Fantasy in Death

  “See now I’ve got this image of some cock sitting at a swim-up bar at a resort, wearing sunshades and drinking one of those stupid drinks full of fruit and paper umbrellas.”

  “Aw, that’s cute.”

  “It’s not cute. It’s mildly scary. Or disgusting. I’m not sure which. Both.” Eve blew out a tired breath. “I think both.”

  “It should have a little straw hat, too. Anyway, I don’t think it’s about sex with Dubrosky’s penis.”

  “Peabody, I can’t stress how much I don’t want to think about his penis.”

  “It’s addiction,” Peabody continued, unfazed. “I bet Mira’d agree,” she added, referring to the departmental profiler and shrink. “He equates his worth with his penis, and also uses it as a weapon.”

  “Okay, now I see it wearing a gold chain and toting a blaster. Stop now.”

  Shifting, Peabody gave Eve a look of delight. “You get the best pictures in your head. It’s why you’re a good cop. Dubrosky said all that crap about needing to be admired. But see, he’s probably talking about his looks, his manner, but subconsciously, he’s talking about his penis.”

  “Okay, if I agree with you, because actually I do, will you stop?”

  “I just think it’s interesting. Now take this DuVaugne—”

  Eve’s jaw tightened. “Do not start on his penis.”

  “A man ditches his wife of about twenty years for a big rack and a fresh young ginnie.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “He does that because he’s starting to think about his own mortality—and he really doesn’t want to. He needs the big rack and fresh young ginnie so he can say: Hey look what I’ve got, look where my penis gets to go, and it proves I’m still vital and virile. Which circles right back to the penis, which, yes, demands to be admired. You know, we could consult with Charles about this.”

  Eve pulled in at the morgue, and indulged herself by resting her brow on the steering wheel for a minute. “We don’t need a former licensed companion now sex therapist to investigate this case. Plus he and Louise are on their honeymoon.”

  “But they’ll be back in a few days. I think gaining insight into the penis may help in investigations down the road.”

  “Fine, you go right ahead and consult with Charles. Write me a freaking report on same. But now, I don’t want to hear the word penis for the rest of the day.”

  “There’s really no nice word for . . . that particular thing,” Peabody continued as they headed inside. “Everything’s either too hard—get it?—or too silly. But when you think about it, it’s pretty silly to have that particular thing swinging around down there. So—”

  “I will kill you. Save the taxpayers’ money by doing it right here in the morgue. It’s efficient.”

  Eve used the cool air, the white walls to offset the images Peabody’s theories etched in her brain. She spotted Morris in the tunneling corridor, speaking to one of the white-coated techs.

  “I’ll be in to check in a few minutes,” he told the tech, then turned to Eve. “I wondered if you’d make it in today.”

  “I wanted to catch you before you left.”

  “I was heading to my office to send you a report. You’ll want to see him again.”

  He began to walk with her.

  “Tell me about the burns.”

  “Minor, but found along every wound, even the bruising.” He pushed open the doors of his autopsy room where the body lay on a steel slab, with the head on a smaller tray. He offered them both microgoggles. “You’ll see they occur with increasing severity. The bruising on his skin, left forearm, and here on the ankle? So minor he might not have felt the jolt. But here? On the shoulder, which shows slightly deeper bruising and inflammation—there’d been a good wrench in that area—it’s more pronounced.”

  “The more severe the wound, the more severe the burns?”

  “No, though I initially thought the same. But the shin shows more bruising than the ankle, the forearm, but the burns are very mild. The arm and the neck, the burns are virtually identical. And, we’d have to say the neck is a more serious wound.”

  “So . . . the jolts—whatever caused the burns—increased along with the game. The longer he played, the bigger the shock when he got tagged.”

  “It seems most likely.”

  “Challenges usually go up in gaming,” Peabody commented. “As you move through a level, or head up to the next.”

