Deadly Web (21 page)

Every wall in the room was plastered with printed screenshots from Dragonworld. The floor was a mess—dirty clothes everywhere, bedsheets crumpled in the corner, at least three empty cereal bowls in various locations. Tim Raffield was sitting at his desk, in front of his computer, the monitor displaying Dragonworld’s interface.

He couldn’t have been more than eleven years old.

Officer Bert barged in after Jacob and Mitchell, and stared.

“What?” Tim Raffield said in a nasal, high pitched voice.

“So…” Officer Bert said. “Detective Cooper, I guess you need our assistance arresting this suspect?”

Jacob holstered his gun.

“Maybe we can get some tear gas, I’m pretty sure we have some in the squad car,” Officer Bert suggested helpfully. “He looks as if he’s about to resist.”

“Tear gas?” The boy’s eyes opened wide; his voice became even higher than before. “I’m not about to resist!”

Jacob suddenly felt very weary.
Finding the wrong guy
was his least favorite part of the job.

“Or do you want us to use a taser? You know, just to make sure. I guess you guys back at Glenmore Park like to play it safe, huh?”

Jacob turned around to face Officer Bert.

“I could call SWAT,” Bert said. “We don’t want to take any chances here.”

“Thank you, Officer Bert,” Jacob said. “You’ve been very helpful.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to smile; the disappointment weighed heavily on him.

Officer Bert left, and Jacob heard him tell Officer Vargas “Those Glenmore Park detectives need backup to arrest an eleven-year-old…” The front door slammed shut behind the two patrol officers, and the rest of the sentence was mercifully unintelligible.

“Are you Tim Raffield?” Jacob asked.

“Yes,” the nasally voice piped. Tim’s mother barged in, a furious look on her face, the oven mitt still on her hand.

“How dare you intimidate my son like that!” she screamed, shaking her flower-pattern-covered hand threateningly. “I’m calling my attorney right now!”

“Ma’am,” Mitchell said, his voice calm and sweet. “There’s no need to be angry. A woman was murdered. Your son is a crucial witness. We just want to get his statement.”

Jacob was well aware that, in the realms of looks and charm, Mitchell easily outranked him. However, it still rankled to see how quickly the woman’s face softened, how fast the oven mitt of death was lowered.

“Oh,” she said. “I see. Well, as long as I’m present, I have no problem with that. I… when did he witness anything? At school?”

“We’re not at liberty to say, ma’am,” Mitchell said with a small, secretive smile on his face. The smile seemed to indicate that if he could, he would—and, in fact, he might call later to fill her in on the details. The woman seemed to relax even more.

“Tim,” Jacob said. “Do you play Lord Vaderon in Dragonworld?”

“Yeah,” Tim said.

“Do you know a player named Dona Aliysa?”

“No.”

“A character named Willow Hannigan, maybe?” Jacob asked.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I know Willow.”

“Did she file a complaint about you?”

“Yeah, but it was a bogus complaint,” Tim said, his voice wavering in anger and fear. “I wasn’t rude or anything.”

“You threatened Dona’s life several times,” Jacob said. “You even said you would find where she lived and strangle her.”

“Now look here!” the woman said. “This has to be a mistake. My son would never say such a thing. I’m calling my attorney, and I want you to get out!”

“Ma’am, we can continue this interview at our police station, back in Glenmore Park, or we can do it here,” Jacob said impatiently. “Calm down. We’re not going to arrest your son for murder.”

The woman seemed about to slap Jacob with her oven mitt. She huffed angrily, her face becoming red in patches. Jacob could see the resemblance to her son. Finally, she took a step back, and sat on Tim’s bed.

Jacob turned back to Tim. “I have a formal complaint about you,” he said. “There are chat logs.”

“I just
said
that stuff, I didn’t mean it! Everyone says things they don’t mean in Dragonworld,” Tim said.

That was probably partly true, Jacob thought. “Can you tell us what led to your threats?” he asked.

“She kept killing my warlock,” Tim said, tears springing into his eyes. “All the time! She and her asshole friend!”

“We’ve heard that you kept challenging her to fight,” Mitchell said.

“Yeah! Like a one-on-one fight. But he kept barging in, healing her. It was unfair! I didn’t have anyone healing me!”

