Fantasy in Death

  “No,” he agreed, but continued to study the data on-screen.

  “Do you see something I don’t?” she asked.

  “No, not as applies to this. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or frustrated.”

  “Well, it would be easier if something had popped here, or on the runs I’ve done on U-Play employees. DuVaugne was the big pop at Synch, but he’s just a cheat.”

  She downed more coffee. “Whoever did this is a lot more tech-savvy and creative than DuVaugne. From what we know of the victim, considerably more to have been able to get past his guards. I’ve got meets with the lawyer and with Mira today. Maybe that’ll shake something loose.”

  “I’ve meetings of my own. I’ll do what I can to work with EDD when I’m clear.”

  “I’m going to try another angle. The sword. I’m going to send Peabody and McNab on that trail, figuring the team should include a geek and nongeek. McNab can talk the talk and pass for a collector. There’s what they call a mini-con in East Washington.”

  “We have a booth there. I can easily arrange to get them in.”

  “Fine. Saves me the trouble.” She crossed to the murder board, walked around it. “I’ll be talking to his three partners today. Individually this time.”

  “Longtime friends suddenly turning murderous?”

  She glanced over at him. “People get aggravated.”

  Roarke lifted an eyebrow. “Should I worry about losing my head?”

  “Probably not. We tend to blow it off, fight it off, yell it off, so the aggravation or the serious piss doesn’t dig in too deep. With other people, sometimes it festers. Maybe we’ve got a festerer here. These three have the means—the tech savvy, the creativity. They had the vic’s trust, and easy access to his home, his office. They’ve got motive, in as far as they’ll benefit from his death by upping their share of the company. And opportunity, as much as any.”

  “They loved each other.”

  “That’s just one more motive. How many women and kids are in Dochas right now, because someone loves them?” she asked, referring to Roarke’s abuse shelter.

  “That’s not love.”

  “The person doing the ass-kicking often thinks it is. Believes it is. It’s an illusion, like the game, but it feels real. A lot of nasty things grow out of love if it isn’t . . . tended right. Jealousy, hate, resentment, suspicion.”

  “A cynical, and unfortunately accurate assessment. I love you.”

  She managed a half-laugh. “That’s kind of odd timing.”

  He crossed to her, cupped her face in his hands. “I love you, Eve. And however many mistakes either of us makes, I believe we’ll do our best to tend it right.”

  She lifted her hands to cover his. “I know it. Anyway, any time something nasty crops up, we end up burning it off with some serious mad before it roots.”

  “I wasn’t even mad at you, not really. I realize I’d hoped to find someone in that search, even if it was one of mine. It would be specific, you see, instead of this vague worry and wondering if I’d have a target.”

  He glanced toward her murder board. “I can’t explain even to myself why his death strikes me, and where it does.”

  “He might’ve been you, if things had been different. He might have been you,” she repeated when Roarke shook his head. “If you’d had a different scenario to play in childhood. Or some parts of you might’ve run along parts of him. We can both see it. So I guess that’s why I went around you, and you went around me.”

  “And why, when confronted with that choice, we both got . . . aggravated?” Watching her face, he ran his hands up and down her arms. “It rings true enough, considering us.”

  “Considering us. We’re okay.”

  He rested his brow on hers. “We’re okay.”

  “Here’s what you have to do.” She eased him back so their eyes met. “You have to stop asking yourself if you’d done something different, said something else, pushed another button, if Bart would have come on board with you instead of starting his own company. And if he’d done that, he’d be alive. Life’s not a program.”

  “I haven’t been doing that. Very much,” he qualified. “But I could have pushed other buttons, said considerably more, and done quite a bit differently. I liked the idea of him striking out on his own, following that jagged path. So I didn’t. And I know perfectly well none of this is on me, and now I can be relatively sure none of it’s on any of mine. It doesn’t give me that specific target, but it helps clear my head.”

