The Net is paradise for lurkers: nameless, no–scent psychopaths. That's the way camouflage works—by blurring the outlines. Most people look to the edges for definition—when it's not there, they don't see anything at all. But camouflage doesn't help when the other guy's willing to defoliate the whole jungle.
There's a few heavy players working the fringe now. They climb on the Net, usually one of those "kids only" boards, and they get right into the pen pal thing. It never takes long. One of the freaks engages them, chats a bit, makes some promises, and sets up a meet. The freaks especially love airport hotels—in–and–out's their game anyway. They check into the room and, in a little bit, a kid shows up. Whatever they thought they were cybering with—a little Latino boy, a freckle–faced white girl—doesn't matter. But before they can get down to what they do, the door pops open and there's a real big, real angry man there. Turns out—it always turns out—that the kid is his kid. Somebody's gonna get hurt. Real bad. But if the freak spills out enough oil, fast, maybe he can put out the fire before he gets burned himself. All it costs is money. It's the old badger game, updated cyber–style. And the freaks never run to the Law.
I don't go in for that stuff myself. I don't like to operate out of my territory. But I know there's crews working in half a dozen cities. Probably more by now. Freaks lock onto the Net and start salivating. They never figure that, in this world, there's creatures that prey on predators.
The world's nothing but crime. I don't do every kind, but I do more than enough. I've been playing this way for such a long time that I'm doomed to it now, dancing between the acid raindrops, waiting for that manicured hand to drop on my shoulder and read me my rights. That happens, I'm ready for it. Even with my record, I'm not risking a long time inside. Not with the way I work things now. I may sell guns, but I don't carry them.
And I keep swearing I'll never use one again.
The one place I couldn't risk the Prof invading was Kite's aerie. The way I had figured it at first, Heather was living there. The floor plan to the building backed me up on it—there was enough room for a large family in the penthouse. Wolfe had her living in that two–bedroom apartment over in the West Seventies, but I thought that was probably just a place to store her clothes and keep up appearances. Then I found out Kite owned the building she lived in. Not right out in the open—he had a corporation nested inside a holding company, and shares of that company were controlled by a real estate investment trust that also held a mini–mall in Tucson and an office building in Dallas—but he was Heather's landlord all right.
"Bitch is a clean–freak," the Prof told me. "Joint's a fucking hospital. Got one of them filter machines, looks like a waste basket it's so big. No carpet, nothing but tile and wood."
"Look like she lives there?"
"Yeah, I guess. Food in the fridge, stuff in the cabinets over the sink. Hamper got clothes in it, so…But she ain't no chef, I tell you that. All she had was them packaged meals. And a microwave."
"The food just her stuff you think?"
"Oh yeah, bro. Ain't been no man in that place ever, except maybe to fix the sink or something. 'Sides that, she got a motherfucking shrine in her bedroom."
"Religious stuff?"
"Only if your boy Kite is God, Schoolboy. Got pictures of him everywhere. On the dresser, on the wall. Big bulletin board too. Bitch's got every article ever mentioned his name, it looks like. Got a trophy drawer too."
"His stuff?"
"Got to be. Only thing that ain't clean in the entire joint. One drawer, sealed, like. Got a handkerchief, pair of white silk boxer shorts—I know women be wearing that stuff now, but that Heather broad couldn't get her damn leg in the pair I saw. Man's shirt. An old watch. Pair of cuff links. All wrapped in tissue paper. Souvenirs, like."
"Cash? Jewelry?"
"Nothing worth taking. Cheap costume stuff. Except for the chains."
"Necklaces?"
"No, bro. Chains. You know, those little ankle bracelets. Broad's gotta have a couple of dozen of them, all different kinds. Gold, silver…platinum, one looked like. All different patterns, too. She got them on little hooks in her closet. Like she puts on a different one every day."
"Prof, were the chains in pairs?"
"All single–o, bro. All the same exact size too—bitch has got some ankle on her! And for cash, she didn't have more than a couple yards loose, unless she had a real good hiding place. And it didn't smell that way…she's got that joint set up like nobody's ever gonna visit, understand?"
"Yeah. She have a computer?"
"Not even a typewriter. No diary, no notebook. Not even a pad to write on. She got a big TV set though, got three VCRs stacked on top. Whole bookshelf full of tapes too, got a name and date on every one. Seems like she tapes all them daytime things, maybe watches when she gets home."
"What about books?"
"I went through 'em good, when I was looking for a cash stash. Decoration—they was new, like she never cracked them. Except for the porno…"
"Porno?" I asked. The Prof is a stone prude—what he thinks is pornography wouldn't raise an eyebrow in a church waiting room.
"Yeah. You know, paperbacks. Always got a broad and a guy on the cover. In them old–time costumes. Like pirates and shit."
So Heather read romances. And put Kite on the cover in her mind…? "Nothing to interest the cops, huh?" I asked him.
"A smart cop, maybe. She got toys, bro. Brass knucks, steel snap–out baton, set of punch knives. This broad gets close enough to you, she could do some real damage."
"This is all I could put together on such short notice," Hauser told me in his gravelly voice. "The Post's not on NEXIS that far back—I had to go to the morgue."
"Thanks. How're the boys?"
"They're perfect," he said.
"No kids are perfect," I told him.
"What do you know?" he sneered, throwing the electric–blue Ford Explorer into gear and lurching into traffic without looking.
Heather was telling the truth. About the lies. The clips Hauser pulled for me had it all, just like she said.
Except for the suicide note the professor sent her.
"This one was the flip side of the fat broad, Schoolboy," the Prof said to me a few days later, telling me about his toss of Jennifer Dalton's apartment. "Place is a pigsty. Stinks out loud. Got dirty clothes on the floor, roaches. Wouldn't surprise me she had a couple of little cheese–eaters hanging around too. Only decent–looking thing in the place was the answering machine—looked brand–new. Uses the living room for everything: eats there, probably sleeps on the couch too. The bedroom didn't have nothing but the bed. Not even a phone back there."
"What's she read?"
"Total trash, man. You know, space aliens spotted in a parking lot in Miami, getting it on with a bull gator. TV Guide. Confession magazines."
"No romance novels for that one, huh?"
"No romance period, brother. Joint smelled bad, I tell you."
"You come away with anything?"
"Got you this," the little man said, handing me a pair of keys.
"She was a nice girl. I never said otherwise. And I still wouldn't today," the man in the blue blazer said, sitting behind the little gray metal desks they give salesmen in high–volume car dealerships. The gleam from the showroom washed into his cubicle, merging with the overhead fluorescent lighting to give his fleshy, well–scrubbed face a rosy glow under his short–cropped haircut. "It was just one of those things that didn't work out," he said in a brisk salesman's voice.