The Shadow Maker (13 page)

‘Did you tell him it’s sorted?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Let’s keep him guessing.’

Flynn swallowed a mouthful of pizza and frowned. ‘You can be a smug bastard at times. Don’t forget I’m the system administrator on this. It’s down to me if it isn’t clear of bugs.’

Josh took a swig of Coke. ‘It’ll never be clear of bugs.’

‘Are you trying to piss me off ?’

‘I’m trying to get you to loosen up.’

‘But the test team …’

‘A bunch of tossers. The bugs they’ve found are minor. They can be fixed with patches.’ Josh licked his fingers and picked up another slice. ‘There’s only one important thing the test team’s come up with.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not a technical problem, but in a way Maynard’s right. The level of input from the eyephones is too high. You should go easy on wearing them.’

‘Sometimes I think you’re as nuts as he is. What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘The game’s addictive. Gives you a physical buzz.’

Flynn stared at him dubiously. ‘That’s priceless from someone hooked on dope.’

Josh shrugged and took a bite of cake. ‘You don’t have to believe me - but what a selling point. Makes your bugs irrelevant.’

‘Yeah,’ said Maynard, coming back from the window, spilling bits of pepperoni in his wake. ‘I believe you.’

‘Big deal,’ Flynn sneered. ‘You believe in aliens and the Easter Bunny.’

‘I’ve got proof,’ said Maynard, then realised he’d said too much.

‘What proof ?’

‘Forget it.’

‘No.’ This time it was Josh. ‘Tell us.’

Maynard shook his head.

‘Maynard!’ Josh insisted. ‘Tell us what you’ve found out.’

He sighed. ‘I went to see Huxley. He did some tests.’

Flynn gave a groan. ‘You dipstick.’

But Josh was curious. ‘Isn’t he the guy you both studied under?’

‘Yeah,’ said Maynard brightly. ‘Professor Byron Huxley. Computer science. Monash University.’

‘And he did tests?’ asked Josh. ‘What sort?’

‘Scans. Brain scans.’

‘While you were wearing eyephones?’

‘Yeah. Goggles and gloves. Me, and a few undergraduate guinea pigs.’

‘Jesus,’ muttered Flynn. ‘If Barbie finds out, you’re dead.’

‘Sod Barbie,’ said Josh. ‘The scans. What’d they show?’

‘Something weird. The wrong areas lit up. The game stimulates the limbic system - bits like that. Like I was trying to say earlier.’

‘You didn’t make sense then,’ said Flynn, ‘and you’re not making sense now. I’m surprised Huxley could find any brain at all.’

‘Get stuffed.’

‘The scans,’ Josh insisted. ‘What do they mean?’

‘They explain why we get such hardons when we play. It’s not just the images - it’s the software itself. It stimulates the sex centres of the brain.’

Josh nodded to himself. ‘And that’s why it’s addictive.’

‘Yeah,’ said Maynard. ‘And that’s why I was talking about the reptile brain in our heads. This game turns it on - literally.’

‘Maybe that’s why it’s so hot,’ said Josh. ‘Maybe that’s the real selling point - but Barbie hasn’t bothered to tell us.’

He finished eating, stood up and pulled on his leather jacket.

Flynn looked at him suspiciously. ‘Where are you going now?’

‘Out and about.’

‘With Barbie on the warpath?’

‘Bollocks to him.’

Flynn shook his head. ‘Your crazy streak will stuff you up one day.’

Josh gave him a careless smile.

As usual, he was saying nothing, but still managed to exude a hint of something illicit. It fitted in with what they knew about him, which wasn’t much. Josh had come back to Australia suddenly and under doubtful circumstances after a two-year visit to England - something to do with activities in the cybertech underworld. At first they thought he’d learnt his tradecraft as a hacker until it became obvious he was a fully qualified computer scientist. It turned out he’d once worked for the Defence Department in Canberra. They assumed he’d left in a huff or been fired, probably because of his attitude, maybe as a security risk. Too much of the bad boy in him.

He drank vodka, lots of it, got chased by women because he was good-looking and irresponsible, and he did deals on the side in hot computer gear. Beyond that, his background was a mystery.

But Flynn was curious. ‘Will you be back tonight?’

‘Don’t count on it.’

‘Just where do you go when you’re on the prowl?’

