The 19th Christmas - James Patterson Page 0,43

depleted—emotionally, psychologically, and physically—and they had nothing to show for it.

Brady said, “Bentley, cut to the chase, will you please?”

“Okay, okay. I hardly understand this virtual stuff, but Declan is aces at it. He says the heist has something to do with computer software, a new program or something, manufactured in top secret labs by a company called BlackStar.”

“Not exactly a rock-solid lead, Bentley, but thanks.”

Bentley said, “You said…never mind. Good night, Lieu.”

He took the four steps to the door, then spun around and said, “Lieu, Declan says a guy who is part of this heist is some kind of systems-analyst genius. He kills on the game boards. He calls himself the Low Man’s Brain.”

“I don’t get you, Bentley. I haven’t slept in three days.”

“The Low Man. Loman. Get it?”

“Okay. Now I get it. Go home, Bentley, and tell Declan I said thanks.”

Brady was out of gas. He remembered there was a day-old steak sandwich in the fridge with his name on the wrapper.

He made the trek to the break room, found the sandwich and an unopened bottle of near beer—thank you, Jesus—and brought it all back to his desk.

Maybe it was the protein or the carbs, but when he was halfway through the sandwich, the name BlackStar started ringing a tinny and distant bell. Brady sat upright in his chair, took his mouse in hand, and called up the computer files from the crime scene at the Anthony Hotel.

The photos were numerous, organized chronologically, starting in the hallway. First shots were of the blood spatter, the markers, the bullet holes, the dead man lying in his blood, and the door to 6F hanging by one hinge. The next photos were of Chris Dietz’s body from several angles and then the inside of Dietz’s rented crib.

Brady impatiently clicked through the photos of the half-eaten food, the open closet, the electronics lined up on the coffee table.

He didn’t know enough about electronics to understand the functions of the assortment of small black boxes, but he could read the logo imprinted on two of them. The corporate name had been unfamiliar to him—until Declan’s dad spoke the words five minutes ago.

The gadgets were made by BlackStar VR.

Did that mean something? BlackStar. The Low Man’s Brain. He was at a loss. What would Jacobi do?

Well. He’d just have to ask him.

Chapter 52

Jacobi had his key in the ignition of his car and was thinking about home, bed, and blessed sleep when Brady called and asked him to work a new angle on the Loman case.

If Brady was working, how could Jacobi say no?

“Tell me about it,” he said to Brady.

Brady filled him in on the BlackStar lead and invited Jacobi to work from his comfortable former office on the fifth floor. Jacobi got out of his car and set the alarm. He said, “I’ll use Boxer’s desk. She won’t mind.”

The Homicide bullpen was grim in the daytime, but right now, the flickering fluorescent lights reminded Jacobi of hundreds of late nights working murder cases in this room.

Even after Brady told him all that he knew on this new tip, Jacobi still didn’t get it. Sergeant Bentley’s kid had turned up a possible lead in a chat room—a video gamer with a screen name sounding like Loman hinted that he was part of a crew targeting a computer company. To Jacobi, following up on an anonymous internet tip was like feeling for your glasses under the bed in the dark after a night of drinking.

The odds of finding the glasses were better.

Jacobi adjusted Boxer’s chair, typed her password into her cranky old Dell, and brought up BlackStar Virtual Reality’s website.

He quickly gathered that BlackStar was privately held, had its corporate headquarters in San Francisco, and employed a couple of thousand employees on a modern campus in the Presidio. The company also had dozens of manufacturing plants and offices worldwide. As Jacobi clicked around the site, he learned that BSVR specialized in sophisticated computer games, corporate intelligence, and cybersecurity and that NASA and the US military were major clients.

That was interesting.

Jacobi pulled the desk phone toward him and dialed Bentley’s son at the number Brady had given him. Declan Bentley was a nineteen-year-old college freshman and video gamer. According to his father, he was also conversant in various technical areas Jacobi lumped together under the heading of computer stuff.

Jacobi had taught himself to text and program his GPS and play around with some apps on his phone, but he was far from tech-smart. He was