to find a freckled face looking up at him. The little girl was no older than five. Six maybe. Why she was there without someone to keep an eye on her was strange to him, especially at this hour. He was just about to ask where her parents were, and why she wandered off all by herself, when she put a little finger against her lips.

  “Sh... Stand back,” she whispered. “Let them fight!”

  He crouched down next to her, and now he saw. Across from them, the arms and legs of three boys—maybe more—were locked in a fight. Not a word was uttered, just a harsh breathing sound. A scratch of the nails, a bite of the teeth—

  “Stop it, boys,” Michael cried. “That’s enough!”

  In place of an answer came a snarling sound, followed by a kick, a knock, a yank.

  He stepped in and managed to clutch and hold onto an arm. “Stop it now!”

  Astonished, one boy—a teenager—craned his neck backwards to look at him. A second one sat up, dusting off his shorts. Underneath him, a third figure crawled away from both of them, gathered himself into a frantic limp, and within a minute, vanished from sight.

  “Let’s go after him,” said the first boy.

  “No,” said the second. “Let him be.”

  And off they went, panting.

  The wind came howling and then—ping!—there was some other sound. No, maybe he just imagined it.

  The little girl raised her wicker basket to him. “Mister, d’you want to buy my shells?”

  “Sure.” Michael smiled. “Show me the best one you have.”

  The little girl stuck her hand in the basket and lifted it, uncurling her fist. Sand was flowing in thin streams through her fingers. And there, on her palm, was a heap of shells.

  He offered her a coin, which immediately brightened her eyes. She gave him a dimpled smile and raised her hand higher to him. “How about this one?”

  He picked up the shell and—just to give the appearance of a sharp customer—held it up for evaluation by the failing light. His eyes could not believe it: nested inside the shell was a pearl. It was remarkably smooth, except on one side, where its surface was bruised.

  “Mister, I can find more of them for you.”

  “Really? You can?”

  The little girl bent down, the ruffles of her dress marking the wet gravel. “There.” She pointed. “And there. See? They fell off, when that young lady passed by. She didn’t want to buy any shells. Not any!”

  He bent down too, and what he saw astonished him. Glistening in the dirt was a string of white pearls with a torn clasp.

  “Listen,” whispered the little one. “Did you hear that?”

  “I think so,” he said.

  The thought of calling the police crossed his mind, but he brushed it aside, because what would he tell them? That he was hearing strange noises? The cops would laugh at him! Besides, he was intimidated by them. With no real reason, and no proof either, they seemed to suspect him for what had happened to his girlfriend, Ash, which let the real culprit slip away.

  “It’s not safe here,” he said. “You go home now.”

  “Good night, Mister.”

  “Good night.”

  What was that, behind the rustle—farther out—somewhere out there in the darkness? There it was again, a sound so subtle he had to guess at it. Was it a sigh? A muffled cry?

  Compelled to find out what it was, he hurried down past the white sands, toward the waterline. The waves clashed ashore, their crests laced with foam. And over that pulsing, over the gusts of wind, there was that sound again, only louder this time. It sent a shiver down his spine.

  His shoes were soaked. Michael tossed them away, thinking he would retrieve them in a few minutes.

  Moving forward over the pebbles and into the shallow water, he had to grip the side of the rock, grip it tightly. Waves were coming at him, pushing and pulling away. And then, despite the salty sting in his eyes, he saw something that made him take a step back.

  A jagged rock formation emerged from the surface just ahead of him. At its top was one smooth curve. A hip.

  Dragged in by a wave, he found himself within an arm’s reach from her. She lay there flat on her back, legs slightly separated. The head was bobbing in the water, half submerged. Greenish seaweed streamed down the dress, swerved into her cleavage, and washed down into her braid. At the tip of it, a brilliant drop of blood was beginning to form.

  At first, Michael assumed that she had slipped, by some accident, and got dashed into the rocks. He reached forward, feeling for her carotid, but instead of a pulse, what he found was an open flesh. Something oozed out of it, which felt sticky on his fingers.

  Startled, he pushed himself back. That was when he spotted the cut, the deep cut at the base of her throat.

  She was beyond saving.

  Ribbons of water burbled down her cheekbone and over the temple every time the wave retreated. Her lashes were partially covered with clumps of salt. A film of gray mist started forming over the glassy eye.

  His teeth started to chatter. To stop it, he clapped a hand over his mouth, which felt like kissing a slab of ice. Michael asked himself, did I see the killer?

  Did the killer see me?

  He fumbled in his breast pocket for his cellphone. Its display lit up at the touch of his hand. The time was 9:01pm.

  At work, earlier that day, he had connected his phone to a miniature omnidirectional camera, a clunky little thing that could see 360 degrees around itself. The recorded video data could be streamed into his virtual reality model, which would give him a way to study the scene.

  His memory, he figured, was subjective. It was prone to error. By not relying only on it, perhaps he could identify some clue, some piece of evidence that had so far escaped his attention.

  He steadied his hand, and just as he aimed the camera at the victim, it broke apart. Its bottom mirror slipped out and was tossed into the water, just out of reach. And with it, sank the phone. Water rippled over its illuminated display. Then it went dark. Michael dived for it and came up for air, empty handed. He dived once again, to no avail. The thing was lost.

  His presence next to the body would raise more questions than he could answer, more suspicions than he could refute. His mistake, he realized, was not calling the police earlier, when he was still in possession of the smartphone. He prayed that it would not fall into the hands of others. That would be disastrous. It would identify his location and result in turning him into a prime suspect.

  Michael knew he was no good at being evasive. He was going to have to give his testimony sooner or later, no question about that. He opted for later.

  A gull glided down, planted a webbed foot on the body, hopped into the flooded armpit, and poked around once, twice, three times with its beak. Then it soared away, squawking. A
ruffled feather started spinning around the mixture of seawater and blood, until—swoosh!—a wave came rising from behind. And just before it crushed down on him, something came into focus.

  Michael Morse remembered where he had seen this girl before.

  Her name was Lace.

  Chapter 2

  After a sleepless night, Michael Morse decided not to think, not to think, not to think of that murder—even at the cost of finding himself unable to conceive any thoughts at all.

  He pressed his thumb against the biometric reader that authenticated his identity, then turned the corner into the lobby, where he narrowly escaped hitting his nose—only to knock off his glasses. It was a minute or so before he found them. Restored to his vision, he noticed the newspaper on the secretary’s desk. At the bottom of the page was a headline that drew his attention. It said, Body Found in Laguna Beach.

  A groan escaped from his throat. Even when he managed not to think, not to think, not to think about what had happened last night, it found a way to come back a different way to haunt him.

  The secretary flipped over the newspaper, but not before he took in the opening sentences,

  A body was found in Laguna Beach this morning. Reliable sources quote police as making progress on a number of clues. So far, no suspect has been named.

  She rose to her feet and gave a little gesture towards the glass door. “The president is waiting for you and your former business partner. Her name’s Ashley, right?”

  “She prefers Ash, for short.”

  “Is she coming?”

  Michael shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

  ❋

  No one needed to know that he loved Ash. His heart skipped a beat at the possibility of seeing her this morning. Her absence—not just today but for the last several months—was hard for him to understand. In the past, she had been more than a partner. They had dated a few months ago, before what had happened to her. The incident. That was a good name for it, a neutral one. Incident.