“Who exactly are you talking about?” Jacob asked.

“That priest she always hangs around with. Brother Florentius, I think he’s called. He’s like… her boyfriend or something.”

“When was the last time you saw Willow?”

“I don’t know, a few days ago. She killed my warlock again, so I cursed at her a bit. Then she filed that complaint against me.”

“You haven’t seen her since then?”

“No, I’ve been on an ongoing quest in Granoldin. It’s in a completely different zone than the one she hangs around in lately.”

“Where were you two nights ago?” Jacob asked. The woman instantly stood up, her entire body tense.

“He was here!” she screamed, just as Tim said, “I was here.”

“Why aren’t you at school right now?” Jacob asked.

“He’s homeschooled!” the woman said sharply.

Great homeschooling, Jacob thought.

“Okay.” Jacob exchanged a look with Mitchell. “Thank you for your time. If you recall anything…” He hesitated.

Mitchell drew out his own card, gave it to the woman.

“Please, give Detective Mitchell a call,” Jacob finished.

They left the room; the woman followed them, hissing, “I’ll be calling my attorney about this. I have a friend who’s a journalist. I—”

“Mrs. Raffield,” Jacob said. “Have you ever spoken with Tim about the birds and the bees?”

“What?” she asked, momentarily taken aback.

“Did you talk to him about how kids are born? You know… When a daddy and a mommy love each other very much—”

“How dare you—”

“It’s just that he uses the word ‘fucking’ a lot in his chat,” Jacob said, pulling out the printouts of the chat logs and handing them to the woman. “And ‘suck my cock.’ Better make sure he knows what he’s talking about. Also, ‘double-fisted cunt’ and ‘asshole-licking bitch.’ You should discuss that in your mother-to-son talk as well. Good day, ma’am.” He touched his hat and walked out the front door.

Mrs. Raffield stayed blissfully mute until they got into their car, standing in the doorway of her house, holding the small stack of pages limply with her oven mitt.

This time, Bernard and Hannah decided to talk to Tarp in the police station. A man like him, rich and connected, was too much at ease in his own home. But get that man to the police station, past the entrance barrier, get an officer to frisk him and walk him through corridors packed with armed cops, with lowlife crooks, with prostitutes and drug dealers… and his self-confidence began to waver. He began to question his connections.

Would they really help him if he was in trouble? Sure, he’d played poker once with the mayor, but did the man even remember his name? Could his money get him out of a serious pickle? It could get him an expensive attorney, but even the rich sometimes went to prison. Expensive attorneys were not
get out of jail free
cards.

Roland Tarp had agreed to come to the police station to tie up some loose ends. But now, as he sat in the interrogation room, waiting for Hannah and Bernard to walk in, he clearly looked as if he regretted his decision. Hannah and Bernard watched him on the monitor as he checked his watch for the third time. They waited another moment, then walked inside and sat in front of him.

Bernard leaned forward and cleared his throat. They had decided that this time he would do the interrogating, using Tarp’s discomfort with black cops against him.

“Mr. Tarp,” he said. “Last time we met, you told us you ran into Frank Gulliepe by accident in the restaurant. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do,” Tarp said. “I would hardly forget something like that. I got thrown out.”

“Except it wasn’t by accident, was it, Tarp?” Bernard said.

“What?”

“You knew he would be there, didn’t you?”

“Of course not. How would I—”

“You had him followed, Tarp, don’t lie to us. You already told us you hired a private detective. He didn’t only get you Frank’s name, did he? He followed him around!”

“Absolutely not—”

“Was that your plan all along, Tarp? To have him followed until the right moment? Until he was alone and you had a tight alibi? Did you pay someone to kill him? Or did you fake your alibi? Which one was it, Tarp?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Tarp looked at Hannah, his face begging for her to stop this.

Hannah stared back at him calmly, her eyes narrowing slightly with each question.

“Your detective told you that Frank would be in the restaurant, didn’t he, Tarp? That’s how you knew where to go. And he also told you that Frank was back in his apartment that night he got stabbed, didn’t he? And then—”

“Okay!” Tarp shouted, “You’re right. My detective followed Frank around! Happy now?”

Bernard sat back, waiting for him to go on. The silence lengthened.

