Twist: Yeh, and that his AV was shot with a virtual gun that hacked into Linden’s computer and erased his account. I’ve been sitting here myself trying to make any of it sound like the reasonable conclusion of a sane person. I mean, by the time they stopped laughing and asked us if we had any proof, what would we say? Yeh, sure, there’s a body and a crime scene. Come with us into SL and we’ll show you.
Chas: FSS would have us up for psychological evaluation before you could say, “What’s your prim count?” And you know what? I’m not sure I’d pass.
Twist: So what are we going to do?
Chas: I think we need to follow up on this ourselves, Twist, until we come up with something a little less virtual, and a little more concrete. And, anyway, you wanted to be a private detective, didn’t you?
Twist: Hahaha, yeh. Quite exciting, isn’t it?
Chas: Scary, Twist. I think that’s the word I’d use for it. I’d be happy if it was all a little less real and a little more virtual.
They continued to mull it over in silence until Twist introduced an abrupt change of subject.
Twist: So tell me about Doobie Littlething.
Chas: Nothing to tell, Twist. She’s a dancer at Sinful Seductions.
Twist: More than a dancer, I’d say. She was pretty smart to track down Thrust’s AV to that island.
Chas: She knows her way around SL, that’s for sure. She’s been in for three years. And she’s certainly smart. Gave me a thrashing at chess yesterday.
Twist: You were playing chess? Was that before or after you took her to dinner?
Chas Chesnokov grins.
Chas: Why? Are you jealous, Twist?
Twist: How could I be jealous? I’m a guy, remember.
Twist paused for a moment.
Twist: She said she had a rendezvous with a client. What kind of business is she in?
Chas: The sex business. She’s an escort.
Twist: Ah. Ok. Lots of girls in here are. Easy way of making money. Hard work, but risk free. Unlike RL.
Chas: Twist... How does it work?
Twist: What?
Chas: Sex in SL. I mean, I know you get these poseballs, and I’ve actually seen Doobie with a client. But that’s just cartoons humping. I mean, there must be more to virtual sex than that, surely?
Twist O’Lemon smiles.
Twist: You want a demonstration?
Chas: Not with a man, thank you. But maybe you could show me how it works when we’re back in RL.
Twist: Yeh, dream on.
Chas smiled but knew that in reality Janey would jump at the chance, even if Twist wouldn’t. It was unfair to tease her.
Twist: By the way, are you still showing that three million dollars at the top of your screen?
Chas glanced up.
Chas: Yes.
Twist: Hummm. Maybe you should try logging out and logging in again.
It took Chas thirty seconds to transition through the log-out/log-in process. He checked his screen again.
Chas: It’s still there.
Twist: Very strange. Well, keep an eye on it, Chas. I’m sure it’s either a glitch or a mistake of some kind, but you don’t really want to be sitting there with three million dollars’ worth of unexplained cash in your account.
Chas was thoughtful.
Chas: No. No, I don’t.
By the time he logged off and became aware again of his real life surroundings, Michael saw that he had missed the sunset. It was dark out on the terrace as he wandered out with a glass of wine in his hand. Since opening that first bottle with Angela, he had decided that he should drink as much of it as he could before her late husband’s family laid claim to it. Mora had bought it to drink after all, not as an investment.
He sipped on the pale pinot noir, a vintage from the Ambullneo winery near Santa Maria, and let the smooth, silky, oaken vanilla of it slide back over his tongue. On the peninsula, beyond Balboa Island, the ferris wheel and the Maritime Museum were all lit up, a tracery of neon light. The sky was almost as black and star-studded as those he had seen in Second Life, and the sound of the ocean mimicked the ambient atmosphere of the virtual world. A plane roared overhead, outbound from John Wayne Airport. Something you never heard in SL.
It was strange how quickly it had all got under his skin, how rapidly Chas had taken on a life of his own. But one thing, at least, that both Michael and Chas had in common, was a growing sense of unease about the real and virtual parallels in the murders of Arnold Smitts and Maximillian Thrust. Michael knew that they should tell the police what they had discovered. But he also knew that Janey was right. They would be laughed out of court. Literally.
His thoughts were disturbed by the telephone ringing in his office. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore it, as he had done several times while he was online. When it stopped, the silence was deafening, and he couldn’t stand it any longer. He carried his glass back to his desk and sat down. A winking red light told him that there were several messages. He pressed a button to listen to the first of them, and was greeted by the velvet tones of Mr. Yuri of the State Bank of Southern California.
“Mr. Kapinsky, I just wanted to let you know that the bank has had a report back on the appraisal of your property. We’re having to cut our losses, I’m afraid. In the current marketplace, the house has been valued at $2.75 million. So we will be selling to the first bidder who comes closest to that figure. Which, unfortunately, will still leave you owing us $433,000. I’d be obliged if you would call my secretary to arrange a meeting to discuss the current value of your stocks and shares, and any other assets you may possess. Have a good evening.”
Michael closed his eyes again and felt his hands trembling. He didn’t have the heart to listen to any more messages. But the phone was not about to give him any peace. Its shrill warble filled the office once more. He opened his eyes and snatched the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Michael, where have you been? Did you not get my messages? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all evening.” Michael drew a long, silent breath. Sherri was just about the last person on earth he wanted to hear from right now.
“I’ve been busy, Sherri.”
“We’ve had an offer for the house, Michael. The couple who were there the other day.”
Hope flared momentarily in his heart. “Tell me.”
“They’ve offered $2.6. But I think I can push them up another $100,000.”
Michael felt as if he were spinning backwards through space. There was to be no last minute reprieve. “It’s out of my hands, Sherri. The bank have valued it at $2.75 million. And they are going to be selling it without further reference to me.” There was a long silence, in which he could feel her anger transmitting itself across the ether.
“You signed a three-month, exclusive contract with me, Michael. I have spent a lot of money on photographs, promotional material, and advertising. Now it turns out you don’t really own the house at all. The bank does. You had no right to enter into that contract. I want compensation, do you understand? Expect to hear from my lawyers.”
Michael heard the phone slam down at the other end of the line. He took a deep breath and poured another glass of wine, and thought that maybe tonight he would need to open a second bottle.