Fantasy in Death

  “I’ll pour, Min.” He reached up, gave the hand on his shoulder a light squeeze. “Go, put your feet up awhile.” He added something in their native language.

  The woman kissed the top of his head, then left them.

  “Min was my nanny when I was a boy. Now she helps take care of our boys.” He poured pale gold tea into handleless cups. “My wife is upstairs with the children. We can speak freely.”

  “It would be helpful to speak to your wife, and your sons.”

  “Yes, they’ll come down shortly. I thought, if you needed to give any details . . . I hope you can spare the children some of it. They’re very young, and they were very fond of Bart.”

  She wished briefly for Peabody. Peabody was better than she was with kids. Well, anybody was, she decided, and considered Roarke.

  “We’ll be as sensitive as possible with your children, Dr. Sing.”

  “They understand death, as well as a child can. Their parents are doctors, after all. But it’s difficult for them, for any of us to understand how their friend could be upstairs one day, and gone the next. Can you tell me if there are plans for any sort of service? I think attending would be helpful for them.”

  “I don’t have that information at this time, but I’ll see that you get the details when I do.”

  “Thank you. I understand you’re very busy. I’ll get my family.”

  When he left the room, Eve shifted to Roarke. “I think you should talk to the kids.”

  “Funny. I don’t.”

  “They’re boys. They’d probably relate better to you.”

  Face placid, body at ease, he sampled the tea. “Coward.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m not right. Besides, I’m primary. I get to call the shots.”

  He smiled at her. “I’m just a civilian.”

  “Since when?” she retorted.

  “Try the tea. It’s very nice.”

  “I’ll show you what you can do with the tea.” But she postponed the demonstration as she watched the Sing family come in.

  The woman had the dark skin, the ice-edged cheekbones, and regal bearing of an African princess. She must have topped out at six feet, and she carried it on a lush and admirable body. She and her husband flanked the boys, a hand on each shoulder indicating a united front.

  Eve didn’t know much about kids, but she was pretty sure she was looking at two of the most beautiful examples of the species. They had their father’s black, almond-shaped eyes, their mother’s cheekbones, and skin of an indescribable tone that somehow blended their parents to golden, glowing perfection.

  The boys held hands, a gesture that gave her heart one hard wrench. Beside her, she heard Roarke sigh, and understood.

  Such youth, such beauty should never have to face the senseless violence of murder.

  “My wife, Susan, and our sons, Steven and Michael.”

  “Lieutenant. Sir. You’re here to help Bart.” Susan stroked a hand gently up and down Steven’s back.

  “Yes. Thank you for your time.” Eve braced herself, looked at the children. “I’m very sorry you lost your friend.”

  “The police find the bad people,” the younger boy, Michael, said. “And arrest them. Then they go to jail.”

  Someone, she thought, had given the kids the basic pecking order. “That’s right.”

  “Sometimes they don’t.” Steven’s jaw tightened. “Sometimes they don’t find them and arrest them. And sometimes when they do they don’t go to jail.”

  And, the reality. “That’s right, too.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas always finds the bad people,” Roarke told the boy, “because she never stops looking. She never stops looking because even though she didn’t know Bart before, he’s her friend now, too.”

  “How can she be his friend if she didn’t know him?”

  “Because after he died, she went to him, and looked at him, and promised him her help. That’s what friends do. They help.”

  “He helped me with compu-science for school,” Michael piped up.

  “And he let us play his games and let us have fizzies . . .” He slanted a look up at his mother.

  She smiled. “It’s all right.”

  “We’re not supposed to have too many fizzies,” Michael explained. “They’re not really good for you. How do you catch the bad people? Don’t they hide and run away?”

  Okay, Eve decided, she could handle this. “They try to. You might be able to help me find them.”

  “You need clues.”

  “Sure. Sometimes I get clues by talking to people. So why don’t you tell me about the last time you saw Bart?”

  “It wasn’t yesterday or the day before, but the day before that.” Michael looked at his brother for verification.

  “It was raining a lot so we couldn’t go to the park after our music lesson. We got to go up to Bart’s and be a test study.”

  “What did you test?”

  “Bases Loaded,” Steven told her. “The new version that’s not even out yet. It’s total and almost as good as playing in the park for real.”

  “Was anyone else there?”

  “It was just us, until Min came to get us. And Bart talked her into playing Scrabble before we left. She won. She always wins Scrabble.”

  “Maybe he talked to someone on the ’link.”

  “No, ma’am, he didn’t. Oh, but Leia was there. I forgot.”

  “The droid.”

  “She made snacks. Healthy snacks,” Michael added with another glance at his mother. “Sort of healthy.”

  “Did he show you any other new games? Something else that isn’t out yet?”

  “Not that day.”

  “How about Fantastical?”

  Both boys angled their heads. “What is it?” Steven asked. “It sounds like a magic game. Linc likes magic games especially.”

  “Linc Trevor,” Sing supplied. “He’s a friend of the boys, and lives in the building. He and his family are on vacation.”

  “They’ve been gone forever,” Michael complained.

  “Less than two weeks.” Susan glanced at Eve. “They’ll be gone a month altogether.”

  “When he gets back and before school starts we’re going to have a party. If it’s okay,” Steven added. “Bart said we’d all get together: Linc and Bart’s friends from work, and there’d be a brand-new game. The best game ever. We’ll all get to play, and . . . but we can’t. We won’t. Because Bart’s dead now. I forgot. Bart’s dead.”

