Fantasy in Death

  “Was he playing solo, or was somebody in it with him?”

  “The unit’s set for solo, but that’s part of the bad. No way to tell from the disc. No way to tell what the hell Fantastical is as the disc self-destructed when we bypassed the last fail-safe.”

  “Shit.”

  “It’s pretty toasted. We might be able to get something off it, given a miracle or two. They have to have a copy. No way this is the only one.”

  “I’ll get on that from here. I’m going to need a team to pick up the vic’s work equipment. Try not to blow it up.”

  “That hurts, kid.”

  “Well, it might as well be a crap day for you, too,” Eve said and signed off before signaling Peabody. “I need you to come to the vic’s office, start a prelim search, and keep everybody else out. I’m on my way there.”

  “Copy that. I’ve got the salients on these two, and I’ll do runs on the three of them. Are we going to interview the rest of the place today?”

  “Better now than later. We’ll keep it to whereabouts at the time of until we do more runs.”

  “There’s over seventy of them, Dallas.”

  She sighed. “I know. Contact Feeney again. He and McNab and Callendar can come down. They speak geek anyway.”

  “Copy that, too. McNab’s going to wet his pants when he sees this place.”

  “And won’t that be fun? You here, me there. Now.” Eve clicked off again.

  Eve took her time going back. She saw that Var was right—people knew something was up, something was off. Heads turned in her direction, whispers followed her. The place reeked of guilt and worry and just a hint of excitement.

  What’s going on, what did they do? Are we in trouble?

  She spotted Var coming back from the opposite direction, looking wrecked, and the whispers pumped up to murmurs.

  She let him go in ahead of her, then closed the door behind her.

  “What’s Fantastical?”

  The question was answered with shocked silence.

  3

  “I’ll get a warrant.” Eve tracked her gaze from face to face, looking for the weak spot. “And the department e-team goes through every byte of every file. And I shut you down while they do. It could take weeks.”

  “But you can’t, you can’t shut us down,” Benny protested. “We have more than seventy people on-site, and all the others online depending on us. And the distributors, the accounts. Everything that’s in development.”

  “Yeah, that’s a shame. Murder trumps all.”

  “They have bills, they have families,” Cill began.

  “And I’ve got the two parts of Bart.”

  “That’s low,” Var mumbled. “That’s low.”

  “Murder usually is. Your choice.” She held up her ’link.

  “We can get the lawyers on it.” Cill glanced at Benny, then Var. “But—”

  “Murder trumps all,” Eve repeated. “I’ll get my warrant, and I’ll get my answers. It’ll just take longer. Meanwhile, your friend’s in the morgue. But maybe a game means more to you than that.”

  “It’s not just a game.” Passion rose in Benny’s voice. “It’s the ult for Bart, for us, for the company. The top of top secret—and we swore. We all swore an oath not to talk about it with anyone not directly assigned. And even then, it’s only need-to-know.”

  “I need to know. He was playing it when he was killed.”

  “But . . . but that’s not possible,” Cill began. “You said he was killed at home.”

  “That’s right. With a disc copy of Fantastical in his holo-unit.”

  “That’s wrong, that’s got to be wrong.” Paler now, Var shook his head. “He wouldn’t have taken a development copy off-site without telling us, not without logging it out. It breaks protocol.”

  “He had it at home? He took it off-site, without telling any of us?” Benny stared at Eve with eyes that read betrayal as much as shock.

  “She’s just trying to get us to tell her—”

  “For God’s sake, Var, use your head,” Cill snapped. “She wouldn’t know about it if they hadn’t found it at Bart’s.” As she pressed her fingers to her eyes, a half-dozen rings glittered and gleamed in the light. “He was so juiced up about it, we nearly had it down. Nearly. I don’t understand why he’d have taken it out without letting us know, and why he didn’t log it. He’s pretty fierce on logging, but he was so juiced over it.”

  “What is it?”