  “Okay.” Eve let that one simmer in her brain. “Power boost maybe. Roarke’s got this virtual game. You use actual weapons—guns. If the bad guy makes a hit, you feel a little jolt. So you know you’ve been hit and where. Enough to register, but not to hurt. Somebody changed the rules on Bart. But that doesn’t explain the internal burns. I get how he might have them on the skin, but the gash, the slice, those are inside, too, not just on the outside. Which means the weapon itself had to carry a charge. What’s the point? Isn’t a big, sharp sword enough?”

  “It certainly would’ve been.”

  She stepped over to the head, examined the neck. “And do they match up?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Maybe the charge added to the thrust. Added power, so the killer didn’t need to be particularly strong. Gave the killer more leverage, speed.” She pulled off the goggles. “Face-to-face?”

  “That’s how it plays,” Morris agreed.

  “It would have to be fast, wouldn’t it? Damn fast. He’s not drugged, he’s not restrained, and he’s facing someone with a big sword. He’d run, try to get the hell away. He’d take it in the back, but I’m damned if he’d just stand there and get his head offed. The killer gives him a taste of it with the arm wound. Wants to see his reaction, wants to shock him. And then, one clean blow.”

  She shook her head. “I’m going back to the scene.”

  DuVaugne came first. She had Peabody check with his office, and as she suspected, he’d left for the day. Corporate execs and cops had neither the same work hours nor pay scale.

  She didn’t begrudge him that part, but it was a pain in the ass to know she had to drive all the way uptown, then down again.

  “You know,” Peabody began and Eve snarled.

  “If you mention any part of anyone’s anatomy I’m shoving you out the window and into oncoming traffic.”

  “I wasn’t going to, but know I’m thinking about it again. What I was going to say was about the sword. Not the euphemistic male sword, but the murder weapon. Last year I went to a con with McNab.”

  “Why would you go to a con?”

  “A game con—convention—in New York at the convention center. A total geek-fest, which is actually a lot more fun than it might sound.”

  “Since it sounds like a nightmare in hell, it wouldn’t have to come up much to be any fun at all.”

  “Well, people dress up like characters from the games, and vids and screen shows. Actors who play the characters come and sign stuff or do demos. They sell all kinds of stuff, even have auctions. High-dollar, too. There are parties and contests and seminars, and a lot of hands-on. You can play just about any game out there if you’re willing to buck the crowds, stand in line. U-Play had a big presence there, I remember. Hey, I probably saw the vic before he was a vic. Anyway, it’s three days of geekdom.”

  “Gee, sign me up.”

  “What I’m saying is they have weapons. Play weapons and prop weapons and virtual weapons. A big chunk of popular games deal with some sort of warfare.”

  “Yeah, people never get enough of killing each other.” But, she thought, it was an interesting angle. “An electrified sword would go over big there.”

  “Bet your ass. We got a pass into one of the auctions, and there was a sword—not electrified—from Elda, Warrior Queen, and it went for over five million.”

  “Fucking dollars?”

  “Yeah, fucking dollars. It was the one Elda used in the vid to defend her throne and all that. The games are the total. McNab and I play them.”

  “Who ge
ts to be queen?”

  “Ha-ha. They’re holo-games, too, but since we don’t have a holo we only play the comp. Anyway, there are weapons galore at these cons, and plenty of vendors and collectors. You’ve got blasters and magic maces and fire lances and light sabers and disintegrators. But from what I saw, swords are the biggest deal. They’re sexier.”

  An interesting angle, she thought again. A good line to tug. “I bet Bart thought how sexy it was to have his head lopped off with one. Collectors, vendors, and cons. It’s a good avenue to explore. But maybe we’ll get lucky and DuVaugne will just whip out his magic sword, we’ll blast him, and wrap this case up.”

  “I know a euphemism for the p-word when I hear one.”

  Eve slid to the curb in a no-parking zone and engaged her On Duty light. “If he whips out anything, we take him down.”

  Laughing, Peabody climbed out. “Some place.”

