Head On: A Novel of the Near Future (Lock In #2)(17)

I put my FBI ID on my threep’s chest screen and pushed my way through the mass, making my way up the steps. The door opened before I could knock and a man in nursing scrubs peered out. “Agent Shane?”

“That’s me.”

The man nodded. “Come inside, please.”

“I’m Alton Ortiz,” the man said, once we were inside. He’d held out his hand for me to shake, and I did. “I was one of Duane’s caretakers.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. It’s been a rough day.”

“I’m sure it has.”

“I know you’re here to see Marla, but she’s busy at the moment.”

“Is she talking to the Philadelphia police?”

“No, she did that earlier. This is a league representative.”

“Hmmm,” I said. The whole point of talking to her now was to do so before the league tried to hush her up. I made a mental note to contact the Philly police and see who was working the death on their end, to see if our stories matched up. “Is it a lawyer?” I asked Ortiz.

“I think so? I know he’s here to talk about her survivor benefits.” Ortiz motioned to a front sitting room. “If you like you can sit here and I’ll let her know you’re waiting.”

“Actually, I’d like to see Mr. Chapman’s room, if that’s all right.”

Oritz seemed to think about this for a moment, then nodded again. “All right,” he said. “The police have already been through it, though.”

“I’m sure they have. Don’t worry, I’ll be unobtrusive.”

Duane Chapman’s room was on the first floor of the town house, where a traditional dining room might be. This made a bit of sense, as the kitchen area could be used as both a storage and sitting area for caretakers. Along the wall were three threeps, one a standard luxury threep, one designed for heavy-duty recreational use, and a gaudy, vaguely ridiculous-looking thing that I recognized as a “formal” threep, something to wear to galas and events. Near the back of the room sat a now empty creche, a model I didn’t recognize.

“It’s Labram,” Ortiz said when I asked him about it. “The company makes them specifically for the league. All the players have one.”

“That’s a very specific endorsement deal,” I said.

Ortiz shook his head. “It’s not that. Labram creches have special systems and monitors to transmit information and to make sure there’s no cheating going on.”

“Is there a lot of that in Hilketa?”

“It’s a professional sport, Agent Shane. Lots of players would give it a shot.”

I nodded to the empty creche. “What about Chapman?”

Ortiz smiled and shook his head. “Naw, man. Not Duane. Duane was straight-edge as they come.” He motioned to an IV bag, unhooked now and dangling by the creche. “He only used league-approved supplements and IVs.”

I walked over and looked at the IV solution bag. Labram was also the brand name on it. “Was Chapman straight-edge outside of his career?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“There are rumors that he was struggling with sobriety.” I motioned my head to a picture on the wall, a portrait of Marla Chapman. “Because of troubles at home.”

Ortiz’s face darkened a bit at this. “I don’t think I need to be talking about that,” he said.

I held up a hand. “I’m not asking because I want to hear the latest gossip. I’m asking because I want to know why your friend died playing a game that shouldn’t have killed him.”

“I’ll let you talk to Marla about that,” Ortiz said, after a minute. “But I’ll tell you this, Agent Shane. I was with Duane most of the time he was awake and all the time he was on the field, practicing or playing. No one would know better than me if he was doping, professionally or recreationally. I saw nothing like that. That wasn’t his thing.”

“So what was his thing?”

“Like I said, I’ll let Marla talk to you about that. Speaking of which, let me see if she’s ready for you.”

I nodded and Ortiz exited, toward the kitchen, where Marla Chapman was talking to the league rep. I took the opportunity to quietly map the room for future examination.

When I was done I drew my attention to Marla Chapman’s photo on the wall. She was young and attractive in a mostly standard American cheerleader way. She was non-Haden, which made it unusual for her to have married someone who was. Most of the time when there was a mixed marriage of this sort, it was because one partner had contracted the disease at some point after the wedding. There was no bar to Hadens and non-Hadens hooking up, dating, or getting married—you’re consenting adults, do what you want and be happy about it—but as with any time partners come from wildly different backgrounds, there are challenges.

And if the rumors were true in this case, the challenges might have been too much for this particular marriage.

Ortiz came back into the room. “Marla will see you now,” he said. I followed him into the kitchen, bumping into the league rep as I entered, and whom Ortiz escorted out of the house. He didn’t seem entirely happy as he exited. But then, seated at the kitchen table, Marla Chapman didn’t seem entirely happy with him. She looked over to me, and the “not entirely happy” theme continued.