Detective Sebeck leaned on the hood of Ross's silver Audi sedan and sipped takeout coffee while reading the Ventura Star.He didn't even look up. "Morning, Jon."
Ross resumed walking toward his car, but more slowly. "Good morning, Sergeant. Do you normally get up this early?"
"I could ask you the same thing." As Ross walked past, Sebeck folded the paper and threw it down on the car hood in front of him. The headline screamed Second Massacre at Sobol Estate in a font size normally reserved for advertisements or declarations of war.
Ross didn't pick it up. "I live in the western hemisphere; it would have been difficult to miss."
Sebeck stabbed a thick finger toward a sidebar story elsewhere on page one.
Ross cocked his head to read Sobol Funeral Today. He looked back up at Sebeck.
Sebeck flipped Ross's lapel. "Dressed a little mournfully, aren't you?"
Ross was taken aback. The cop was perceptive. Ross dropped his formality and nodded in acknowledgment. "It seemed odd to me-his having a viewing. He doesn't strike me as the religious type."
"No kidding. So why are you trying to shake me by ducking out early?"
Ross looked down at the parking lot and squeezed his laptop bag's shoulder strap rhythmically. "I don't want my name to wind up in the news."
Sebeck considered this. "Is that what all this is about? You're afraid of Sobol?"
"As a computer consultant, the Daemon might consider me a threat."
Sebeck nodded. "All right. We'll keep our collaboration secret, but if you're going to pursue Sobol, anyway, remember: I can open doors for you-and you for me."
Ross breathed the morning air deeply again as he pondered the offer. He looked up. "What do you hope to accomplish that the FBI can't?"
"You tell me."
They stared at each other for a moment more until Ross nodded. "Who knows I'm working with you?"
"The better question is: who would care in all this insanity?"
"Pete, please."
"The FBI knows-but I'd be surprised if Trear is thinking about that this morning. They lost a Hostage Rescue Team last night."
"I'm not going to meet with the FBI computer forensics team. Tell Trear I pussed out."
"No problem." Sebeck looked him in the eye. "You made the right call at the estate. I need you to tell me what Sobol's up to."
"I've been thinking about that."
"And what did you come up with?"
"Nothing." Ross popped his trunk and went to stow his laptop.
"That's what you came up with? Nothing?"
"Everything we've been dealing with so far is a diversion. Bullshit to keep us busy. I went online last night to check out the talk in the taverns of Gedan-forgetting that the Feds shut down the CyberStorm server farm."
"The taverns of Gedan?"
"It's the biggest port city in Cifrain-a monarchy in CyberStorm's online game The Gate."
Sebeck just stared at him blankly.
"Forget that. The point is this: The Gate is up and running, Pete."
"Wait- that's impossible. The Feds shut the servers down."
"In California, yes. But CyberStorm Entertainment maintains a Chinese mirror site for just such a contingency. It's beyond the reach of U.S. law. CyberStorm was losing a million a day in revenue, so they switched over to the mirror site and filed suit against the FBI in federal court."
"Filed suit? For what?"
"For unlawfully shutting down their business."
"The judge will throw it out."
"Don't count on it. CyberStorm is a wholly owned subsidiary of a multinational corporation. They have a serious amount of political clout."
"So this is what people talk about in the taverns of Gedan?"
"No, that was The Wall Street Journal online. In Gedan the talk is all about the sudden death of the Mad Emperor."
Sebeck grimaced. "The Mad Emperor? They got that right."
"Well, his funeral is today."
"In the real world or the fake one?"
"Both."
Sebeck threw up his hands.
Ross soldiered on. "A power struggle between Factions is anticipated for control of The Gate."
"This is a game?"
Ross nodded. "But rituals figure prominently in The Gate,as, apparently, they do in real life. Thus Sobol's funeral."
"Jon, I have no fucking clue what you're talking about."
"Sobol might be trying to communicate something through his funeral."
"Okay, now I'm with you. But you don't think he's trying to communicate something to us?"
Ross shook his head. "I'm hoping we're being more perceptive than he anticipated. Let me emphasize hoping."
"Well, that's optimistic."
Ross looked at his watch. "Look, the viewing's in Santa Barbara. That's an hour and a half away. It wouldn't hurt to be early." He gestured for Sebeck to get in on the passenger side. "I'll drive."
Sebeck glanced at the gleaming Audi A8. "Only because my cruiser's wrecked."
Ross's Audi raced up the coast on U.S. 101. The morning mist was already clearing, providing a view of the Channel Islands and the offshore oil platforms. It was a gorgeous day.
Sebeck settled into the black leather of the passenger seat. The dashboard and door panels were trimmed in burled walnut and brushed steel. So this was what rich people drove? The twelve-cylinder engine growled with apparently limitless power as they accelerated past another car on a hill. Sebeck figured this car could give a police interceptor a run for its money.
The stereo system alone looked like it could land a 747. John Coltrane's A Love Supreme played on the stereo. Coltrane might as well have been sitting in Sebeck's lap for the quality of the sound. The title and artist displayed in Teutonic yellow dots that scrolled like a Times Square news flash across the front of the sound console.
Sebeck looked over to Ross. "I've never seen a stereo like that."
"Scandinavian. Linux-based DVD-Audio emulation. Four hundred gigs. I can store twenty thousand songs at five hundred times the clarity of a CD."
"You have twenty thousand songs?"
"That's not the point."
"It isn't?"
"Hard- drive space is cheap."
Sebeck just gave him a look.
"Okay, I'll admit I have a technology problem. I'm in a twelve-step program."
Sebeck looked around at the car interior again. "How much is a car like this?"
"About a hundred and thirty. But I talked them down to a hundred and twenty."
Sebeck winced. That was a third higher than his annual salary. A pang of jealousy stole over him. Surely police work was vital. Why did the white-collar professions earn so much more? It was a puzzle to him. One he didn't think he was going to resolve.
The Audi raced north, giving him plenty of time to try.
Ross had a turn-by-turn map to the funeral home, but they could just as easily have followed the satellite news trucks. As they drove past the manicured front lawn of the funeral home, the parking lot overflowed with camera-ready protestors holding up signs reading BURN IN HELL, SOBOL, American flags, and yellow ribbons-while still others bore banners with anarchy symbols and pentagrams. It was a flea market of anger. Police and reporters with microphones vied with each other, alternately shoving back competing protestors and interviewing them. The side streets leading to the funeral home were blocked off by SBP traffic cops and sawhorses. No cars were allowed in.
Ross turned to Sebeck. "I'm not sure about this."
"This is where I come in. Pull up to the roadblock."