  “An interactive holo fantasy game. Multi-function,” Benny continued. “The player or players choose from a menu of settings, levels, story lines, worlds, eras—or they can create their own through the personalize feature. The game will read the player or players’ choices, actions, reactions, movements, and adjust the scenario accordingly.

  It’s nearly impossible to play any scenario through exactly the same way twice. It’s always going to give the player a new challenge, a new direction.”

  “Okay, high-end on the fun and price scale, but not staggering new ground.”

  “The sensory features are off the scale,” Var told her. “More real than real, and the operator has the option of adding in more features as they go. There’s reward and punishment.”

  “Punishment?” Eve repeated.

  “Say you’re a treasure hunter,” Cill explained. “You’d maybe collect clues or gems, artifacts, whatever, depending on the level and the scene. But you screw up, you get tossed into another challenge, and lose points. Maybe you’re attacked by rival forces, or you fall and break your ankle, or lose your equipment in a raging river. Screw up enough, game over, and you need to start the level again.”

  “The program reads you,” Benny went on. “Your pulse rate, your BP, your body temp. Just like a medi-unit. It tailors the challenges to your specific physicality. It combines the sensations of top-flight VR with the reality-based imagery of high-end holo. Fight the dragon to save the princess? You’ll feel the heat, the weight of the sword. Slay the dragon, and the princess is grateful. You’ll, ah, feel that, too. The full experience.”

  “If the dragon wins?”

  “You get a jolt. Nothing painful, just a buzz, and like Cill said, the game ends at that point. You can start it up again, from that point or back at the beginning, or change any factors. But the program will also change. It morphs and calculates,” he added, obviously warming to the topic. “The characters in each program are enhanced with the same AI technology used in droids. Friend or foe, they’re programmed to want to win as much as the player.”

  “It’s a leap,” Cill said. “A true leap in merged techs. We’re working out some kinks, and we’ve projected we can have it on the market in time for the holiday blast. When it hits, U-Play’s going to go through the roof. Bart wanted it more user-friendly, and to keep the price point down. So we’ve been working on home and arcade and . . . it’s complicated.”

  “We’ve got a lot invested, in the technology, the application, the programming, the simulations. If any of it leaks before we’re ready to launch . . .” Var’s mouth tightened.

  “It could take us under,” Cill finished. “It’s a make or break.”

  “In six months, a year, we’d be up there with SimUlate. We’d be global, and seriously ding in off-planet,” Benny told her. “Not just the up-and-comer, not just the wonder kids of gaming. We’d be gaming. But without Bart . . .”

  “I don’t know if we can do it. I don’t know how we can do it,” Cill said.

  “We have to.” Var took her hand. “We can’t lose this. Bart started it, and we have to finish it. You have to keep the game under wraps,” Var told Eve. “You have to. If anybody gets their hands on that development disc—”

  “It self-destructed when the e-team tried to remove it.”

  “Seriously?” Benny blinked. “Frosty. Sorry,” he said instantly. “Sorry. It’s just . . . Bart must have added the security. That’s why he’s Bart.”

  “How many copies are there?”

  “Ther
e were four. One for each of us to work with. It’s what I was working on last night,” Benny added. “I had it in sim, playing operator, and working with a droid. Mostly we work on it after the rest of the crew leaves.”

  “Only the four of you know about it?”

  “Not exactly. Everybody knows we’re working on something big. We’ve got a lot of good brains in here,” Cill commented. “We use them. But nobody knows exactly what we’ve got. Just pieces. And yeah, some of those brains are smart enough to put a lot of the pieces together. But we’ve been careful to keep it on the low. Leaks are death in gaming.”

  She seemed to realize what she’d said, and shivered. “Do you think somebody found out, and . . .”

  “It’s an angle. I’m going to need a copy of the game.”

  The three of them stared at her, miserably.

