Private (Private 1)

“I’m with you. I’m here.”

“Okay. Imagine a player whose screen name is Scylla bragging about playing a real live combat game called Freek Night. He describes it as ‘warriors versus sluts.’ ”

“In real life.”

“Bravo, Jack. And the night Marguerite Esperanza was killed, Scylla—who’s actual name is Jason—took a swan dive off his terrace. I found a story in the Times online. A man named Jason Pilser suicided that night.”

“To review,” I said, “a programmer using the name Morbid created a wireless clone program to get into people’s cell phones.”

“Evidence suggests.”

“And he is also a player in this offline combat game called Freek Night?”

“Offline. Very good,” said Sci.

I picked up the cinnamon shaker and said, “And a guy going by the name of Scylla, actually Jason Pilser, the PR guy, was a player in this game. And he killed himself Saturday night—”

“That’s what I’ve got, Jack. It hasn’t all come together yet, but it’s jellin’. There are too many connections to be coincidental. Even dead, Jason Pilser is a lead with legs. I think we’re getting very close.”

“So—be careful?”

“Be extremely careful.”

Chapter 64

BEING EXTREMELY CAREFUL started right here, at Jason Pilser’s apartment building on Burton Way in Beverly Hills. It’s uncommon to find rows of high-end apartment buildings in Beverly Hills but this block was an exception.

The buildings on this side of Burton had terraces and extraordinary views of the hills.

I counted up to the sixth-floor balcony. The sliding doors were closed behind the terrace wall. I said to Sci, “Why would Jason Pilser jump?”

“Remorse, maybe? Nah, I doubt that.”

I’d gathered some information about Pilser in the past few hours. He was twenty-four, an account executive in a notable public relations firm. He had probably earned fifty thousand a year, not bad for a young guy in these tough times, but not the kind of income that would make this address affordable. I smelled “trust fund” or maybe rich, divorced parents.

There was a whoosh of tires as Bobby Petino’s car pulled up to the curb. He got out in his three-thousand-dollar black silk suit and put a card saying that he was here on official business under the windshield wiper.

He said hello to Sci and me, set the car alarm, and said, “A spanking-hot lead at long last. Nice work, Sci. Jack, what did Justine say about this?”

“She’s working the case from another angle. We’re covering it any way we can.”

“Okay. I’m starting to feel cautiously optimistic,” said Petino. “Getting a prickling sensation in my oversized ears.”

We followed Bobby’s ears through the lobby doors and across the black marble floor toward the security desk with its huge and twisted bouquet of exotic flowers. Petino introduced us all to the doorman, Sam Williams, an elderly man in uniform, and showed him the search warrant.

“Has anyone been inside Mr. Pilser’s apartment except the police?” Petino asked Williams.

“Mrs. Costella in six-A took back her ficus tree. I was told to keep the door locked after that and to wait for Mr. Pilser’s mother to arrive from Vancouver.”

I asked, “Did you happen to see Jason Pilser the night he died?”

“Never did. He was home when I came on. I sent up a delivery guy from the drugstore, and at around eleven, Mr. Pilser called down to say he was expecting a few friends.”

“Pilser’s friends,” I said. “Did he mention any names? Did you see them?”

“Nope. Just ‘friends.’ And they must’ve come after my shift ended at midnight. No one is on duty until Ralph comes on at six in the a.m.”

“You have security cameras?” I asked.