Play To Kill aka Shoot To Thrill

Annie gaped at him. 'Sweet Jesus, Harley, you've lost your mind. We can't do that.'

'Why not?'

'First of all, it would probably incite an international incident. Second of all, we would surely end up in those orange jumpsuits.'

Roadrunner was smirking at Harley. 'Besides, dipshit, do you know how many servers there are in this country alone, let alone the world? You might as well try to empty the Pacific Ocean with a teaspoon.'

Harley scowled back. 'Okay, so maybe shutting down servers isn't the answer. My point is, our lawbreaking has always been in proportion with whatever crime we're trying to solve. But the crime is escalating, and so we have to, too. Laws don't keep up with technology, and those laws deserve to be broken.'

'I agree with you, Harley,' Grace said quietly. 'The problem is, there will always be criminals out there, whether or not we shut down servers or compromise the anonymity networks that protect them. All we can do is try to keep up, and help the cops make an example of the criminals we do catch.'

'Pretty ironic that four people who repeatedly break the law spend so much time fighting crime,' Annie said, scrutinizing a chip in her new manicure.

'Did I hear something about breaking laws?' Gino's voice preceded him into the room, along with Magozzi and Smith.

Harley chuckled. 'Just international law. Nothing you need to worry about, buddy.'

'How's it going with the surveillance footage?' Magozzi addressed the room, but his eyes were fixed on Grace.

'Hi, Magozzi. The program is running now.'

'Pull up some chairs, darlings,' Annie drawled. 'We've got some time to kill.'

Ten minutes later, Roadrunner let out a whoop and Harley started laughing so hard, he doubled over, and everybody in the room descended on Roadrunner's computer.

'What is it?'

Harley took a few seconds to catch his breath. 'We got a match,' he pointed to the enhanced picture of one of the kids from the surveillance tape. The program had pulled up a second picture from MySpace. 'Can you believe it? This kid was smart enough to use anonymity software that's so complicated, you practically need two brains just to install and config it, but there he is, right on MySpace, full name, city, and state. What a dumbass.' He looked at Magozzi. 'How many Kyle Zellicksons do you think live in Minneapolis?'

Magozzi smiled. 'Pull up the white pages and we'll find out.'

Chapter Thirty-five

'Oh my goodness.' John Smith slid into the middle of the Caddie's backseat and started playing with all the electronic controls at his disposal. The back windows went up and down; the rear AC fan went on and off; and some really annoying rap blared out of the back speakers before he figured out how to shut it off. 'I don't know what this orange button does.'

'Lumbar support,' Gino said, snapping his shoulder harness with a proprietary click, as if he thought absolutely nothing of this kind of ride. 'But you won't get it in the middle. Right side, right seat, left side, left seat. The middle passenger suffers. It's kind of a junker.'

Magozzi closed his lips on a smile and backed out of Harley's driveway.

'Is this standard for MPD, or just Homicide?'

'Confiscated from a drug dealer,' Magozzi said, toughing down on the accelerator because Gino was a corrupting influence and made him want to show off. 'Gino bribed one of the garage evidence guys so we had sweet wheels while ours were being fixed.'

What do you usually drive?'

'A tacky brown sedan with no heat and no AC and enough get-up-and-go to get up and fall down.'

'I see. So what's the bribe for this kind of transportation?'

'Gino's wife's lasagna. She'd cook your heart out.'

'Hmm.' John stretched his arms out over the backseat. 'What are the chances of a retired Federal agent tucking into your department?'

Magozzi shrugged. 'We've always had a little problem with the Feds. The SAC here is pretty much of an asshole.'

'And it's a tough gig,' Gino added. 'No picnic. They put me on the dunk tank at the MPD festival last year.'

'What's a dunk tank?'

'That would be man's ultimate humiliation. You sit on this little seat over a tank of water, and the public throws balls at a target that tips the seat so you fall in. If the seat's high enough above the water, the impact flattens your balls.'

John thought about that for a minute. 'Are you serious?'

'I am.'

Magozzi squealed the Caddie's rubber at the turn off Snelling onto Lexington. You want the lead on questioning these kids?'

Smith shrugged. 'Your city, your precinct.'

'I think the Feds trump the cops on terrorism.'

'That is where the working-together part comes in. Besides, when it comes to terrorism, I'd let a Brownie troop take down a possible witness if they wanted.'

Gino turned to look at John in the backseat. 'You're starting to talk like a cop.'

'I'm practicing so I can get lasagna and a Cadillac.'

'Good God, Leo, are you listening to this guy? A week in the Midwest and he's starting to get funny.'

John closed his eyes. Another item for the slippery-slope list. Violating Bureau policy, violating Federal law, consuming alcohol on duty, and now stepping away from stern and proper agent demeanor. He was shedding pieces of who he was, who he had always been, like a dog with mange. He cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and put on his Bureau face. 'I am also certain that both of you have more experience interrogating juveniles. We don't get many offenders that young at the Federal level.'

'They're not juvies,' Magozzi reminded him. 'Eighteen, both of them.'

'Barely. I am also a little uncomfortable questioning these boys in particular. Technically, we don't have a great deal to support their involvement.'

'Bullshit,' Gino snorted. 'Little bastards are in this so deep we're going to have to rip their balls off and stuff them in their ears to get them to talk. And personally, I'm looking forward to that.'

Magozzi caught a glance of John's alarmed look in the rearview mirror. 'Gino hasn't done that in a really long time,' he said genially.

The house was a surprise – one of the largest in a new development of McMansions people bought on credit to impress their neighbors with how much money they supposedly had. Magozzi knew the inside by heart. Lots of electronics, lots of granite and upscale appliances in a kitchen they never used, lots of bills hidden away in a drawer somewhere. People with real money never bought places like this, because there was something tacky that shone through all the pretense of luxury like a Target T-shirt under a cashmere sweater.

The doorbell was a melody – didn't anybody have normal doorbells anymore? – and whoever was inside took a while answering. Magozzi took point, as always; Gino was off to the side, and John Smith hung back a little, ceding the lead to the cops, who did this kind of thing a lot more than he did.

The man who finally came to the door was dressed in what old movies had taught him wealthy men wore at home in the evening. In his peripheral vision Magozzi saw Gino cover his mouth quickly, and he didn't blame him. The idiot was wearing one of those silly shiny robes over his white shirt and suit pants. 'Good evening, sir,' he said respectfully, flipping open his badge case and holding it up. 'Are you Mr. Zellickson?'

'Yes, Officer. What can I do for you?'

'Detective Magozzi, MPD. This is my partner, Detective Rolseth, and this is Special Agent John Smith of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Is your son Kyle at home?'