“So that’s your brother in there,” says Detective Rutledge. “We are so sorry for your loss.”
“Could you please just tell us what happened to him?” asks Alistair.
Jay and Rutledge look at each other.
“The internal Empire State Building security aren’t sure if it was an accident or not,” says Jay. “But your brother fell forty stories and snapped his neck on the ceiling of one of the elevators.”
“Cage 1,” I blurt out.
“Yes, that’s right,” says Jay. “They are afraid you are going to sue the fuck out of them, frankly.”
“We probably will,” I say.
Angelo Marino looks at me sternly, but I can’t help myself. His gaze then shifts to the detectives and I can see him studying Rutledge and Jay, trying to size them up.
I do the same, wondering what they might want in life and how they might be persuaded to help us to the maximum of their abilities instead of resenting us for our wealth and power. Police detectives have the same chip on their shoulder as other cops about the elite, about their social betters, about people who have chosen any kind of life other than one that brings them into daily contact with criminals and victims. Police detectives are insecure about their intelligence, which is what draws them to the job. They get to feast on the power of knowing things other people don’t know, much like doctors. They get to sadistically withhold and draw out information in order to destabilize the people that they target. They get to be in charge of people who would otherwise despise and ignore them.
In fiction and in media, they are often portrayed as heroic, as above the anodyne concerns that torture the rest of us venal sinners. In real life, they control the chaos of their own lives by controlling other people. Like doctors, they deal with finalities. And like doctors, they are the last people on Earth who should be given this dread responsibility. But by the time you discover this for yourself, it is usually too late. You find yourself up against some dead-eyed detective or surgeon who looks at you like a bug, and you squirm as a reflex, hoping they don’t crush you.
Something odd about these two detectives is that they are both conventionally attractive and they both seem rather easygoing. I’m having a hard time figuring out which of them is more intelligent. I decide to address myself to Detective Jay, merely because he was the first one I encountered. I do this also because his gaze has fallen on me the hardest, and I wonder if he might be feeling some kind of hormonal stirrings that I can bend to my advantage.
“It was my father’s will that all of his children—there are five of us—play a game against each other for his fortune,” I say, getting a subtle nod of approval from Angelo Marino. “In the game, we each get three lives. At the very moment that Henley lost all of his lives, he was killed by this falling elevator. Then the rest of us were sent a video of his death. It can’t be a coincidence. He was murdered. I’m sure of it. I hate to say it, but the likeliest suspect is our own father, which can’t be true because our father died on Sunday.”
The detectives stare blankly at me for a long time. A bell dings at the front of the restaurant and Detective Jay hops up and retrieves his four slices of pizza: two cheese and two chicken bacon ranch. Detective Rutledge cranes his neck to the counter, searching for his own food.
“Did you hear what I just said?” I ask.
“Yeah, we heard you,” says Detective Jay.
“We hear crazy shit all the time,” says Detective Rutledge.
I pull out my game phone and put it on the table. Alistair looks at me and then, reluctantly, pulls out his game phone, too.
“These phones are how the Game Master is supposed to get in touch with us,” I say. “Whoever our father hired as the Game Master is some kind of fucking maniac. None of us are safe.”
“Okay,” says Detective Jay, staring at me blankly.
Detective Rutledge picks up the two game phones and they both turn on, showing our respective character-creation screens. He turns them over and sees our names on the back. He plays with them a little bit, but soon he sees that there isn’t much that can be done with them.
“Pretty neat,” says Detective Rutledge. He hands my phone back to me and then gives Alistair’s phone back to him.
“You aren’t taking this seriously,” I say. “How else do you explain how we knew our brother was dead before you did?”
“Who knows?” says Detective Rutledge. “Maybe you killed him. We don’t even know why he was in the elevator in the first place.”
“Check the footage,” I say. “He was there because we were all supposed to hold these phones up to a box in the ceiling. The box will still be there. Maybe there are fingerprints or something. At the very least, if you check the footage, you will see me and my brothers and sister all getting in the same elevator throughout the day. He was the last one, and I guess he had to sneak in because the building was closed, which is why he was dressed as a janitor.”
“We’ll check the tapes,” says Detective Jay. “But look, honestly, I don’t know what you want us to do here. It looks like an accident. The Empire State Building execs are freaking out, just so you know. Like we said, they’re terrified you’re going to sue them. Now here you are telling us that you think he was murdered by your father. We don’t really know what to say.”
“It wasn’t our father,” I say. “It was this Game
