Fantasy in Death

  “How many droids?”

  “He’s got three, no human replicas, straight mechanical. I haven’t gotten there yet, but my guess is cleaning, serving, security, that kind of deal.”

  “Get me everything there is to get.”

  Callendar wiggled her shoulders. “Good thing I’d be happy staying here all day.”

  Eve stepped out.

  “You can see why they’re friends.” Peabody gestured toward the bedroom closet. “Lots of costumes, lots of work gear. He’s got better clothes than the woman, but basically it’s the same deal. And like hers, and the vic’s for that matter, this room like the rest of them is set up for lots of play. Not bedroom type play, game play. Not bedroom game play, but—”

  “I get it, Peabody.”

  The bed, a roomy platform with a padded headboard, was neatly made with a good all-weather duvet and a few plumped pillows.

  “No sex toys,” she announced. “Memo cubes, unused, a couple of handheld games, over-the-counter sleep aid.”

  “Bathroom kicks ass,” Peabody called out. “Bubble tub, multi-jet steam shower, sauna deck, music, screen and VR systems built in, drying tube, the works.”

  “Check for meds and illegals.”

  She toured the rest, the second bedroom outfitted for games, a small, well-outfitted home gym, and as she’d expected, a holo-room.

  She gave Callendar the same instructions as she had McNab, called Peabody, then headed out to check the last space.

  “Baxter, Trueheart, and Feeney,” Peabody told her before she asked. “Feeney wanted in.”

  “He just wants to play with the toys. Impressions so far?”

  “They live and work as they please, and they live their work. She’s busy, likes to have several things going at once, so she’s got clutter because she doesn’t necessarily finish one thing before going to the next. She does a little cooking and since she doesn’t have to, she must like it. No droids, which is kind of odd given what she does. I think it’s that privacy issue. When she’s in her personal space, she wants to be alone. He’s more streamlined, and pays more attention to style. The second bedroom’s set up for gaming, but he’s got a convertible sleep chair in there, just in case.”

  “Okay. There’s our shadow.” Eve jutted her chin.

  Across the street, Benny stood on the steps of his building, watching them come. As they approached, he jammed his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, then walked quickly in the direction of Var’s apartment.

  “He’s mad, but he’s sad, too. At least I think so,” Peabody added.

  “You can kill and be both.”

  Benny had gone for a loft, too, with a space that occupied the rear of the building, on two levels.

  Peabody gaped as they entered. “Wow. It’s Commander Black’s quarters.”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “Commander Black. Star Quest. This is a reproduction of his living quarters aboard the Intrepid.” Peabody ran her hand over the scrolled arm of a brown sofa. “It’s even got the burn marks from when Black had the blaster fight with Voltar. And look! That’s the old desk that was his great-grandfather’s, the first commander of the Intrepid.”

  “He lives in a vid set?”

  “Vid and game. And it’s a really frosty set. It’s got every detail. Plus some that aren’t.” She gestured to a pair of worn white socks, an open bag of soy chips, two empty brew bottles. “Still, tidier than the woman.”

  Eve repeated the routine, going room by room, absorbing.

  Yes, she thought, she could see why they were friends. Though individual preferences came through, the overall focused on the same. Fun, games, and fantasy.

  Like Bart, he kept a replica droid. Male, she noted.

  “Name’s Alfred,” Feeney told her. “Butler to Bruce Wayne, confidant of the Dark Knight.”

  She spun around. “What? The Dark Knight.”

  “Batman, kid. Even you’ve heard of Batman.”

  “Yeah, yeah, vigilante with psychotic tendencies who dresses up in a weird bat costume. Rich playboy by day, right?” She turned, frowned at the droid. “Hmm.”

  “The Dark Knight’s an icon.” Feeney’s jabbed finger matched his tone. Insult. “And he uses those so-called psycho tendencies for good. Anyway, old Alfred here’s been shut down the last couple days. His basic programming is to clean the place, serve meals, greet guests. I’ll fine-tooth his memory board, but at a quick once-over, I don’t see anything hinky.”