  “Okay, head’s clear. And since I know you’re going to poke around on the magic sword angle whenever you get time today, make sure you let me know anything you come up with.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “I’ve got to go. Lawyers and shrinks and suspects.”

  “Oh my.” Her puzzled stare made him laugh and pull her to him for a cheerful kiss. Then just hold on to her for a moment more. “Go on then, be a cop. I’ll let you know if and when I can get away to work with Feeney.”

  He’d find a way, she thought. He always did.

  She met Peabody in the offices of Felicity Lowenstien. The sharp-looking reception area—small, efficient, and done in reds, blacks, and silvers—was manned by a sharp-looking woman who, either by design or preference, matched the decor with her short silver hair, black suit, and large red fabric rose at the lapel.

  She took them straight back—no fuss, no waiting—past a small office, what looked to be a tidy law library, a closed door. The woman knocked briefly on the next door, then opened it.

  “Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”

  Attorney Lowenstien rose from behind her desk. As she came around it Eve noted that the woman had boosted her five feet of height with three-inch scalpel-edged heels. She also wore black with just a hint of white lace at the cross of her jacket. Her hair, rolled back in a smooth twist, was a dense brown with gilded streaks.

  She offered both Eve and Peabody a firm shake, then a chair.

  “I appreciate you coming here. I’ve got everything I think you’ll need or want.” She paused, let out a breath. “Let me give you some personal background. I met Bart in college, through Cill. Cill and I got to be friendly, and she decided she’d fix me up with Bart.”

  “Romantically?”

  “That was the idea. It didn’t take, but Bart and I became friends. When we all established ourselves in New York, I became his attorney. I handled the partnership agreement, and I handled his estate. I don’t do criminal law, but I dated an ADA once.” She smiled, just a little, in a way that told Eve things hadn’t taken there either. “I know there’s little you can or will tell me, but I have to ask. Do you have any leads?”

  “We’re pursuing several avenues of investigation.”

  “That’s what I figured you’d say.” She sighed as she turned her gaze toward her window. “We didn’t hang out often anymore. Cill and I, or Bart and the others. Different directions, work, that kind of thing. But he was a good guy. A sweet guy.”

  “When was the last time you had contact with him?”

  “Only a few days ago, actually. He wanted to see about endowing a scholarship—or have the business do one—for the high school he, Cill, and Benny graduated from. We scheduled a meeting for next week—the four of them, me, and the financial adviser. We talked for a while, actually. Caught up since it had been several months since we’d actually talked. He was seeing a woman, seriously. He seemed really happy.”

  “Did he speak to you about any projects—work projects?”

  “No, not really. I’m not especially e-savvy, certainly not on Bart’s level, or the others. But I got the impression something was brewing. He was excited.”

  “Were the others on board about the scholarship?”

  “Absolutely. As far as I know,” she qualified. “They never did anything without all four agreeing.”

  “So he didn’t seem concerned about anything or anyone?”

  “On the contrary. He seemed
on top of the world.”

  On top of the world,” Eve said from the driver’s seat. “Happy-go-lucky. Doesn’t seem like the type who ends up on a slab at the morgue with his head on a tray.”

  “He was rich, relatively successful, content, and in a competitive business,” Peabody pointed out. “Fertile ground for jealousy.”

  “Yeah, it is.” She pulled out her ’link when it signaled, read a text from Roarke. “We’re splitting off. I want you and McNab to go to East Washington. There’s a mini-con at the Potomac Hotel.”

  “Road trip!” Peabody pumped her fists in the air.

  “Before you break out the soy chips and go-cups, you’re going as collectors. You’re especially interested in swords.”

  “Undercover road trip!” And now executed a quick, happy dance.

  “Jesus, Peabody, maintain some dignity.”

  “I’ve got to go home and change. I look too much like a cop.” Eve surveyed the breezy summer pants, the cheerfully striped skids. “You do?”

  “I’ve got just the thing. Things,” Peabody corrected. “I need a lot more sparkles, more color.”

  “Great, go get those, grab McNab, and take the first shuttle.”

