CHAPTER THIRTEEN This Is Not a Detective

Charlie had showered and changed and as a result now looked like a homeless person who had been taken off the street and dressed in someone else’s clothes. He was slumped, motionless, over his desk, hunched over a mug of coffee. He seemed to have aged twenty years in the past twenty-four hours.

Probably Dagmar had, too. She should probably avoid mirrors for the next several days-she didn’t want to know how ragged she looked.

As Dagmar entered his office, Charlie looked up, and said, “Did you post the message? ”

“I didn’t need to. The Group Mind figured it out on its own.”

He shrugged, slumped again. Dagmar seated herself.

“But listen,” Dagmar said, “they figured it out by finding out who the killer was.”

Charlie looked up.

“He’s a professional hit man,” Dagmar said. “Russian Maffya.”

Charlie stared. Dagmar sensed his mind working behind the weary facade.

“Did you tell the police? ” he asked.

“Yes, but Murdoch already knew. They had Consuelo’s uploads and the same biometric data that the Group Mind had.”

“Do they know where the guy lives? ”

“He smuggled himself into the country under a false identity. I imagine they’re going to wait for him to fly out on that identity, and nail him at the airport.”

Charlie looked down, frowned for a moment, then glanced up. “Do you know what false identity he’s using? ”

“Murdoch wouldn’t say.”

Charlie leaned back, stared into the far distance, and tapped a thumbnail against his coffee mug. “I wish,” he said, “that I was one of those millionaires who knew all the politicians, and I could call Murdoch’s superior and get the name. But I’m not politically connected. I’ve never needed favors from any of those people. I don’t even know who my state senator is.”

“Do you know anyone who is connected? ” Dagmar asked. “Anyone who owes you a favor? ”

“I know lots of people. Favors are another issue.” He looked at Dagmar and narrowed his eyes. “We’re thinking about the same thing, aren’t we? ”

“Set the Group Mind to finding the killer? ”

“Yeah.” He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “That is like totally crazy, isn’t it? ”

Dagmar felt anger clenching the muscles in her jaw.

“I want Austin’s killer found,” she said.

“So do I.”

“So if we make Austin’s killing part of the game…”

“Yeah.”

Dagmar put her hands on her head. “And give rewards to anyone who gives us answers.” She passed a hand over her weary eyes. “I’ll have to think about how to do all that. How to work it.”

Charlie stood, hitched up his brand-new khaki trousers.

“In an hour,” he said, “I’ve got a meeting with Austin’s partners. We’ve got to try and figure out a way to keep his company going.”

She looked at him. “Why are you involved? You’re not part of his company.”

“I’m one of Austin’s original backers. I still own a piece.”

She stared at him in surprise. He looked irritated.

“What’s wrong? ” he said.

“It’s just that I didn’t know that.”

Charlie flapped one arm. “I made my millions first, so I gave Austin a hand. It’s not as if I haven’t been repaid a dozen times over. He had the golden touch.”

“What’s going to happen with the company? ”

He shook his head. “He’s got partners, but they’re junior partners. None of them are ready to move up to the Show. So we’re going to have to hire a honcho with a good record, and hire him fast, and that’s going to cost.”

“Good luck.”

He waved a hand. “Thanks.”

She stood, and she walked with him to the elevator. As he reached for the button, she put a hand over his.

“Charlie,” she said, “I have to know something.”

He looked at her. “Sure. What do you need? ”

“I need to know if Austin was connected with the Russian Maffya,” she said. “You’re a part of his company, maybe you know.”

Charlie looked at her in astonishment.

“No,” he said. “No, in fact I’m sure he wasn’t. I don’t know every start-up he was involved with, but I know he had plenty of options, and there’s no way he’d touch anything that looked hinky.”

Hinky. Now there was a word Dagmar had never before heard in conversation.

“Okay,” she said. “Next question.” She looked over her shoulder, made certain the corridor was empty. “Are you involved with the Maffya? ”

Charlie was beyond astonishment. The question left him openmouthed.

“Me? ” he managed.

“Yes.”

He put a hand on her arm.

“Dagmar,” he said, “I make software. I make autonomous agents to help business and government manage complex systems.” He gave an incredulous laugh. “I help ordinary people make shopping decisions. I help filter spam, for Christ’s sake.”

Dagmar licked dry lips.

“You have these foreign backers,” she said. “None of us have ever met them.”

Again he gave a laugh.

“No,” he said. “None of them are Russian.”

Then he stepped back, put both his hands on the sides of his head in a parody of astonishment.

“Dagmar! ” His voice rose to a kind of geeky shriek, unusual in a man of his height and dignity. “How long have we known each other? I can’t believe you’ve been thinking this!”

Dagmar felt heat rise to her cheeks.

“Sorry,” she said. “But it occurred to me that the killer might have been after you, not Austin.”

He looked at her in sudden silence, and lowered his hands. “What do you mean? ”

“You’re the same physical type. You wear glasses and he didn’t, but he was wearing shades. Your faces are different, but behind the cap and sunglasses, that might not have been apparent. You were even wearing the same color shirt.”

Charlie raised his arms again and looked at his new shirt.

“Jesus, Dagmar,” he said.

“Okay.” Dagmar waved a hand. “I’m clearly out of my mind. Go to your meeting, okay? ”

“Sure.” He reached for the elevator button and pressed it, then shook his head.

“Damn,” he said. “You’re fucking scary, you know that? ”

Dagmar ventured a tight little smile.

“PTSD,” she said. “But I’m learning how to manage it.”

Exhausted, Dagmar went home in midafternoon. On the way she stopped at a Beef Bowl drive-through, and the scent of the beef, rice, and ginger rising in her dented old Prius rekindled her faded appetite.

It had been a long time since that piece of toast.

Dagmar lived in a two-room apartment in the valley, less than two miles from AvN Soft. The building had been built in the 1970s, was three stories tall, and surrounded a courtyard with palm trees, a swimming pool, and a clubhouse with a couple of Ping-Pong tables and humming soda machines.

Dagmar lived on the top floor so that when the Big One hit, she’d pancake on the people below and not be pancaked herself. She figured that was only sensible.

Even though Charlie paid her very well, she still couldn’t afford California real estate, and she didn’t have time to take care of a house anyway. So she put her money where Charlie and Austin told her to put it, and watched it grow with a kind of abstract joy completely void of comprehension.

She’d grown up poor, in apartments of decreasing splendor off Detroit Avenue in Cleveland. She knew the value of a dollar, of twenty dollars, of a hundred.

The kind of numbers that Charlie dealt with every day were beyond her ken. A hundred thousand dollars was a statistic. A million a fantasy.

She had a couple of hundred thousand in the market, but it was just Monopoly money to her.

Monopoly money that was growing. Regular paychecks and a rising market, she had found, were a good reinforcement.

She parked in front of the ginkgo bush, took her beef bowl in its white paper bag from the worn passenger seat of the Prius, and legged out of the car. She was about to give her thumbprint to the electronic lock on the wrought-iron gate when she noticed the white Dodge van parked in one of the building’s visitor spaces.