‘The only place worth being at night.’ Josh jiggled his car keys.

‘The wrong side of town.’

Barbie drove back to the casino complex beset by nagging worries about the software deal. Though he’d sunk millions of dollars into the project, he’d known from the start it was a calculated risk, and each passing day took another sizeable bite out of his diminishing finances. Despite his assets and his image, he was short of ready cash and delving deeper into the pockets of his bankers. Another showdown with the bank in Sydney was looming but he’d handle that when the time came. As he brushed that prospect aside he tried to convince himself there was nothing to worry about. Any doubts about the deadline were nothing more than the nerdish antics of his design team. They were trying it on, that was all, and would deliver the software package on time. He would sell it to the Japanese, forget money hassles forever and become a high stakes player in new media.

With that comforting thought in mind he got back to the awards ceremony in time to present the top honour of the night to the Advertiser of the Year. ‘Excellent work. Maximum impact,’ he said into the microphone. ‘Well done.’

He led the applause as the audience rose to their feet below him in a wave of acclamation. These men and women were all sharp and glamorous operators whose profession was to invent and reinvent glamour. And this was a night when they reaffirmed their role of convincing people about all the things lacking in their lives - such as beauty, health and happiness - so they’d go out and buy them. They stood clapping with enthusiasm and glossy faces above a sea of tables bristling with silver champagne buckets, glasses and the remains of steak dinners, as a team of waiters began clearing away the plates.

A few cheers and whistles rang out with the applause and echoed overhead among the glittering artificial stars that laced the ceiling.

Yes, this was what he was good at. This was where he belonged.

Afterwards, champagne glass in hand, he mingled with the guests.

The conversation was smart and the laughter boisterous. He drifted around the tables, networking with the executives, absorbing the gossip. But it was mostly the women, with their tight dresses and over-bright smiles, who gravitated around him. With each inviting look and each fresh mouthful of champagne, the night became less formal and his animal urges more imperative.

Doing a final sweep of the hall, he decided there was no woman he could take to bed discreetly so he said his goodnights and rode the elevator up to his private suite. There he threw off his tuxedo, loosened his tie and, phone in hand, stood gazing through the window over the dark expanse of the bay. He took a deep breath and dialled a number.

A woman answered, her voice silky. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

Barbie cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Tell me who’s available tonight.’

Rita’s day began with three bronze-coloured masks lined up across her desk, and O’Keefe’s thick, hairy finger pointing to one after the other.

‘Toy shop, games shop, costume shop,’ he indicated. ‘Only one’s metallic, the other two are plastic, but they all look Greek to me.’

‘Yes,’ Rita agreed. ‘And there’s no way of knowing which type the offender was wearing. Emma Schultz can’t tell us, that’s for sure.’

‘So they’re not much help, except for ex’s,’ said O’Keefe, who as well as being a prize-winning swimmer - his achievements were proudly reported in the police magazine, although photos of him grinning above a hairy torso coated with grease were a distinct turn-off - was a champion at claiming expenses. ‘I’ve kept the receipts.’

‘They’re no good as a lead but they help with the profile,’ she reasoned. ‘It means the man we’re after isn’t into simple bondage, he’s also acting a part. That’s why he used the term “role-playing”
.

It wasn’t a euphemism, he meant it literally.’

‘But for the investigation, the mask’s another dead end?’ asked O’Keefe.

‘That’s right. That leaves us with the card.’ Rita cleared away the masks and handed him a photocopy of the Plato’s Cave smartcard.

‘The crime lab’s given me a list of a dozen software firms to check out. We’ll do half each. I’ll take Xanthus and another five in a cluster nearby. You get the rest.’

‘Okay, boss. What about the brothel?’

‘I’ll pay a call this afternoon.’

As Rita drove to Xanthus Software she was beginning to think Strickland might be right. She might have overreacted to Kelly Grattan’s bike story. That would mean her focus on the company was based on a false assumption, and unless the smartcard had been produced by the firm, there was no tangible link to the investigation.

Security checks had showed that Xanthus was a small operation with less than fifty on the staff list. When Rita cross-checked the names with police files nothing jumped out at her. Along with an absence of MX-5s, there were no rap sheets for assault or sex offences, but they seemed a sorry bunch - several drink-driving incidents, some minor drug busts, and a drowning off Portsea. But two things interested her. First, for a small company it had a high staff turnover - a sign of intense pressure, if nothing else. And second, of course, the owner: Martin Barbie.