  “Look, if it’s what you say it is, and anything leaks on my end, you’re going to sue the department and possibly the city of New York for a big-ass bundle. If I’m culpable, you can probably sue me, too. I’ll lose my rep and very likely my badge—and those are every bit as important to me as the game is to you. My only interest in the game is how it pertains to Bart’s murder.”

  “She’s Roarke’s cop,” Cill said.

  “What? Shit.”

  Cill shoved around, burned Var with a look. “Roarke’s not going to steal from us. He wouldn’t rob Bart’s grave, goddamn it.” Tears flowed again. “He helped us get started. He liked Bart.”

  “Roarke knew Bart?” Eve asked, and tried not to let her stomach sink.

  “He wanted to recruit us.” Cill swiped at tears with the backs of her hands while her eyes shimmered in green pools. “All of us, but I think especially Bart. But we wanted to start our own. He helped us out, gave us advice, let us play off him for ideas on how to set it all up. We’ve all got an open offer from Roarke Industries, SimUlate, or any of the arms. He wouldn’t steal from us. If we’ve got to give over a copy, I’d want it to be to Roarke’s cop, and Roarke. He’ll make sure nobody gets their hands on it. He’d do that for Bart.”

  She rose, still swiping at tears. “We’ll need to talk to the lawyer. We’d need to cover that much, and maybe get some sort of documentation on producing a copy for you. It’ll take a while to make a copy anyway. We’ve got a lot of security levels on it, and it’s dense, so it could take a while. Maybe a day to get it handled. But I’ll take care of it. Bart’s dead,” she said before either of her friends could speak. “Nobody’s going to put anything in the way of finding out who hurt him. Not even us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Var said as Cill left the room. “I didn’t mean anything about Roarke, that way.”

  “No problem.” Eve’s ’link signaled, told her the e-team had arrived. “My team’s here. You’re going to want to tell your people what’s going on.”

  She sent them out, and brought Peabody in. “I’ve got some details on the game the vic had in, and I’ll fill you in on that later. For now, I want to divide everyone on-site between the five of us. Pick five locations for the interviews, get the full list of employees, divvy them up. We’ll follow up with anyone who didn’t report to work today. Get statements, impressions, salients, and alibis. We’re going to run them all, then run their families and known associates. And we’re going to check financials. Maybe we’ve got somebody passing on data to a competitor for a little extra scratch.”

  “You think this is about the game?”

  “It’s more than a game,” Eve said with a thin smile. “It’s an adventure. I need to take care of something. You can send my share up here when you’ve set up.”

  “You get the cool room.”

  “Yes, I do. Move.”

  Had to be done, Eve thought. She’d have filled him in when she got home in any case. And the murder would leak to the media before much longer. He’d know when it did as he made a point to monitor the crime beat. Just a way to keep up with her.

  If she’d had the head for it, she supposed she’d have monitored the stock market and business news. Good thing for him she didn’t have a clue.

  She opted for his personal ’link, figuring he’d be too busy wheeling to answer, and she could leave him a v-mail.

  But his face flickered on-screen, and those bold blue eyes fixed on hers. “Lieutenant, nice to hear from you.”

  The combination of those eyes, the faint lilt of the green hills and valleys of Ireland in his voice, might have turned a weaker woman into a gooey puddle. As it was she couldn’t stop the quick jump of her heart.

  “Sorry to interrupt whatever.”

  “I’m on my way back from a lunch meeting, so you caught me at a good time.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Where?”

  “Florence. The pasta was exceptional. What can I do for you?”

  “I caught a case.”

  “You often do.”

  Better quick, she thought. It somehow always was. “It’s Bart Minnock.”

  It changed—the easy good humor, the innate flirtation dropped away. The hard lines of anger didn’t diminish that striking face, but instead made the compelling the dangerous.

  “What happened to him?”

  “I can’t get into all the details now, but I just found out you knew him. I didn’t want you to hear about it on a media report.”

  “Has it to do with his work or was it personal?”

  “It’s too soon to say, but his work’s involved.”

  “Where are you?”

  “U-Play.”