  Eve opened the fridge. “He’s out of beer.”

  “You thirsty?”

  “He’s been drinking. Sitting out there in his fantasy commander’s quarters drinking his brews.”

  “Wouldn’t mind doing the same myself. He was just here.”

  “Yeah, I saw him leave.”

  “He tried to slip something out.”

  “What?”

  “A photograph. Had it in the bedroom, drawer by the bed. Trueheart caught it. The boy’s got it. He’s upstairs.”

  She went up to where Trueheart continued to work on the master bedroom. The bed was made—halfheartedly. Two more empty bottles stood empty on the nightstand.

  “Lieutenant.” In his uniform, the young, studly, and shy Trueheart looked fresh as spring grass in the crowded, cluttered room.

  Eve glanced toward a large object draped in a colorful throw.

  “It’s Mongo,” Trueheart told her. “A parrot. The subject covered his cage so he wouldn’t get too excited.”

  Curious, Eve crossed over, lifted the throw. Inside, an enormous bird with wild feathers cocked his head and eyed her.

  “Hi! How you doing? Want to play? Let me out of here. Want to play?”

  “Jesus,” Eve muttered.

  “Ben-nee!” Mongo called.

  Eve dropped the throw.

  “Dammit,” Mongo said clearly and with what sounded like true bitterness.

  She turned away to see Trueheart grinning. “He was doing a lot of that when I came up. It’s pretty chill. He even asked me my name. Benny said he’s about thirty-five years old, and . . .” Trueheart paused, cleared his throat. “I agreed it was best to cover the cage so as not to excite the bird or distract from the search. The subject requested I uncover it when we’re done, as the bird enjoys the light. Sir.”

  “Right. Where’s the photo he tried to get by you?”

  “Here, sir.” Trueheart opened the drawer, removed it. “I checked it. It’s just a standard digital, standard frame. He was more embarrassed than mad when I caught him.”

  Cill looked out, half profile, face bright with laughter.

  There were other photos around the room, around the loft, as in his office at U-Play. But those captured the group, or various parts of it. This was only Cill, and obviously his private memory, or fantasy.

  “Do you want me to take it in, sir?”

  “No.” She handed it back. “Leave it.”

  She finished her tour, filed her impressions.

  Unlike Cill, Benny wasn’t a loner. He kept a replica droid, and a pet. A talking pet. Things for company and conversation. Not as tidy as either Var or Bart. A brooder, she concluded, thinking of the empty beer bottles.

  Before she left, she walked to the window. From the angle she could see Cill’s building, pick out her windows.

  What was it like? she wondered. And what did it do to a man who could stand here and look out and see the woman he loved, night after night?

  Both sad and mad, Peabody had said, and Eve thought, yes, that was just about right.

  16

  Eve split off from Peabody, sending her partner back to Cill’s to work with the search team while she divided her time between the other two apartments.

  The problem was, as she saw it, what they looked for and hoped to find would be buried in electronics. It put her at a disadvantage.

  “There’s something to find,” Feeney told her, “we’ll find it sooner or later.”

  “It’s the later that sticks i
n me.”

  “You’re not showing much faith in me and my boys.”

  “Feeney, I’m putting all my faith in you and your boys.” Hands on her hips, she did a circle around Benny’s home office. “These three live and breathe e-air. When it comes to outside interests they still wind back to it. And according to Roarke, they’re exceptional.”

  “They ain’t hacks.”

  She pointed a finger. “Why not? It’s tempting, isn’t it, almost irresistible to hack when you’re just that good. It’s another kind of game. You’re not going to tell me you’ve never poked your finger in that pie.”

  He smiled. “I’m a duly authorized officer of the NYPSD. Hacking’s a crime. Hypothetically, theoretically, and if you ever repeat this you’re a lying SOB, it could be experimental-type hacking keeps the gears oiled.”