  “Shuttle. Like one of Roarke’s right?”

  “No, like the shuttle regular people, including cops on undercover road trips take.”

  Peabody’s acre of grin tumbled into a pouty “Aw.”

  “I want buzz on U-Play, any underground data that might’ve leaked on this game, info on the sword, or its type. And I want you to stay out of trouble.”

  “It all sounded like fun a minute ago.”

  “You want fun? Go to the circus. For now, get McNab, go there. Pick up your con passes at Central Information. They’re under your name. And I don’t want to see any toys or games on your expense chit.”

  “What if we have to buy something to maintain our cover?”

  “Don’t.”

  “Less and less fun all the time. Are we cleared for a hotel if we need to follow up a lead?”

  Eve shot her a narrowed stare. “It better be a damn good lead and a cheap hotel or I take the expense out of your hide.”

  “If there’s any rumors, innuendoes, or hard data on this sword, a con’s the place to find them. Really.”

  “If I didn’t believe that you wouldn’t be going.” She pulled over to the curb in front of Peabody’s apartment. “Go get your geek on. Check in when you get there. Don’t screw up.”

  “Your level of confidence brings a tear of joy to my eye.”

  “You’ll be bawling tears if you screw this up,” Eve warned, and, dumping Peabody on the sidewalk, swung back into traffic.

  At Central she went straight to Homicide. No need to visit EDD as Peabody would’ve tagged McNab seconds after she hit the sidewalk. She’d go up, confer with Feeney after she had time to check in on her own division and read through more thoroughly the files she’d gotten from the lawyer.

  She stepped in, stopped short when she saw her commander. “Sir.”

  Commander Whitney nodded, gestured toward her office. “A moment of your time, Lieutenant.”

  He was a big man who moved well, who still managed to move like a cop despite his years behind a desk. Command lined his dark, wide face and, she thought, had added the gray to his close-cropped hair.

  She stepped in behind him, closed the door.

  “Can you spare me some of that coffee?”

  “Yes, sir.” She programmed it for him. “I have a meeting with Doctor Mira shortly to consult her on the Minnock investigation.”

  “So I read in your report. You’ve come from the victim’s lawyer.”

  “Yes, sir. Another college friend. She’s been very cooperative. I have the terms of his estate, will, partnership. It seems very straightforward.”

  He nodded again, sat in her visitor’s chair. Eve stayed on her feet.

  “The circumstances are . . . bizarre is the word that comes to mind,” he began, and sipped coffee like a man sipping a very fine wine. “And those circumstances are leaking to the media. Too many people knowing too much, and with the circumstances, very juicy fodder.”

  She glanced at her ’link, and the rapidly blinking light indicating numerous messages. “I don’t believe we should issue anything but the standard media release at this time. Beyond bizarre there are a number of lines and angles to deal with. We can’t deny the beheading, but I believe it’s necessary to keep as much of the rest as possible under wraps for now.”

  “Agreed. If the public gets the idea that this happened as a result of a game, we’d have panic. Every mother’s son and daughter in the city has a gaming system of some sort.”

  “I’m concentrating on identifying the weapon, or rather have Peabody and McNab on that. I’m sending them to a games convention in East Washington today.”

  “You’ve made two arrests. We’ll use that for now to keep things quiet. I’ve spoken with Captain Feeney. You’ll have as much from EDD as you need—including civilian consultants.” He paused, sipped again.

  “Roarke disclosed he knew the victim, and that his own company has a similar game under development.”

  “Yes, sir. I conducted a level three on those employees connected to that R&D. I found nothing.”

  “Keep it documented, Dallas, and be sure Roarke has clear documentation of when and how this game of his has been developed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He finished his coffee, set it aside. “I’m not here to tell you how to do your job,” he said and rose. “But only to proceed cautiously, and clearly, where the personal overlaps.”

  “Understood, Commander. I can ask Roarke to turn over the documentation, so that it’s in our files.”

