Dagmar began to take full breaths again. Her hands shivered as the anger receded, like the tide, in waves-the fury building, then falling, then returning, but each time diminished, with the pulses of lucidity lasting longer.

Coldly she considered what evidence she had just collected. BJ had come to her motel room, had stalked around outside, had left. Dagmar understood the homicidal intent, but would Murdoch? Would a jury?

She was inclined to think not.

She doubted that BJ would have bomb-building supplies in his apartment-if he wasn’t hiding them from the police, he was certainly hiding them from his roommate, Jacen. They might find evidence on his computer that he was CRAPJOB, but if he’d been smart, he would have used computers rented at Kinko’s or borrowed at the library.

If he had been foolish enough to use his own phone when contacting the players he’d used to deliver the bomb to the Fig, he’d have hanged himself-but Dagmar knew that BJ was smarter than that. Dagmar knew he would have used what on TV crime shows was called a burner-a cell phone with prepaid hours, purchased anonymously and after the crime destroyed.

There was nothing in any of this that would indict BJ, let alone convict him.

A bigger demonstration would be required.

In the morning she took Hollywood Boulevard west, toward the ocean, and found a place to park near where it became Sunset Boulevard. Between two shabby old office buildings, and beneath a billboard for Ray Corrigan’s new blockbuster, she found an old, steep stairway that connected Sunset and Santa Monica boulevards, and from this vantage viewed the building that contained Katanyan Associates.

She had been there many times, but she thought it might be useful to refresh her memory. The building was a four-story structure of dark glass. Austin’s company occupied the second floor. Cars were parked on a kind of concrete shelf cantilevered out over the slope, with a view of Century City beyond. There was a booth for a gate guard, but it was manned only during working hours.

The building across the street had CCTV cameras on its roof, but these were drooping downward-broken or unused.

It’s going to happen Tuesday night, she thought. When you’ve got Aram for your alibi.

It was lucky that Katanyan Associates was only a short distance from the New Hollywood Inn.

That would make things easier.

This Is Not an Assassin

Richard the Assassin sat behind his long, curving row of consoles, screen images winking in his eyes. Ninjas glared down from the upper shelves, fierce eyes gazing from masked faces.

“CRAPJOB’s starting to scare me,” he said. “He’s using your account to build a program that’s going to cause major damage. When he gives the word, it’s going to trash every record on our servers, starting with all Great Big Idea’s games, then going on to email and accounting files, then demolishing everything in AvN Soft that it can reach. We’ve got backups off-site, of course, but we can’t swear that every single thing is backed up.”

“He won’t move till after the Wednesday update,” Dagmar said. “He can’t afford to destroy anything until the players send his patch out.”

“I’m still worried,” said Richard.

She looked at him. “All right,” she said. “If we don’t track this guy down by Tuesday six P.M., lock him out. Eliminate his account, wipe out his little data bomb, and make sure-” She leaned forward, intent. “Make sure it’s Charlie’s patch that goes out to the players, not anything else.”

Richard shrugged. “Of course.”

Dagmar began to speak, then hesitated, then spoke anyway. Any residual loyalty to BJ had vanished at the point at which she’d seen him stalking up and down outside her conjectural motel room.

“While you’re doing that,” she said, “eliminate Boris Bustretski’s account.”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “You think he’s CRAPJOB? ”

“CRAPJOB appeared after BJ came on as a freelancer.”

The eyebrows lifted another millimeter.

“BJ? ”

“He’s an old friend,” Dagmar said, “but I don’t trust him.”

Richard made a sweeping motion with his hand, clean as the slice of a ninja sword.

“It’s done,” he said.

FROM: Consuelo

SUBJECT: Porn Invasion

Hey, Dagmar-

Why has my hard drive filled up with this awful Asian porn?

Is this any way for a detective to treat his partner?

Joe

FROM: Dagmar Shaw

SUBJECT: Re: Porn Invasion

Andy,

Your hard drive should keep its fly zipped.

Good detectives don’t go anywhere without a warrant.

Dagmar

FROM: Consuelo

SUBJECT: Re: re: Porn Invasion

Darn it, Dagmar, I thought we were friends!

FROM: Hippolyte

SUBJECT: Re: L.A. Games

Hi, Dagmar,

I’ve got the phone call from David! I’m supposed to help deliver data

to Maria so that she can get it to Briana.

I told David yes. He said it’s going down Tuesday night.

My phone is (714) 756-0578.

H.

“Okay,” said Dagmar. “So the data stick is going to be hidden in a vase of flowers? ”

She was speaking not to Hippolyte, to whom she had talked earlier in the day, but to a player named GIAWOL, whom she did not know. GIAWOL had a clenched-sounding voice, as if he were afraid to let his lower teeth get too far from his upper. Possibly, Dagmar thought, he had a pipe in his mouth.

“Yes,” GIAWOL said. Dagmar knew that his name was an acronym for Gaming is a way of life.

“I don’t know that it’s a data stick, exactly,” he said, “only that I’m supposed to put it in the vase. And that once I deliver it to Maria, I’m supposed to text-message David at a certain number.”

“Can you give me the number?”

GIAWOL did. Dagmar wrote it down. It was a number she didn’t recognize.

BJ’s latest cell phone burner.

“Where are you supposed to deliver the flowers?” Dagmar asked.

“Someplace called the New Hollywood Inn,” GIAWOL said. “Room one one eight.”

Dagmar felt the flush of anger on her skin.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Just that I’m to say it’s from the management.”

“Of the motel?”

“Yes. It’s supposed to be thanks for staying there for so long.” There was a hesitation. “Can I make a request?”

“Of course.”

“More mathematical puzzles,” GIAWOL said. “I love those.”

She smiled. “I’ll make a note of it.”

“Also, the destegging program you people use only works with a PC. I’m a Mac user.”

“I’ll pass that on to them.”

Over Monday afternoon she had tracked the evolution of BJ’s plot. It featured sending players along the same wandering courses that he’d used in his last scheme, followed by a player’s uniting the data with the “package”-in this case a vase of flowers-and delivering them to a motel room door.

His bomb-making skills had evolved, clearly. The last bomb had been triggered when Charlie turned on the computer or opened the door to the CD player. This one would be command-detonated, presumably by cell phone. It would have to be assumed that Dagmar would be averse to plugging in any strange computers delivered to her door, so when GIAWOL sent the text message that the flowers had been delivered, BJ in turn would call the cell phone hidden in the flower vase. Which would trigger the bomb, thus ending BJ’s problems. And Dagmar’s, of course.

An abstract kind of pity, devoid of genuine sadness or compassion, floated through Dagmar’s mind.

Poor BJ, she thought. He’s only got the one trick.

He’s not puppetmaster enough to save himself.

FROM: Maria Perry

SUBJECT: Ford Phalanx

I’ve located Cullen’s briefcase. It’s in a late-model Ford Phalanx

parked in the Coolomb Corporation garage!