  “I’ll be landing in about twenty minutes. I’ll be there within forty.”

  “Roarke—”

  “If it’s to do with his work, I’ll be helpful. If it doesn’t . . . We’ll see. He was a sweet boy, Eve. A sweet, brilliant, and harmless boy. I want to do what I can for him.”

  She’d expected as much. “Find Feeney when you get here. I’m sorry, Roarke.”

  “So am I. How did he die?” When she said nothing, sorrow clouded over the anger. “That bad, was it?”

  “I’ll talk to you when you get here. It’s complicated.”

  “All right then. It’s good he has you. I’ll be there soon.”

  Eve took a breath. He would be helpful, she thought as she stared at the blank screen of her ’link. Not only with the e-work, but with the business. Feeney and his crew knew their e, but they didn’t know the business. Roarke would.

  She checked the time, then tried for Morris.

  “Dallas.”

  “Give me what you can,” she asked. “I don’t know when I’m going to get in there.”

  “My house is always open for you. I can tell you he had no drugs or alcohol in his system. Your vic was a healthy twenty-nine—despite, it seems, an appetite for cheese and onion soy chips and orange fizzies. There’s some minor bruising, and the more serious gash on his arm, all peri-mortem. His head was severed with one blow, with a broad, sharp blade.” Morris used the flat of his hand to demonstrate.

  “Like an axe?”

  “I don’t think so. An axe is generally thicker on the backside. A wedge shape. I’d say a sword—a very large, very strong sword used with considerable force, and from slightly above. A clean stroke.” Again he demonstrated, fisting his hands as if on a hilt, then swinging like a batter at the plate, and cleaving forward. “The anomaly—”

  “Other than some guy getting his head cut off with a sword?”

  “Yes, other than. There are slight burns in all the wounds. I’m still working on it, but my feeling is electrical. Even the bruising shows them.”

  “An electrified sword?”

  Humor warmed his eyes. “Our jobs are never tedious, are they? I’ll be with him for a while yet. He’s a very interesting young man.”

  “Yeah. I’ll get back to you.”

  She pocketed her ’link and began to pace.

  A victim secured, alone, in his own holo-room, beheaded by a sword, potentially with electric properties.

  Which made no sense.

&nb
sp; He couldn’t have been alone because it took two—murderer and victim. So there’d been a breach in his security. Or he’d paused the game, opened up, and let his killer inside. It would have to be someone he trusted with his big secret project.

  Which meant his three best pals were top of the suspect list. All alibied, she mused, but how hard was it for an e-geek to slip through building security, head over a few blocks, slip through apartment security, and ask their good pal Bart to open up and play?

  Which didn’t explain how they’d managed to get the weapon inside, but again, it could be done.

  It had been done.

  Reset everything, go back to work.

  Less than an hour, even with cleanup time.

  Someone at U-Play or someone outside who’d earned the vic’s trust.

  Possibly a side dish. Someone he snuck in himself, after he’d told his droid to shut down. He liked to show off. Guys tended to show off for sex, especially illicit sex.

  The murder wasn’t about sex, but part of the means might be.

  She shuffled the thoughts back at the timid knock on the glass door. Overall Girl, she thought as she came in, who’d added red, weepy eyes to her ensemble.

  “They said I had to come up and talk with you ’cause somebody killed Bart. I wanna go home.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Sit down.”

  Halfway through her complement of interviews, Eve got her first buzz.

  Twenty-three-year-old Roland Chadwick couldn’t keep still—but e-jocks were notoriously jittery. His wet hazel eyes kept skittering away from hers. But it was a hard day, and some in the e-game had very limited social skills.

  Still, most of them didn’t have guilt rolling off their skin in thick, smelly waves.

  “How long have you worked here, Roland?”

  He scratched the long blade of his nose, bounced his knees. “Like I said, I interned for two summers in college, then I came on the roll when I graduated. So, like, a year on the roll, then the two summers before that. Altogether.”