Death Before Facebook

trying to avoid saying the “p” word out on the street
    “No. Should she have?”
    There was no help for it. “I’m from the police department. Could I come in, please?”
    “Let’s see your badge.”
    The smoker disappeared quickly, either spooked or minding his own business. Skip held up her badge.
    “What’s this about?”
    “I think you know, don’t you?”
    “About time you got here,” he said; and let her in.
    He was short by Skip’s standards, about Knowles Kennedy’s height. Though he wore a sweatshirt and jeans, she could see a well-muscled, slim-waisted torso; clearly he worked out. He was pale, had barely any hair, and wore glasses. Not really a nerd, this one, but probably an intellectual. She deduced that by his surroundings as much as his appearance. It was the usual gorgeous high-ceilinged, French-windowed French Quarter gem, but the paint was a dirty beige, as if he could care less, the furniture functional, to say the least—other people’s castoffs, it looked like—and there were more books and magazines on the floor alone than in certain library branches. There were bookshelves too, but they were only partly filled with books—cardboard boxes were stacked on them, board games, apparently, but more than Skip would have thought existed.
    “Are you from Homicide?” He gestured toward the trashed-out couch, which had a fake Navajo blanket thrown over it, probably to hide the rips and stains.
    She sat. “Yes. What am I here about?”
    “Geoff Kavanagh. Can I get you anything?”
    She shook her head impatiently, hoping he’d go on; she wasn’t disappointed.
    “So you guys finally caught on to that autopsy report. We were wondering if we were going to have to storm headquarters or what.” He sat in a broken-down rattan chair.
    “Would you mind telling me what’s going on here? And who ’we’ is?”
    “It’s the talk of the TOWN, Officer.”
    “Detective,” she snapped. Rank usually mattered not a whit to her, but this guy was making her angry. “You mean the computer bulletin board?”
    “Oh. You know about the TOWN.”
    “Not nearly enough, apparently.”
    “Come on, I’ll show you.”
    “Let’s talk a minute first.” She felt a need to regain control. The case was spinning out of orbit. “What was your relationship with Geoffrey Kavanagh?”
    He blushed. “We weren’t lovers if that’s what you mean.”
    “It isn’t.”
    “Well, I mean—he was my best friend, and I’m about as openly gay as you can get.”
    It was all she could do not to glance at her watch.
I guess you are,
she thought.
We’ve known each other—what, two minutes?—and I now know one thing about you. That.
    “How did you two meet?”
    “Online.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “On the TOWN. We were both in the Southern conference and found out we both lived in New Orleans. So we met; we had a lot of interests in common.”
    “Like what?”
    “Oh, computers. Virtual reality. Virtual communities. Virtual sex.”
    “Virtual what?”
    “I just threw sex in to wake you up. They haven’t developed it yet, but everybody’s on the edge of their seats. Virtual communities exist, though. The TOWN’s one. We all know each other and care about each other even though most of us have never set eyes on each other or heard each other’s voices and never will; its headquarters is in California somewhere, and that’s where most users are. But I know Darlis and Busy from out on the coast as well as I know anybody in New Orleans.”
    “Layne, you’ve got to get out more.”
    “Well, I can’t. I work out of my house and everything I like to do you do indoors.”
    “Wait a minute; what do you do?”
    “You mean for money? I’m a puzzle constructor.”
    “A puzzle constructor?”
    “Yeah. Like crosswords and logic puzzles. For puzzle magazines mostly, plus one or two general publications.”
    “Well, I guess somebody has to do it.”
    “It doesn’t sound like fun?”
    “Oh, it does. I’m just reeling from the weirdness of it. I guess I never met a puzzlemaker before.”
    “But you always wanted to.” He gave her a winning smile, displaying such friendly blue eyes that she’d have sworn he was flirting—and he probably was. She’d noticed lots of gay men flirted with her and she loved it—no danger of awkward misunderstandings.
    “I guess I must have.” She’d almost forgotten her irritation. But it came back when she realized the implication of his job. “So you see