Apart from witnessing last night’s performance at the awards ceremony, she’d seen him on television fronting his reality game show.

Gold Rush
was a competition in which contestants eliminated each other by appealing to the lowest instincts of the viewing public. People voted in massive numbers for their favourites, with exhibitionism, vulgarity, cruelty and greed all rewarded, while sensitivity was seen as weakness.

As for Barbie, she was no fan. Nevertheless, she found him intriguing. He was a darling of the media and got nothing but good press. No hint of scandal. No word of inappropriate behaviour. He was a winner. Hugely popular. A cultural icon. Yet he was too smooth to be true. It made her wonder what went on below the surface.

As she drove up to the front gate of the software company, she hoped she’d get to question him at some stage.

The security guard came out of his cabin, leaned down to her side window, and looked at her ID.

‘Detective Sergeant Van Hassel,’ he said amiably. ‘How’s life in Sex Crimes?’

‘You’re an ex-cop?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ said the guard, extending a hand. ‘Pete Pollard. I saw you on the news.’ They shook hands through the window. ‘I was a senior constable with the drug squad till the Commissioner shut us down.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ she said. ‘Is the owner here by any chance?’

‘Barbie the bastard?’ said Pollard. ‘No. He just makes flying visits to kick arse.’

‘Why do you call him a bastard?’

‘Because he’s not all sweetness and light like you see on telly,’

Pollard answered. ‘He can cut you dead with a look, and he treats this place like maximum security, shit-scared of a breach.’

‘I see.’

‘What are you here for?’ Pollard wanted to know.

‘Just a routine part of the investigation, visiting all the software firms.’ Then she added, ‘Have you heard anyone here mention Plato’s Cave?’

‘Kavella’s joint?’ He gave her an odd look, which left her wondering if he was one of the former detectives embroiled in the corruption scandal. ‘No, not a dickybird.’

The guard went back into his cabin and opened the steel gates.

She gave him a nod of thanks as she drove through past the chain-link fence, the razor wire and the closed-circuit cameras.

The receptionist was partly decorative and partly paranoid.

‘I can’t let you go any further,’ she said. ‘You haven’t got clearance.

You haven’t got an appointment.’

‘Sorry,’ said Rita. ‘But I don’t investigate crimes by appointment.

Who’s in charge here?’

‘That would be the system administrator, Eddy Flynn. I’ll page him.’

‘You do that.’

Minutes later he strode down the stairs into reception looking flustered, a young man full of focused intensity. Dynamic but distracted. Presentable without being well-groomed - his dark brown curls were untidy, and he needed a shave. Yet there was something watchable about him - not just in the energetic manner, but in the agile physique and the strong, forceful face. With his dark eyes, smooth complexion and full lips Flynn had the looks without the personality. Too abrupt. Insensitive. He was wearing linen trousers, a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and an agitated expression.

‘What are you doing on the premises?’ he demanded. ‘This is a sensitive security area.’

‘So I’ve noticed.’

‘Have you got a warrant?’

‘I don’t need a warrant to question people about a crime.’

‘How do I know you’re a cop?’ he persisted. ‘We’re working on a multi-million-dollar project here. For all I know you’re an industrial spy.’

She shook her head in disbelief. This was getting silly.

‘There’s my ID and there’s my card.’ She slapped them onto the reception counter. ‘And I’ll give you the number of police headquarters. You can check with my senior officer.’

Flynn calmed down a little. He waved away her ID but pocketed her card. ‘What crime?’ he asked.

‘A brutal sexual assault that’s left a woman blinded.’ When he looked back at her blankly, she added, ‘Don’t you watch the news, read the papers?’

‘Of course not!’ he snapped. ‘I don’t have the fucking time.’

‘Okay.’ Rita looked around. ‘Where can we discuss this?’

‘Well you can’t go into any of the private offices or technical areas. The R&D floors are strictly off-limits to all outsiders.’

‘Anywhere will do,’ she sighed. ‘It’s the human components I’m interested in.’

He looked vaguely confused, missing the irony.

‘Okay. Come this way,’ he said, leading her into a smoking area behind reception. ‘No problem with security in here.’