  “And a group of geeks, with exceptional skills, playing games all damn day and night, would likely experiment. If they, or one of them wanted to take it a little further—keep an eye on the innards of competitors say—unregistered equipment would be handy, and damn near essential.”

  “Adds a nice layer of control and security,” he agreed. “It’ll cost, but they could afford it. Hell, this lot could probably build their own with spare parts. Everything in this place, and everything at U-Play HQ is properly registered.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve been through each apartment twice now. If any of them have a hidden room it’s in another dimension. Off-site maybe, but still in the area.” Hands on hips, she turned another circle. “They keep everything close.”

  “If they, or one of them, has a hidey-hole for unregistered, that would be the place they’d do the hacking. Just follows.”

  “And where you’d work up the outline, the scenario for murder. Where you’d play the game.”

  Another angle, she thought, another line to tug. But first she drove back to U-Play and Bart Minnock’s memorial.

  Full house, she noted, and glanced at the screens where a montage of Bart’s life played out. She heard his voice over the voices of those who’d come to pay respect, and to mourn. Media interviews, cons where he’d given seminars, holiday trips, parties. Moments, big and small, of his life, she thought, spliced together.

  Food and flowers, as much staples of a memorial as the dead, spread out in careful and creative displays. Simple food, simple flowers, she noted, along with self-serve fizzy bars.

  She heard as much laughter as tears as she wound her way through to offer condolences to her victim’s parents.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Minnock, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas.” The woman who’d passed her eyes, the shape of her mouth, onto her son gripped Eve’s hand. “Thank you for coming. Do you . . . this isn’t the time to ask if . . .”

  “Your son has all my attention, and the determination of the NYPSD to bring his killer to justice.”

  “His life was just beginning,” Bart’s father said.

  “I’ve gotten to know him over the past couple of days. It seems to me he lived that life very well.”

  “Thank you for that. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  She eased away, moving through the crowd, scanning faces, listening to bits of conversation. And searching for the partners.

  She saw the Sing family, the two beautiful kids in dark suits she thought made them look eerily like mini-adults. Susan Sing had an arm around CeeCee’s shoulders so the five of them formed their own intimate little unit. Connected, she thought, by Bart’s life and by his death.

  Eve started toward them when Cill spotted her. The outrage on her face held as much passion as a scream. Anticipating her, Eve crossed over, away from the main packs of people, forcing Cill to change direction to come after her.

  “You’re not welcome here. Do you think you can come here now, now, when we’re remembering Bart? Do you think you can just grab some pizza bites and a fizzy and spy on us now?”

  “You don’t want to cause a scene here, Cill. You don’t want to do this here.”

  “This is our place. This was Bart’s place, and you—”

  “Cill.” Roarke laid a hand on her shoulder. “Your anger’s misplaced.”

  “Don’t tell me about my anger.” She shrugged his hand away. “Bart’s dead. He’s dead, and she’s trying to make it seem like we killed him. What kind of person does that? For all I know she’s decided this is an opportunity, and she’s passing our data onto you.”

  “Be careful,” Eve said softly. “Be very careful.”

  Cill jutted up her chin, and her eyes sparked challenge. “What are you going to do? Arrest me?”

  “Come, walk outside with me,” Roarke told her. “Just you and I, and you can say whatever you need to say. But away from here. You’ll upset Bart’s parents if this keeps up.”

  “Fine. I’ve got plenty to say.”

  As Roarke took her out, Eve gave them a moment. It was just enough time for Benny to elbow his way through the crowd.

  “What’s going on? What did you say to her?”

  “Very little. She needs to blow off some steam. It’ll be better blown outside where it doesn’t upset anyone else.”

  “God.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, then watched, as Eve did, as Cill paced and pointed, threw up her hands. And Roarke stood, listening. “She’s better off mad,” Benny said at length. “I’d rather see her pissed off at you, at everything, than so damn sad.”

  “Does she know you’re in love with her?”