“I wanted him followed,” Tarp finally said. “I wanted to know everything there was to know about him. Do you know why? Because I wanted to destroy him.” Tarp’s fists tightened on the table. “I found out where he lived, where he worked. I was in the process of getting him fired. I was also getting some great pictures which I was planning on sending to all his friends. Give him a taste of his own medicine.”

Tarp gritted his teeth in what was almost a snarl. “No one messes with my wife, Detective. No one.”

“What happened that day in the restaurant?” Hannah asked in a cold tone.

“I lost my temper,” Tarp said. “I was monitoring my wife’s social networks—she was afraid to check them. That’s what that piece of shit did to her. I was monitoring them and he posted a new link. Another Photoshopped image. It showed her being… she was with a dog. I called the detective, asked where Frank was. The detective gave me the name of the restaurant. I drove over there, barged in, and threatened Frank to stay away from my wife. They kicked me out. It was embarrassing. I called off the tail after that happened. I had enough on Frank to make his life a living hell, and he stopped bothering my wife.”

“Except you didn’t call off the tail,” Bernard said. “You hired someone to kill Frank, didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Tarp said, looking at Bernard. “I’m a businessman, not a criminal. How would I find someone to kill for me? Look, you don’t believe me? Ask the detective I hired. He’s an ex-cop, maybe you even know him. A guy named Adler?”

Bernard and Hannah looked at each other. Bernard’s heart sunk. So that was why the blue Ford had sounded so familiar.

“I want to call my lawyer,” Tarp said.

“Feel free,” Bernard said. “But please do it outside the station.”

“I’m free to go?”

“You were always free to go, Tarp,” Bernard said.

As the door closed behind Tarp, Bernard sighed deeply.

“Jurgen Adler,” he said. “Fuck my life.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Who should we check out next?” Mitchell asked. “The guy who was voted out of the guild sounds like maybe—”

“I don’t think there’s any point in following those leads,” Jacob said. “Who kills because of a game? This is pointless. We know who did it, right?”

Mitchell glanced at his partner. Jacob was driving with both hands on the wheel, a sure sign he was frustrated. When he was relaxed, he’d hold the wheel with one hand, the other hand resting on the window sill.

“We have a pretty solid guess,” Mitchell said carefully.

“There’s only one guy,” Jacob said. “Our victim didn’t really see anyone else. He has a criminal record. We need to focus on finding evidence on her boyfriend.”

“Her friend and her sister don’t think it was him,” Mitchell said.

They drove a bit in silence.

“We can get him to the station,” Mitchell said. “Let him sweat a bit in the interrogation room—”

“He won’t sweat,” Jacob said. “You saw how he reacted the first time. He’ll lawyer up in two seconds flat. And we have nothing on him. Nothing.” His fingers drummed on the steering wheel.

“We can call that guy Tim said hung around with Dona all the time,” Mitchell suggested. “Maybe she told him something.”

“Good idea,” Jacob said.

Mitchell dialed Trish Geller, Dona’s friend. She answered immediately. He asked her about Brother Florentius and she said, sure, he was part of their guild. His real name was Henry Konner, and she had his phone number.

Mitchell wrote down Henry’s number, his handwriting shaky from the car’s vibrations. The number had a Kentucky area code. He thanked Trish and called Henry.

“Hello?” a hoarse voice answered.

“Henry Konner?” Mitchell said.

“Yeah?”

“My name is Detective Mitchell Lonnie.”

“This is about Dona, right?” Henry asked. “Trish told me.”

“Yes, we were wondering if you had a few moments to talk…”

“Sure,” Henry said. “Anything to help you arrest him.”

“Arrest who?” Mitchell asked.

“Her killer. Her damn boyfriend. Blayze.”

Jurgen Adler loved to see the confusion in people’s eyes when he introduced himself. The name Jurgen invoked images of a blond man from Germany or Norway, probably six feet tall, wearing a dark coat, talking in short, heavy sentences. It definitely didn’t make people think of a short, constantly smiling, black-haired Chinese man. Yet that exactly was what Jurgen was.

He was only half Chinese, to be fair; the other half was indeed Norwegian. His father, Sven Adler, had actually been a tall, blond man who spoke in short, heavy sentences. But his mother was Chinese and, despite his name, Jurgen was one hundred percent his mother’s son.