  If you went for steel and glass and sharp angles, Eve thought. The gold tone of the privacy window glass reflected the beam of sunlight, making her grateful for her shades. She wondered how many people had been blinded just walking by the three-story extravaganza of what was probably some post-post-modern designer’s idea of city slick. She imagined there had once been a dignified brownstone or tidy brick townhouse in that spot, destroyed or mortally wounded during the

  Urban Wars. In its place stood the gleam of brushed steel framing walls of that gold-toned glass.

  Maybe the occupants felt lofty inside their glass box, or enjoyed their nearly unobstructed views of the streets and city.

  She’d have felt exposed and creeped. But it took all kinds.

  Rather than steps from the sidewalk to the entrance a sloped ramp led the way to a platform where a motion detector immediately sent out a low beep. She scanned the dual cameras, the palm plate.

  “Open view, serious locks,” she commented.

  Voice recognition unaccepted. These premises do not accept solicitations. All deliveries must be cleared. No guests are expected at this time. Please identify yourself and state your business. Thank you.

  “Well, it said please.” Peabody shrugged. “And thank you.”

  “Yeah, real polite. I guess they don’t much like the neighborly drop-in.”

  Identification is requested within ten seconds. These premises are protected by Secure-One. Identification failure will alert the authorities in ten seconds.

  “Not so polite now.” Eve pulled out her badge. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, NYPSD. We have business with Lane DuVaugne.”

  No appointment is scheduled.

  “Scan the badge, and inform Mr. DuVaugne the cops are at the door. Failure to do so will result in a whole bunch more cops with a warrant arriving within thirty minutes.”

  Please place your identification on the palm plate for verification scan. Thank you.

  “Got its manners back,” Eve commented as she complied.

  Identification verified, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, of the New York Police and Security Department. Mr. DuVaugne will be informed of your arrival. One moment, please.

  It took more than a moment, but the security cleared and the door opened.

  The servant droid, all skinny dignity in a stark black suit, had Eve muffling a snort. He could have been Summerset’s brother, not only in appearance, but by the derisive dismissal on his face as he peered down at her.

  “Hey, he looks a lot like—”

  “The biggest pain in my ass,” Eve finished, and thinking of Roarke’s majordomo smiled thinly. “Got a name, pal, or just a number?”

  “I am Derby.” He’d been programmed with a tony British accent. “If you’d inform me of the nature of your business with Mr. DuVaugne I will relate same to him. Your companion has not yet identified herself.”

  “Peabody, Detective Delia.” Peabody held up her badge.

  “Now that we’re all nicely ID’d, you can relate to your owner that the NYPSD will speak with him here, in the comfort of his own home, or we’ll escort him to our house for a chat. That would be the less comfortable and more public Cop Central. Our business with him is none of yours. Process that.”

  “I will so inform Mr. DuVaugne. You’re requested to wait in the anteroom. I have engaged all internal security cameras. Your movements and conversation are being recorded.”

  “We’ll resist scratching in inappropriate places.”

  He sniffed, turned his back, then led them across the open foyer with its central pool of Venus-blue water guarded by some sort of metal sculpture of a mostly naked female poised to dive in.

  The glass-walled anteroom held twin gel sofas in glittery silver with murder-red cushions, chairs in a dizzying pattern of both colors. All the tables were clear glass. Some held gardens of strange blooms winding in their bases. From the ceiling a tangle of steel and glass formed chandeliers. The floors were the same tone and texture as the exterior steel.

  Eve tried to think if she’d ever seen a more hyper-trendy and less comfortable room, but couldn’t come up with one.

  “Wait here,” Derby ordered. When he left, Eve walked to the front wall.

  Yes, it definitely made her feel exposed.

  “Why would anybody want nothing but a sheet of fancy glass between them and the rest of the world?” She managed a shrug instead of a shudder, then turned away. “Impressions?”

  Peabody circled her eyes as if to remind Eve they were being recorded. “Um. It’s really clean? And quiet. You can’t hear any street noises at all.” She gestured to the window. “It’s kind of like a vid with the audio muted.”

  “Or we’ve stepped into an alternate universe where the world outside this glass is soundless. And creepy.”

  “Well, it’s creepy now.” Then Peabody winced, circled her eyes again. “But really clean.”