  “We’re friends.” His shoulders stiffened.

  “It would be hard working with someone every day, as closely as you work together, and having those feelings. It’s a lot to hold in.”

  “We’re friends,” he repeated. “And that’s my personal business.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas.” Tight-lipped, Var strode up. “This isn’t right. You can’t come here now and interrogate us, anyone. This is for Bart. His parents deserve . . . What’s Cill doing out there with Roarke?”

  “Blowing off some,” Benny said. “No, come on.” He took Var’s arm as Var turned toward the door. “Let her work it out. Let’s not do this today, okay? Let’s just not do this today.”

  “You’re right. Okay, you’re right.” Var closed his eyes, dragged both hands through his skullcap of hair. “Look, can’t you leave us alone today?” he asked Eve. “Just leave us alone while we get through this. It’s not like we’re going anywhere.”

  “I’m not here to hassle you. I came to pay my respects to Bart’s parents as I was the one who had to tell them he was dead.”

  “Oh hell.” Benny let out a long breath. “Sorry. I guess . . . sorry.”

  “We’re the ones who have to be here for them now, and for each other. We get you’re doing what you have to do. Well, Benny and I do,” Var corrected with another glance through the glass. “It’s going to take Cill a little longer. It’s personal for her. It’s routine for you, we get that.”

  “Murder’s never routine.” She glanced back at the screen, at Bart. “It’s always personal. He’s mine now, every bit as much as he’s yours. Believe me when I say I’ll find who killed him. Whatever it takes.”

  She walked away thinking she’d planted the seeds. Now she’d see how long it took them to sprout.

  She went out to her car, leaned against it and watched Roarke and Cill. He was doing the talking now. Or most of it. Cill shook her head, turned away with her hands pulling at her hair until the tidy plait frayed.

  But she was winding down, Eve judged, and within a few moments was weeping against Roarke’s chest.

  Eve waited them out, wished fleetingly for coffee as she started a search for property using the warehouse and the four apartments to triangulate. She glanced up as Roarke walked to her.

  “So, how’s your day so far?” she asked him.

  “Up and down. You’re still a bitch, by the way. But she’s decided I’m not a heartless fuck using Bart’s death for my own gain.”


  “Good thing I pride myself on my bitchery. I don’t know how many things light her fuse, but once it’s lit, it’s short.”

  “Yes. I should tell you I felt obliged to let her know we had a project nearly ready for marketing that’s similar to theirs.”

  “I bet she loved hearing that.”

  “I always considered you champion of creative swearing, but I believe she’d give you a run.” Like Eve, he studied the building, the shapes and movements behind the glass. “When I managed to cut through some of the blue, I gave her some details. You wouldn’t understand,” he added. “It’s technical.”

  “And I don’t speak geek. Why? Why did you tell her?”

  “When I was in, we’ll say, the habit of stealing, I didn’t mind being accused of it. My people have worked very hard on this project, and don’t deserve to have that work diminished. She’s a very bright woman, and with the details I gave her understands full well we’re ahead of their curve, not only on timing, but on certain elements. That doesn’t diminish their project, or their work. I have more resources, more people, and she understands that as well. Just as she understands if it had been my goal, I could’ve swallowed U-Play long ago.”

  “And she’s smart enough to remember who Bart sometimes went to for advice, and who sold them that building.”

  “Competition makes the game more fun, and more meaningful. In a few years, they’ll give me plenty of game.” He reached up, skimmed a finger down the dent in her chin. “And how is your day panning out?”

  “Searches are still ongoing. It’s a lot. I’m going back to Central to tug a new line. As pissed as they all were about the search, none of them actively tried to stop or stall it.”

  “Which makes you think whoever killed Bart already removed anything incriminating.”

  “Or thinks so.” Movements behind glass, she thought, weren’t always the same as those in the shadows. “But it made me wonder if there’s another work area, a more private one. One where someone could hack and practice and plot and plan without sending up any flags.”