The Never Game

Shaw continued: “We’ve been working with the company that publishes The Whispering Man — they’re cooperating. The CEO is trying to track down suspects in the customer database. He’ll call Detective Standish as soon as he finds some likely names.”

Standish said, “All this is in the file.”

Prescott said, the fiber of doubt in his voice, “If it is a ship, you know where?”

Shaw said he did not. Then added, “He’ll’ve left five objects she can use to save herself. One is food or water. Another will probably let her signal for help. Maybe a mirror or—”

One of the other suited agents said, “We gotta lot of boats here. We don’t have the resources to send drones and choppers over anything that floats.”

Ignoring the obvious, as usual, Shaw said, “Or start a signal fire.”

Standish: “We need to tell all the public safety offices to let us know if there’re any fires or smoke on docks or boats themselves. It’ll be a deserted place too.”

Prescott stepped forward. “All right, Detective, Supervisor Cummings. We appreciate your work,” he said. “We’ll keep you posted on the developments.”

Two sentences that Shaw guessed were patently false.

Standish’s face was emotionless, though her eyes settled. She was mad at the downgrading. But the CBI was state, the JMCTF was local. And if the FBI were here, they’d rule the roost. The way of the world.

While this ping-pong discussion had been going on, Shaw was wondering how much time Elizabeth Chabelle had until she perished from exposure. Or drowned.

Or until the Gamer, playing The Whispering Man with relish, returned to pursue her through the vessel or on the dock and shoot or stab her.

Prescott said, “We’ll consider what Detective Standish and her consultant have suggested. Somebody perverted by these video games.”

Which wasn’t the theory at all.

The agent continued: “Though, you ask me, I think anyone who plays them is a bit off.”

Shaw noted several of the officers staring at him without any reaction. The gamers in the room, he figured.

“We’ll pursue that lead. We’ll also follow standard protocol for an abduction. Get taps on all Ms. Chabelle’s phones. She have a boyfriend, husband?”

Standish said, “Boyfriend. George Hanover.”

“Taps on his too and her parents’, if they’re alive.”

“They are,” Shaw said. “They live in Miami. All in the report.”

“Look at financial resources of the boyfriend and her parents to see if they might be ransom targets. Get a list of registered sex offenders in the area. See if she has any stalkers.” The Bureau of Investigation agent kept talking, but Shaw had stopped listening. He was watching a man in the corridor approach the glass-walled conference room.

It was Dan Wiley, now in a green uniform. The man still looked like a cop right out of a movie.

The detective — or whatever he was now that he’d been rotated to Liaison — was holding a large envelope. He knocked and, when nodded in by Prescott, spotted Detective Standish and walked over to her.

Prescott said, “Officer, is that related to the Chabelle kidnappings?”

“Well, it’s the ME’s report on the latest vic. Henry Thompson.”

“I’ll take it. BI’s running the case.”

With a glance to Standish, Wiley handed the envelope to the tall agent and left.

Nearly to the door, he paused, looking back toward Shaw. A rueful smile crossed his face and, if Shaw’s translation was correct, its meaning was that the cop was offering an apology.

Shaw nodded in return.

Never waste time on anger.

Prescott opened the envelope and read to himself. Then he announced to the room: “Nothing new here. Henry Thompson died of a single gunshot, a nine-millimeter, determined to be from the same gun used in the Kyle Butler murder, a Glock 17. TOD was between ten p.m. and eleven p.m. Friday. He had also suffered blunt force trauma to the skull, resulting in a bone fracture and brain concussion. This was prior to the gunshot and prior to the fall from the cliff. He—”

Shaw asked, “Where was the fracture?”

Prescott looked up, his head askew. “I’m sorry?”

Standish asked, “Where was the fracture?”

“Why?”

Standish added, “We’d like to know.”

Prescott skimmed the report. “Left sphenoid.” He glanced up. “Anything else?”

Standish looked at Shaw, who shook his head. She said, “Nope. We’re good.”

Prescott kept his eyes on her for a moment longer. He continued: “He’d been injected with OxyContin suspended in water. Nonlethal, just enough to sedate him temporarily.” He handed the report to one of the two uniformed women officers. “Make copies for the team, would you? Then transcribe it on the board. You probably have better handwriting than the boys.”

The officer took the report with a faint tightening of her lips.

Standish said to Shaw in a soft voice, “So, why did I want to know where he got hit?”

“Can we leave?” Shaw whispered.

She looked over the room. “Don’t see why not. We’re invisible anyway.”

As they walked to the door they happened to pass Cummings. He held up a hand. Standish and Shaw paused.

Was an issue looming?