“Alright,” he says. He pats me once on the shoulder before getting back in the helicopter. He turns around to the pilot and twirls his finger. The rotors start spinning, faster and faster, and then the helicopter takes off. The trash can falls over again and this time a cop doesn’t bother to put it back in its place. The cops disperse, no longer needing to cordon off the tiny park from lookie-loos.
I call for a car while Mel and Ed commiserate with their counterparts. They all smoke cigarettes until our Uber arrives. We crowd in and head back across the bridge to Dumbo.
“He ditched his security detail,” says Ed. “But we’ll find him. Don’t worry. He’ll be safe.”
“I kind of hope you don’t find him,” I say. “I kind of hope he’s unfindable.”
I text Pez and tell him to meet me at my office. I call my favorite Indian restaurant in Jackson Heights and order chicken tikka masala, lamb korma, vegetable biryani, and a big plate of naan to be delivered. My stomach is growling. My hangover is basically gone and I am hungry as hell.
Pez is waiting in my office when I arrive.
“You look better,” he says. “You got some sleep. Good. I was worried about you.”
“Listen,” I say. “I need you to figure out another very important mystery for me. And I need you to do it basically by tomorrow.”
“What do you need to know, kid?” asks Pez.
“I need to know if my dad killed my mom,” I say. “I need to know if he is some kind of psychopathic murderer and if this is all his fucked-up revenge from beyond the grave. He has moved onto the top suspect list.”
“Jesus,” says Pez after staring at me for a while. “You aren’t kidding.”
“No, I’m not,” I say. “There are only three of us left in the game now. I managed to warn Bernard before he triggered some kind of death trap, but the other two aren’t returning my calls.”
“Your dad didn’t kill your mom,” says Pez. “There’s your answer. Okay?”
“How do you know?” I ask. “Do you know that for a fact?”
He doesn’t say anything. He sighs, looking at the desk. I feel like he wants to get mad at me. I feel like he wants to tell me off for even insinuating something so insane, so cruel. His brow furrows and he starts to get red under the collar. But he is saved by the arrival of the food. The weekend building assistant, Jennie, sets up a giant spread on a table behind us, and Pez is momentarily mesmerized by the warm spicy funk of cardamom and curry.
We fix ourselves giant plates of chicken, lamb, and rice. I pour us bourbons. He nods at his drink like an old friend.
“I knew your mom and dad very well,” says Pez, after taking his first bite and chewing it thoughtfully. “They loved each other very much, in their own awful way. That’s how everybody does it, you know. They do the best they can. It isn’t ever easy. They had five children together. You have to like each other to have five children with each other, don’t you? There’s just no getting around the logistics of that.”
“I’m not sure my mother ever wanted to have one child, much less five,” I say. “I don’t think she liked being a mother very much. In fact, she hated it. Sort of with a rare psychotic fervor, in fact.”
“She doted on you all,” says Pez. “She fretted and worried about you and she gave you the best parts of her. Especially you. You are so much like her, you know? You have your dad’s head for business, but you bend people to your will like she did. You both had Prescott wrapped around your finger. And you both had a hard time respecting the men who chose to love you.”
“I don’t need any therapy,” I say. “I need answers. I want to know for sure, one way or the other, whether my father killed my mother. You are going to find out for me, or at least tell me what you know. You are going to tell me every dirty secret that my father ever kept from his children.”
Pez shakes his head in defeat.
“Well, I do know by now that your father was involved at least on some level with the planning of this game,” he begins. “He was an integral part from the beginning, and I have tracked down that he was the one who stole people right out from under Alistair and redirected them to begin developing the game using already existing technology.”
“How do you know this?” I ask.
“I interviewed some of the engineers who did the developing in house,” says Pez. “They finally cracked. Members of Alistair’s team. They said that the only person who ever dealt with them directly was your father. He wouldn’t tell them why they were working for him. He swore them to secrecy to the grave. However, they broke down and told me the truth when I explained what their work was being used for. That Henley was dead.”
“Did you tell the police to interview them?” I ask.
“Yeah, and those detectives said they would ‘get right on it.’” He curves his fingers into air quotes and shrugs. “I didn’t hear very much enthusiasm. I don’t think they’re taking any of this very seriously.”
All of a sudden, the muffled yet unmistakable sound of the Nylo theme song emanates from my pocket. I am seized with an overwhelming sense of dread.
“Henley’s funeral is tomorrow,” I say, warding off whatever is coming from the game phone, hoping that if I don’t answer it, I won’t have to deal with
