Virtual Destruction

CHAPTER 39

As Paige spun the corner into the strip mall parking lot during the Thursday late-dinner rush, Craig gripped the door of the forest-green MG. He made no comment about her driving, since he had no particular desire to walk home.

He scoped the shopping center, spotting a waffle palace and a Japanese restaurant, but Paige drove past them to the back of the mall. “Where are we going?” he finally asked, afraid of her answer.

“One of my favorite places,” she answered, then came to a sudden stop in front of a small storefront with a large, colorful scrolled sign over the door. LYONS BREWERY.

Though it was a Thursday night and just past the supper hour, dozens of cars already filled the spaces. The thumping strains of loud jazz music reverberated through the walls.

He squinted at the sign. “Paige, I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight. I thought we were going to talk about the case, not go out on a date.”

She raised her eyebrows, but he couldn’t tell if she was amused or angry. “A date? Don’t get ahead of yourself, buddy. Come on, this’ll be a great place to talk.”

He followed her through the glass door. A posterboard sign taped above the handle pleaded “Save the Ales!”

Paige had changed into a pair of jeans that complimented her figure and a mint-green blouse that rippled slowly as she walked. Inside, the band had already started a new song, played through amplifiers that must have been designed for a large stadium rather than a small bar.

“I won’t be able to hear what you’re saying!” he said, leaning closer and raising his voice.

“Neither will anybody else.”

He looked smug. “Then this is a date.”

She led him to one of the tables, sturdy monstrosities made of dark wood and marred from years of hard use. The place had been outfitted like an old British pub, with colorful foreign flags draped in streamers across the ceiling.

The bar itself was long and crowded, as two bartenders hustled to fill a constant babble of orders. The wall bristled with a dizzying array of tap spigots from dozens of microbreweries. Hanging above the bar, a green slateboard listed four columns of beers Craig had never heard of.

“What kind do you like?” Paige asked.

Craig felt at a loss. “Heineken,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.

Paige looked at him in distaste. “Oh, please!” Craig looked up and noticed a ceiling fan draped with Yuppie neckties that had been tied into nooses, strangling bottles of popular beers — Coors, Budweiser, Corona, Heineken. “Try something special, Craig. They’ve got everything here.”

“Okay,” he said, overloaded with choices chalked on the green slateboard. “How about something dark? Do they have any dark beers?”

Paige laughed. “Let me get you one. Go sit down at a table.” She approached the bar like a combat commander trying to take a hill.

Moments later she returned with two pints, a rich amber beer for herself and a thick black substance that looked as if it had been brewed in the tar pits. He blinked in amazement as she handed it to him. He raised his voice, looking down at the beer. “Did you bring me a spoon?”

She laughed. “St. Stans Dark Altbier. Guaranteed to be the chewiest beer you’ll ever have in your life.”

He took a sip and grimaced because that was what she seemed to expect him to do. But as he rolled the rich, chocolatey-tasting beer around in his mouth, Craig realized how delicious it was. “What are you having?” he asked.

She took a sip and closed her eyes before answering. “Best beer in the world. Red Nectar Ale.” He hadn’t heard of it, but he nodded in agreement.

She sat down across from him, propped her elbows on the scarred wooden table, and leaned closer. “Let’s brainstorm, Kay-O?” Her change of subject jarred him. “That’s what we came here for. This isn’t a date, after all.”

“Right,” he said, unconvinced.

“What about Diana Unteling?” she asked, plowing ahead. “Sounds like she’s got plenty of skeletons in her closet.”

Craig took a small sip of his beer. “You’re really getting into this, Miss Detective.”

Paige ignored him and persisted. “Do you really believe she killed Michaelson?”

“She could have gotten the HF from any chemical supply place,” Craig pointed out. “She didn’t need access to the plutonium building.”

“That’s beside the point,” Paige said.

Craig nodded slowly. “I know. All right, I keep coming back to Gary Lesserec and those telephone calls of his. If he’s working overtime for Nintendo or something, it’s none of my business. At least not as part of this investigation. What has it got to do with the murder? There has to be some kind of connection. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Paige took a long, long drink of her beer, and Craig sipped his again, rolling it around in his mouth. “Think about what Lesserec does. What he does best.”

“Virtual reality stuff,” Craig said.

“And if you were him, think how tempting it would be to sell what you know, the systems you’ve developed, the classified information for a real VR system, more real than real. Toy and game companies would be in line ten deep to get their hands on your patents. Just imagine, say, Disneyland mass-producing virtual reality chambers like the one in T Program.”

Craig took a big swallow of his thick beer just as the band ceased playing. The silence rang in his ears. He thought of amusement parks, arcades with chambers equivalent to the one Michaelson and Lesserec had developed. Three-dimensional, tactile virtual reality chambers that required no suits, no goggles, just people standing in a room and experiencing the ultimate adventure. Like the Holodeck on Star Trek.

“But the Livermore VR chamber might have killed a man,” Craig said. “What if it’s too real?”

Paige stared at him, and he felt swallowed up in those incredibly blue eyes. “You sure you want to be the guinea pig in the explosives demonstration tomorrow?” she asked. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m worried, too,” he said. “I’m not stupid. But I think that’s the only way we’re going to catch Lesserec in his games. It’s a risk I have to take.”

Paige set her empty pint glass down on the table. “Drink up, Craig. I need another one.”

He took a too-large swallow, feeling the dark beer burn as it went down. He looked up and stared at the beer bottles swinging on their necktie nooses.

Craig suddenly knew, without a doubt, that he was going to have a hangover when he arrived for the big demonstration in the morning.