20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(29)

“A jumble of letters gets you to a point. Your connection’s not so quick because you’re bouncing all over the world, and that means you’re not going to have the speed to load a site with fancy graphics. Then it’s like you need to be in the secret circle to know what site to go to. So if this is just an archaic video game, why the mystery?”

“So a mystery wrapped in an enigma,” Conklin said.

I said, “That wheel is a gambling device, right? Are bets being made for prizes?”

I reached down and moved the curser over the wheel, and it started to rotate and make a faint clicking sound. When the wheel stopped, a number flashed at the top of the page.

“So look, Mike. I just got points?”

“Points. Status. A better chance than a different player? My initial feeling was that this site is in disguise for something illegal. Drugs. Or some kind trafficking. But I was able to make out some of the encrypted chat. The name of the website is the same as the game on it: Moving Targets. And then I got a different feeling.”

“What? What kind of feeling?”

“Don’t hold me to it, because … well, because. I’m still just turning things over, but I think Moving Targets is a website for hitters. It seems that many of them, from the slang they use, are military or police. The kills they were chatting about could have been your drug dealers. Lots of excitement about the precision of the attacks, about the ‘scores.’ At least that’s the vibe on the site.”

I was almost panting with anxiety and anticipation. Had Stempien found the key to the shootings in the Barkleys’ computer?

“Can you tell which of the Barkleys was playing?”

“From the activity on their laptop, they both played. But was it just a game? Or was it reflected in real life?”

“Can you figure it out?” I asked.

He was quiet for a moment, thinking about it.

“We’ll see,” he finally said. “No guarantees.”





CHAPTER 44





CONKLIN HELD THE elevator door for me, then reached over and pressed the button for the seventh floor.

I stared up at the row of floor numbers as I collected my scattered thoughts. A couple of minutes from now we would be talking to Randi White Barkley and her attorney, Lynn Selby. We had a hint of leverage, knowledge that someone in the Barkley household played a suspicious video game. It wasn’t much and it was late in coming. Still.

I played it out inside my head, our ADA addressing the judge, saying, Your Honor, we’re charging Miranda White Barkley with shooting two rounds over law enforcement’s heads and possibly playing a violent video game.

Yeah, right.

The doors slid open, and we walked out onto the worn gray tiles and crossed to Bubbleen Waters, desk sergeant and local karaoke singer of note. We exchanged greetings, and Sergeant Waters presented the log. I signed us in, and we followed a guard down a long corridor ringing with inmate voices and the clanging of doors and the echoing sounds of our footsteps.

We stopped at the gate to the small, barred room with a table and four chairs in the center, and the guard let us in.

Randi didn’t look up. She wore the standard orange jumpsuit and cuffs and had braided her hair into one long plait hanging down her back. She’d gotten help, no doubt, as her wounded arm was bound in a bulky and conspicuous bandage.

Randi’s attorney, Lynn Selby, was a public defender with a future. She was blond, with pale-pink lipstick and a light-gray suit, but I knew her, and although she looked like a pussycat, she had a bulldog’s bite.

There were stiff greetings all around, and after we’d taken our seats, Selby said sweetly, “Assuming there are no new charges against Mrs. Barkley, your forty-eight hours expires in an hour.”

“How’re you feeling, Randi?” I asked.

“Peachy,” she said.

I smiled at the sarcasm.

Selby said, “Please address your questions to me, and quickly please. I want to get my client out of here.”

Randi White had done two tours in Afghanistan. She’d been trained to withstand interrogation, to give up nothing but her name, rank, and serial number. And along with her military programming, she also had a guard dog of a lawyer to protect her from us.

I said to Selby, “Lynn. Randi knocked out her bedroom window and threw two rounds at our marked car. She knew we were police. That’s reckless endangerment to start with. She has admitted to providing cover so that her husband, Leonard Barkley, could escape. He’s a suspect in a double homicide. That makes Randi an accessory.”

“Come on, Lindsay. Accessory to helping her husband run away? He’s a psychological mess due to his time in our armed services. She fired blanks. Over your heads. On purpose. You know that. Furthermore, Randi White Barkley is the only person who was injured in this assault on her home and on her person. That’s a lawsuit against the city waiting for me to dictate it to my transcriber.”

“Take it down a notch, will you, Lynn? I haven’t asked her a question yet.”

“Go ahead, Sergeant.”

As we’d planned, I said, “Rich, why don’t you take it from here?”





CHAPTER 45





MY EASYGOING, GOOD-DOIN’ partner got comfortable in the metal chair, linked his long fingers together, and placed his hands on the table.