The Never Game

Brad Hendricks, nineteen, was attending community college part-time and lived with his parents in a lower-income area of Mountain View. He also worked in a computer repair shop about fifteen hours a week. In the high school fights Brad had been the one bullied and had then ambushed several of his tormenters. Bones had not been broken and noses were only slightly bloodied. All parties being in the wrong, the parents had chosen to let the matters go without police intervention. Brad played The Whispering Man and other Destiny Entertainment games forty or so hours a week — and presumably spent many hours at other companies’ games too. He had minimal social media presence, apparently preferring gaming to posting on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter.

LaDonna Standish had started canvassing in the Quick Byte, displaying the picture of the young man, who’d been there earlier in the day and was not present at the moment.

Shaw was presently pursuing a related lead: browsing Santa Clara County and California State records — using Standish’s secure log-in. What he learned — and it was quite interesting — he recorded in one of his case notebooks.

He sat back, staring at the now-blank screen.

“What?” Standish said as she joined him. “You’re looking like the cat that got the cream.”

Shaw asked, “Doesn’t the cat get the canary?”

“Cream sounds better than a dead bird. Brad hasn’t been here since you saw him earlier.” She went on to explain that none of the patrons now in the café knew him. A few recalled seeing him have the fight with the young woman he claimed he’d met online but couldn’t remember seeing him before that.

Standish was tucking something into her wallet. She said to Shaw, “Took a liking to me ’cause I’m a cop.”

“Who?”

“Tiffany. I’m now a lifetime member of the QB Koffee Discount Klub. You’re one too, aren’t you?”

“Invite’s in the mail, I guess.”

“Work it. She’s sweet on you, you know.”

Shaw didn’t reply.

Standish’s face grew solemn. “So. We’re talking cream and cat... What’d you come up with, Shaw? There any chance to save Elizabeth?”

“Maybe.”

Shaw parked on a street of old houses, probably built not long after World War II.

Cinder block and wood frame. Solid. He wondered if that was because of earthquake danger. Then decided: No, there wouldn’t have been that much forethought put into these children’s toy blocks of homes. Plop ’em down and sell ’em. Move on.

This was a different Mountain View from where the rich lived. Different from even Frank Mulliner’s place. Not as dingy as East Palo Alto but plenty grim and shabby. The persistent hiss of the 101 filled the air, which was aromatic with exhaust.

The yards, which would be measured in feet, not acreage, were mostly untended. Weeds and patches of yellowing grass and sandy scabs. No gardens. Money for watering the landscape — always expensive in the state of California — had gone for necessities and the crushing taxes and mortgage payments.

He thought of Marty Avon and his dream, Siliconville, recalling what he’d just read online a half hour ago.

For decades, Silicon Valley has always looked for the “Next Big Thing” — the internet, http protocol, faster processors, larger storage, mobile phones, routers, browser search engines. That search goes on and always will. The message that everybody has missed in the Valley: Real Estate is the true Next Big Thing...

The house Shaw focused on was typical of the bungalows here. Green paint touched up with a slightly different shade, stains descending from the roof along the siding like rusty tears, discarded boxes and pipes and plastic containers, rotting cardboard, a pile of newspaper mush.

An ancient half-ton pickup sat in the driveway, the color sun-faded red. It listed to the right from shocks that had long ago lost enthusiasm.

Shaw climbed out and was walking toward the door when it opened. A burly man, balding and in gray dungaree slacks and a white T-shirt, approached. Looking at Shaw ominously, he strode forward and stopped a few feet away. He was about six-two. Shaw could smell sweat and onion.

“Yeah?” the man snapped.

“Mr. Hendricks?”

“I asked what you wanted.”

“I’d just like a few minutes of your time.”

“If you’re repo, that’s bullshit. I’m only two months behind.” He nodded toward the junker.

“I’m not here to repossess your truck.”

The man processed, looking up and down the street. And at Shaw’s car. “I’m Minnetti. My wife’s name was Hendricks.”

“Brad’s your son?” Shaw asked.

“Stepson. What’s he done now?”

“I’d like to talk to you about him.”

“Brad ain’t here. Supposed t’be in school.”

“He is in school. I checked. I want to talk to you.”