Then he remembered the radar system that Doobie had made him buy the previous day. He found it in his Inventory and installed it on his screen. Two names immediately appeared. Doobie Littlething and Jackin Thebox. Both, apparently, exactly ninety meters away. But where? Not in the club, it seemed. He went back out on to the walkway. Twist had told him that the club was in a skybox 595 metres up. So the chances were that Doobie and Jackin were either somewhere above or below.
Chas craned to look up and saw the underside of another building floating some way above the club. He took off and soared skywards, arms pressed to his side, until he was on a level with the building he had seen from below. In fact, it was just a large, grey box. There appeared to be no doors or windows in it. But Doobie and Jackin now showed as being just eight metres away. So, somehow, they were inside it. They must have teleported in.
Chas recalled Twist’s first lesson in Second Life private investigation. He pointed at the nearest wall, zoomed in and then swivelled to the side so that he bypassed the wall altogether and suddenly had a view of the interior. Floor, walls, and ceiling appeared to be covered in thick-piled crimson plush. Lamps on the walls cast muted light around the room. Cushions were scattered across the floor, multicoloured, multisized. Among them pose balls offering any number of sexual activities, some odd-looking furniture, and some scarier-looking BDSM contraptions.
Two figures lay naked among the pillows. Doobie was on her back, her legs apart, while Jackin lay between them, his pink bottom rising and falling to a steady, rhythmic beat. Chas clicked among the cushions for a closer view, confident that he was quite invisible to them, and watched with a certain amount of horrified fascination, and an odd, distant, feeling of jealousy.
The dialogue of the sex partners was visible on his screen in open chat, and he was almost shocked by the mundane crudity of it.
Jackin: Yeh. Yeh. Fucking you, baby. Fucking you.
Doobie: Fuck me, Jack. Fuck me.
Jackin: Bite my nipples, you bitch. Bite them!
Doobie: Mmm. Biting your nipples, Jack. Sucking them hard.
Chas selected Doobie from his Friends List and sent her an IM. Watching her closely, as if he might actually be able to discern some visual reaction.
Chas: Hey, Doobie.
After a moment...
Doobie: I’m working right now, Chas.
Chas: So I see.
There was a long silence, during which Chas could almost feel Doobie absorbing the implications of that.
Doobie: Where are you?
Chas: Right outside.
Doobie: Damned Peeping Tom!! Where’d you learn that trick?
Chas: Actually, I’m trying very hard not to look. The sight of Mr. Thebox’s flaccid pink bottom flapping up and down is not exactly compulsive viewing.
Doobie: No. Well, I’m not looking either. I’ve got my eyes closed. He thinks it’s ecstasy. What do you want, Chas?
Chas: I’m looking for some SL advice, Doobie. It’s kind of important.
Doobie: Well, that’s okay. Fire away. He doesn’t know we’re talking. And I’ll throw him the odd titbit to keep him excited. LOL. How can I help?
Chas: How well do you know Twist?
Doobie: Not at all, really. I saw him when he came to talk to Sable, the owner of the club, about the harassment problem. That’s about it.
Chas: Well, I don’t want to say too much, but Twist and I are colleagues in RL. Crime scene investigators. I specialise in photography.
Doobie: Oh, wow! Cool. Real-life detectives.
Chas: Not detectives, Doobie. We just collect evidence. That’s all I’m going to tell you about who and where we are, but a few days ago we were at the home of a murder victim who turned out to have an account in Second Life.
Doobie: Hey, Chas, this is getting exciting. Hang on a sec...
Doobie: Yeh, baby, gimme more. Yeh, that’s it.
Jackin Thebox’s bottom was still rising and falling between her legs.
Doobie: Okay, how can I help?
Chas: Well, somehow or other, all records of this guy’s account got wiped off the Linden Lab database, so we know nothing about who he was in SL.
Doobie: Do you have a name?
Chas: Maximillian Thrust.
Doobie: Do you know if he was in any Groups?
Chas: Yes, he was. I don’t know all of them.
He thought back to the names Hardy had rattled off from the file.
Chas: Black Creek Saloon. AAA Club. Virtual Realty.
Doobie: Tell you what, then. I’ll do a little checking on these Groups, ask around a bit, see what I can find out for you. Oooh, this is exciting Chas!
She paused.
Doobie: I thought you said you weren’t detectives.
Chas: We’re not, Doobs. Just... interested. You know?
Jackin: I’m cumming, baby, I’m cumming.
Doobie: Oh, God. Duty calls. I’ll let you know if I find anything. And leave now, please! No more peeping. I have to get rid of this guy, and I can’t go before he cums. So to speak. LOL.
Back at Twist’s office, Chas saw that his partner in crime was still offline, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He wandered around, trying out different chairs and then the grand piano. He had never played a piano in his life, but suddenly he was a virtuoso.
He was distracted by the sound of a train hooting in the distance, and he went to the window as a miniature steam train hauling half a dozen open carriages chugged past. There were two passengers, who looked very much like giant pink dildos. They had name tags above them. DJ Rob and Mistie Hax. So they were clearly avatars. Chas frowned in confusion as the train dipped down under water, before emerging a minute later to follow the tracks up into the sky.
He turned around, then, and clicked to sit behind the desk in Twist’s chair, fish drifting past his head in the aquarium behind him. He had barely time to register the Third Life welcome page on the computer screen when a double ching alerted him to the arrival of an IM.
Jamir: Chas. You are a private detective?
Chas supposed that since his name was now on the Group list, people would see he was online and assume he was indeed a private detective, and that he knew what he was doing.
Chas: Er... yes.
Jamir: I need to talk to you. Can you send me a TP?