As Andy took a series of pictures of his rival through the mirrored glass in the van’s rear doors, he reached the conclusion that he’d never seen the man before. A player this dedicated, you’d think Andy would have seen him at a few live events.

Andy noticed that the rider didn’t throw away his cigarette butt, but instead pinched it out and put it in his pocket.

When someone left the AvN Soft building, Andy tracked his camera to the new arrival and lost sight of the cyclist. He recognized Austin Katanyan, whom he knew as one of Charlie Ruff’s business associates who was unconnected with the game business, and when he swung the camera back to the Kawasaki, it was already moving.

The Pentax could take video as well as still pictures, and when he saw the motorcycle slowing down as if the rider wanted to talk to Austin, Andy thumbed the video button and reached for the Big Ears.

And then, to Andy’s utter delight, the rider pulled out a pistol and shot Austin dead. Andy kept the Pentax on the motorcycle until after it had left the parking lot and rocketed away down the frontage road, and then tracked back to where Austin Katanyan had dropped behind a row of cars. Apparently Austin was still there, because the receptionist had just run out of the building and crouched down by the body. Or the “body,” since obviously the assassination was a part of Motel Room Blues.

Whoever was playing the receptionist was a pretty good actress. That wild, distraught look was very convincing.

“This,” Andy said out loud, “is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen! ”

He got busy. He powered up the satellite uplink and uploaded the video onto Video Us. He then logged on to Our Reality Network and posted a link to the video, and then uploaded the still pictures of the assassin to a new topic called “Who Is This Man? ”

It was only when the ambulance arrived and the police began to swarm the area that Andy began to wonder if perhaps he’d made a mistake.

“I talked to Austin ’s mother this morning,” Charlie said. “The Red Cross came up with their phone number.”

His voice was raw with lack of sleep and hours of talking to the police.

“I’d never spoken to her in my life,” he said, “and I don’t think she has the slightest idea who I was, but I had to tell her that her son had been killed. And then as soon as I’d gotten through that conversation, the father called. Because the mother told him and he didn’t believe her. Or me. I only know that he was really pissed off and kept yelling. He didn’t believe me until I gave him Detective Murdoch’s phone number, and maybe not even then.”

Charlie lay back in his office chair, drawn eyes gazing sightlessly at the plush Pinky and the Brain dolls sitting atop his monitor. The tasteful functionality of his spacious office-huge desk, computer, monitor, and huge video displays-provided a contrast with their owner. Dense stubble coated Charlie’s cheeks and chin, and great sweat patches bloomed beneath the arms of his pastel shirt. The police had been present till after eleven at night, and after that, Charlie had been too busy to leave.

He both looked and smelled as if he’d slept on his office couch, which he had. At midmorning he’d sent his secretary out to buy some new clothes, and there were showers in the exercise room, which he’d use as soon as he had something to change into.

Dagmar did not possess an assistant who would buy clothes for her. She needed to do a laundry and was wearing yesterday’s clothes. She’d thought she’d at least had clean underwear, but apparently she’d miscounted.

“Have you heard anything from the police,” Dagmar asked, “about who did it and why? ”

“The police,” said Charlie, “do not confide in me. But I overheard some of them talking to Murdoch-they said they didn’t get the call early enough to track the killer with their camera drones, so nobody knows who he is or where the hell he went. We looked at the security cams and found out that the one on the door didn’t see anything, and the one at the parking lot entrance saw only the top of the guy’s helmet-so the police are fucking out of luck.”

Charlie waved a listless arm as he spoke, and then let it fall. Dagmar looked at his supine figure.

“Do you need coffee or something? ” she asked.

“Coffee’s all I’ve had for the last dozen hours,” Charlie said. “I can’t look at food right now. The sight of it makes me-well, it doesn’t make me sick, it just makes me not want food.”

“Yeah,” Dagmar said. “I know what you mean.”

She was floating on coffee as well, quarts and quarts of the stuff, and the only food she’d eaten was a piece of dry toast she’d choked down with a handful of vitamins. Unlike Charlie, she’d gotten home the previous night, but she’d barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes she saw a blood-spattered Austin lying on the blacktop, mouth slack and open, the Yankees cap rolled off his head and lying by his hand.

Do you think you might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder? he’d asked.

Her answer had been less than serious, but she’d give a different one now. She’d seen dreadful things in Indonesia, but she’d had the consolation of going home afterward and looking at them from a safe distance.

The atrocities were no longer at arm’s length. They were right in her lap.

“Murdoch asked me,” Dagmar said, “if Austin had any enemies. And when I said he didn’t, they didn’t believe me.”

“Would you? ” Charlie’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “They asked me if he had any connection to organized crime.”

Dagmar was overwhelmed by a feeling of disgust at the question.

“Christ,” she said, “that’s stupid.”

Charlie gave her an irritated look.

“It was a drive-by shooting,” he said. “A contract killing, most likely. Murdoch was only asking the obvious questions.”

Dagmar felt herself dig in her heels. Austin was not some kind of mafioso or drug dealer, and he didn’t deal with them, and any investigation aimed in that direction was not only wrong, it was a waste of the time that could be spent finding the killer.

“If it was a contract killing,” she said, “they hit the wrong man.”

An idea brushed against her mind, but she was too weary to catch at it, and it faded.

“Listen,” she said. “We’ve got a problem.”

Charlie turned again to Pinky and the Brain, gazed at them bleakly, then closed his eyes.

“Oh yeah? ” he said. “Is it important? ”

“I’m afraid so.” She gathered her strength, then spoke. “A video of the killing turned up on Video Us, along with pictures of the shooter. They were taken with a zoom lens from-I don’t know-across the highway, maybe.”

Charlie’s eyes were wide open and staring at her. “Do the police know? ”

“I called Murdoch and gave him the URL. I had to explain about the game-I don’t think he quite understood it.”

“If they catch the guy,” Charlie judged, “what Murdoch understands doesn’t matter. Who took the pictures? ”

“A new gamer who uses the handle Consuelo. But I think she’s a sock puppet for someone like Hermes or Joe Clever-one of our Dumpster divers.”

“Jesus.” Charlie sagged in his chair again. “At least one of those bastards finally did something useful.”

“It means we’re being stalked by someone pretty serious,” Dagmar said.

Charlie flapped a hand. “Who cares? We’ve been stalked before.”

“But not by a contract killer,” Dagmar said. “If we look in the rearview mirror and see someone following us, is it Joe Clever or is it somebody with a gun? ”

Charlie gave her an unreadable look. “We are not the targets here,” he said.

“Crazy people exist,” Dagmar said. “None of the people we work or play with are exactly models of middle-American thought and behavior.” She banged a hand on the arm of her chair. “Someone killed Austin, for Christ’s sake!”