  Eve turned again at the sound of footsteps—a man’s, and from the click-click, a woman’s heels.

  She noted the woman first, and realized the new wife had modeled for the mostly naked sculpture in the foyer. Now she wore a short summer dress that matched the soft blue of her eyes and the current rage of footwear that left the top of the foot unshod. Her toes sported polish in various pastel shades. Her hair fell in a tumble of red with gilded highlights around a face dominated by full, pouty lips.

  Beside her the man stood nondescript in a conservatively cut business suit. Still, his jaw held firm, and his burnished brown eyes matched his sweeping mane of hair.

  His slightly crooked tie and the slumber-satisfied look in his wife’s eyes gave Eve a solid clue what the couple had been up to during her arrival.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, is it, and Detective Peabody.” DuVaugne crossed the room to give them both a hearty handshake. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’re investigating the murder of Bart Minnock.”

  “Ah.” He gave a wise nod, a regretful sigh. “Yes, I heard about that. The media doesn’t have many details.”

  “You were acquainted with Mr. Minnock?”

  “No, not really. I knew of him, of course, as we’re in the same business.”

  “Geezy, honey, you gotta ask them to sit down. Tsk.”

  She actually said “Tsk,” and with the heavy Bronx base struggling to affect the rounded tones of her droid, Eve found it rather remarkable.

  “I’m Taija. Mrs. Lane DuVaugne. Please, won’t you sit?” She gestured the way screen models did to showcase prizes on game shows. “I’d be happy to order some refreshments.”

  “Thanks.” Eve accepted the invitation to sit. “We’re fine. So you never met Bart Minnock?”

  “Oh, I believe we met a time or two.” DuVaugne took a seat on the red and silver sofa with his wife. “At conventions and events, that sort of thing. He seemed to be a bright and affable young man.”

  “Then why did somebody kill him?” Taija asked.

  “Good question,” Eve said, and made Taija beam like a student flattered by a favored teacher.

  “If you don’t ask questions, you don’t find a
nything out.”

  “My philosophy. Let me apply that by asking you, Mr. DuVaugne, if you can verify your whereabouts yesterday between three and seven p.m.”

  “Mine? Are you implying I’m a suspect?” Outrage sprang out where, Eve thought, puzzlement would have been a better lead. “Why, I barely knew the man.”

  “Geezy, Lane wouldn’t kill anybody. He’s gentle as a lamb.”

  “It’s standard procedure. As you said, Mr. DuVaugne, you and the victim were in the same line of work.”

  “That’s hardly a motive for murder! Countless people in this city alone are in the gaming business, but you come into my home and demand I answer your questions.”

  “Now, now, honey.” Taija stroked his arm. “Don’t get all worked up. You know it’s not good for you. And she’s being real polite. You’re always saying people need to do the jobs they’re paid to do and all that. Especially public servants. You’re a public servant, right?” she asked Eve.

  “That’s right.”

  “Anyway, honey, you know you were at work until nearly four. He works so hard,” she confided to Eve. “And then you came right home and we had our little lie-down before we got dressed for the dinner party at Rob and Sasha’s. It was a really nice party.”

  “Taija, it’s a matter of principle.”

  “There, there,” she said, stroking. “Now, now.”

  DuVaugne took a slow, audible breath. “Taija, I think I’d like my evening martini.”

  “Sure, honey, I’ll go tell Derby to mix you one right up. ’Scuze . . . I mean, please excuse me a minute.”

  After she’d clicked out, DuVaugne turned to Eve. “My wife is naive in certain areas.”

  Maybe, Eve thought, but she also came off as sincere, and absurdly likeable.

  “Naive enough not to understand ‘working hard’ includes you paying a con man for confidential information on the workings and projects of U-Play? We have Dubrosky in custody,” Eve said before he could speak. “He rolled on you.”

  “I have no idea what or who you’re talking about. Now, I’m going to ask you to leave.”

  “Peabody, read Mr. DuVaugne his rights.”

  While he blustered, Peabody recited the Revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter?” Peabody finished.