Shoot to Thrill by P.J. Tracy Page B

being the victim and the killer . . .”
    “How do you act out a murder on instant messaging?”
    Grace made a sour-pickle face. “It’s really depraved. They text this crap. One writes something like, ‘I’m plunging the knife into your stomach,’ then the other one writes back, ‘Oh my God, oh my God, I feel it going in, the blade is cold, my blood is hot . . .’ ”
    “Jesus.”
    “Yeah. And as disgusting as the texting is, the photos are worse, especially on the specific fetish sites. There’s one totally dedicated to drowning, by the way.”
    Magozzi reached for his whiskey to get the bad taste of sick people out of his mouth. “Yeah, well, let me know if you run across film of someone holding a bride underwater.”
    Charlie pushed his nose under Magozzi’s arm, demanding attention, shifting the focus from all the weirdness in the world to more important things, like getting your ears scratched. “Good old Charlie,” Magozzi bent to give him a doggy massage, and then realized that Grace hadn’t said anything for a while. He looked up to see her staring at him. “What?”
    She reached for his glass and took a sip, which was frightening. Grace hated whiskey. “Nothing, really. Probably just a coincidence. We pulled a staged drowning off one of the fetish sites this morning, with a victim in a wedding dress. But it wasn’t real.”
    “How do you know?”
    “We did some tinkering with the resolution. Turns out it wasn’t a bride at all. Just some guy in a wedding dress and a wig.”
    Magozzi closed his eyes.
     
     
    GINO HAD A BELLY full of Angela’s lasagna, a glass of terrific Chianti at his side, the Twins game on the big screen, and the massage cushion on shiatsu mode. Maybe there was some guy in the world who had it better than he did at the moment, but he couldn’t imagine who it would be.
    “Daddy?”
    Such a gentle whisper from the doorway, somehow attached to the corners of his mouth so he smiled every time he heard it. “Hey, kiddo. Have a seat. Top of the ninth and a tie ball game.”
    “Whoopee.” Helen sat in the chair next to him. She was almost sixteen, and scary beautiful. This year she’d go to her first prom with some sweaty-palmed, hormone-heavy scuzzball teenager who had pimples on his face and probably a condom in his wallet, and Gino was pretty sure he’d never survive the experience.
    “Okay, Daddy. Why did you try to put a block on YouTube?”
    Gino closed his eyes. “Not just YouTube. I blocked MySpace, MyPage, a bunch of others. Took me hours.”
    “Yeah, I know. You kind of suck at it, though.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Your blocks were lame, Daddy. You want me to show you how to do it?”
    “What do you mean my blocks were lame? I followed the instructions to the letter.”
    Helen actually patted his head. He loved it when she did that, and he hated it. It was affectionate and patronizing, all at the same time. “A toddler could have busted through those blocks. You have to work on your computer skills.”
    Gino jabbed the mute button and wished he’d been born a hundred years before that jerk had gone into his garage and decided that personal computers were the future. Some fucking future. Sex and snuff films in every kid’s bedroom. Christ. “Computers are evil. Spawn of Satan. The downfall of civilization, and I don’t want you online ever again.”
    Helen giggled, which was humiliating.
    “Seriously, Helen. There are things popping on those sites I blocked—”
    “Tried to block.”
    “Whatever. There are things on those sites I don’t want you to see.”
    “Okay.”
    “Okay, what?”
    “You don’t have to block the sites, Daddy. Just tell me to stay off them and I will.”
    “Really?”
    She smiled and bent to kiss his forehead, which was what her mother did when she thought he was being endearingly stupid. “Really. Night-night.”
    The phone rang before her slippered feet hit the top step.
    “Rolseth.”
    “Film of our waterlogged boy bride