  “He’s already done so, through Feeney.” Now Whitney inclined his head. “He is consulting primarily with EDD, correct, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, that would be proper procedure.”

  “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  Alone, she stewed for a moment. It might have been proper procedure for Roarke to give Feeney the documentation, but he might have told her he’d done it. Of course, he would have told her if she’d asked. Or he probably assumed she’d known he would, or . . . screw it.

  She couldn’t stand here trying to decipher the workings of Roarke’s brain when on this point she couldn’t quite decipher her own.

  She gave it up and walked out to keep her appointment with Mira.

  9

  There was a certain ritual involved in Eve’s consults with Mira. Mira would offer—and Eve would feel obliged to accept—a fancy cup of flowery tea. They both knew Eve preferred coffee, just as they both knew the tea represented Mira’s calming influence, a break from the pressure. At least for that initial few moments.

  As Eve sat in one of Mira’s blue scoop chairs she noted, as usual, the office was efficient and female, like the woman who ruled it. Apparently it didn’t bother Mira in the least to discuss the criminal mind, and the horrors inflicted on victims while photos of her family looked on.

  Maybe she chose calming colors in her decor and her wardrobe to counteract those horrors, and scattered those photos around to ground herself to her own reality.

  It occurred to her that she herself placed no photographs in her office—not at Central, not at home. Maybe, she considered, they’d be a distraction from the work, or maybe she’d just find it disconcerting to be “watched” while she worked. Or . . .

  Didn’t matter, didn’t apply. Such analyses and suppositions were Mira’s territory. Eve needed the mind of the killer, needed to live inside it awhile—and her own sparse, uncluttered style suited her.

  She considered her work outfit, one she’d chosen by simply grabbing what seemed easiest. Summer jacket, sleeveless tank, light-weight pants, boots. Work and weather related, period.

  But Mira went for a breezy suit, sort of like a peppermint—white with tiny flecks of candy pink. The flecks matched the shiny shoes with the s
kinny heels that set off Mira’s very nice legs. She wore her glossy brown hair in flattering waves around her soft and pretty face, and added a little bit of glitter and shine in earrings, necklace, a fancy girl’s wrist unit.

  Nothing overdone, Eve thought—at least not that her sense of style could discern. Everything just so, just right. And, yeah, she admitted, calming.

  “You’re quiet,” Mira remarked as she handed Eve the ritual fancy cup of flowery tea.

  “Sorry. I was thinking about wardrobe.”

  Mira’s eyes, blue and as soft and pretty as the rest of her, widened in both humor and surprise. “Really?”

  “As it applies to profession, or activity or personality. I don’t know.” See, she told herself, thinking about personal choices, personal style, was distracting.

  “Peabody and McNab are heading to DC—a little undercover job at a game con,” she continued. “She’s all about needing to go home, shed what she thinks makes her look like a cop for what she thinks will make her look like a game buff. I figure she’s still pretty much going to look like Peabody because whatever she puts on came out of her closet, right, and she has it there because she put it there.”

  “True. But there are different aspects to all of us, and often our choice of outfit for a particular occasion or duty reflects that aspect. You wouldn’t wear what you’re wearing now to accompany Roarke to a formal charity function, for instance, nor what you’d worn there here at work.”

  “I would if I was running late for the charity deal—or if I got tagged while I was at the deal to a scene.” Eve shrugged. “But I get you. It’d be easier if we could wear whatever we want wherever we want.”

  “And this from a woman who greatly respects rules. Society and fashion have them as well. Added to that what we wear can put us in the mood for what we have to do.”

  She thought of the costume the game had programmed for her. She had to admit it had put her in the mood to fight, and made the sword feel familiar and right in her hand.

  “The victim’s wardrobe didn’t have a lot of variety. He had some formal stuff and more traditional business attire mixed in, but primarily he went casual. Jeans, cargos, khakis, tees, and sweaters. And a lot of that—the shirts—was logoed and printed with game and vid stuff. He lived in his work.”