  “You’re helping me help him right now,” Eve told him as the boy’s eyes swam.

  “How?”

  “By talking to me. Did he tell you anything about the new game? The best game?”

  “He said you got to be anyone or anything you wanted. Imagine your reality and go beyond. That’s what he said. I remember because it made me laugh. It sounds funny.”

  Even Bart couldn’t resist leaking a little of the project.” Eve paused outside the crime scene apartment before breaking the seal. “Only a couple of kids who really didn’t process any more than ‘party’ and ‘new game.’ But if he said something to them, he may have said something to someone who’d process a lot more.”

  “Killing him didn’t get them the game,” Roarke pointed out.

  “We can’t be sure of that. We can’t know what he may or may not have told his killer. Dubrosky used sex to get data. The killer may have used the same, or some other type of seduction. Praise, interest, financial backing. It goes back to the game,” she said as she closed and locked the door behind them. “It has to.”

  She stood a moment, taking in the living area, trying to see it through the victim’s eyes. “However smart he is, he’s simple. The colors in here, throughout the place. Stimulating, sure, but simple. Primary colors. Game and vid posters for art, reflecting his taste. What he likes, what he’s comfortable with. Every room set up for games.

  “He’s loyal, but that’s also a simplicity. You make friends, you keep friends. Playmates beco
me workmates, and you know them, understand them, again relate—and it’s comfortable. His current girlfriend, very comfortable relationship there, too. No drama, no kink. Just a nice girl hanging with a nice boy. Relatively new friends? Kids in the building. They’re simple, too. A kid’s going to play as long as you let him play. He’s not going to want a fancy meal when pizza’s on the menu. He gets kids because a big part of him still is one.”

  “I’ve nothing to argue about so far.” Roarke watched her wander the room.

  “Kids—unless you were you or me—are generally pretty trusting. He’s got good security. He’s not a fool. But he brings home a developmental disc, without logging it out. Their big project, and he carries a copy home, where again, sure he’s got good security. But what if he got mugged on the street, hit by a maxibus, had his pocket picked? He doesn’t think of that because he’s simple, and because he wants to play the game. In his own place. His game. So . . .”

  She walked back to the door. “He comes home, a little earlier than usual. He can’t wait. The doorman’s not lying, so he came in alone. EDD reports that his droid’s programmed to bring him a fizzy when he comes in, remind him of any appointments or events. The memory log confirms that behavior, and the ordered shutdown. He drinks his fizzy, and the timing of the shutdown and the holo log-in indicates he went almost directly into the holo-room. Droid’s log has it suggesting he change his shoes. They were wet from walking home in the rain. But he didn’t. Security logs at the entrance show him wearing the same pair he died in.”

  “Young,” Roarke commented, “eager to play. Not much thought about damp shoes.”

  “Yeah.” She shook her head as they started up. “Maybe someone was already here. Maybe he let someone in after the shutdown, before he went up.”

  “Someone he knew and trusted,” Roarke prompted.

  “No sign of struggle, no defensive wounds except for arm gash, no chemicals in his system, no evidence of restraints. Maybe they freaking hypnotized him, but otherwise, he went into the holo-room with his killer.”

  “A playmate.”

  “Not a pint-sized one. Neither of those Sing kids could cover this.”

  “So you can write them off.”

  “If they’d been here and there’d been an accident, they’d have spilled it.” She thought of those dark, liquid eyes again. The simplicity, the innocence. “The younger one spilled about the fizzies. You could say, Gee, that’s cute, but what it is, under it, is honest. Still, possibly an accident with someone not as simple or honest as a couple of kids.”

  “They’re a lovely family.”

  Her gaze tracked as they continued on, as she looked for anything out of place, anything she might have missed before. “I don’t know why it always surprises me to see that sort of thing. Maybe I don’t generally interview lovely families. Steady ones. My impression is Bart came from the same. Maybe it’s a disadvantage in its own way.”

  “What way would that be?”

  “You can end up too simple and too trusting.” She glanced at him. “That’s sure not our problem.”

  “The cop and the criminal?” He laid a stroke down her back. “I’d wager there’s a good many of those from steady families as well. Is that what worries you, Eve, about starting one of our own? Not time yet,” he added, helplessly amused by the quick panic in those canny cop’s eyes. “But when it is, is that your worry? We’ll either raise cops, criminals, or the too trusting?”

  “I don’t have a clue. But just a for instance, who’ll remember to say, ‘No more fizzies’? What if I want one? Or no pizza for dinner again, when come on, why the hell not? It’s another endless set of rules to learn. I haven’t worked my way through the marriage rules yet.”

  “And yet, here we are.” He lowered his head to kiss her lightly. “I think there’s a lot of on-the-job training involved in raising children.”

  “That’s fine when it’s consenting adults, but it ought to be a lot more solid when there’s one of those little squirmy things involved, like Mavis’s Bella. Anyway . . .” She’d let herself become distracted, and Bart deserved better.

  “He goes in, alone or with a playmate. Alone doesn’t make sense. His pocket ’link was still on him, and shut off—downtime corresponds to the holo-log entry. He came in, shut down his coms so he wouldn’t be disturbed. Or someone shut them down for him. But alone would mean someone came in after him, which means that person or persons circumvented the security not only on the building, but the apartment and this room.”

  Blowing out a breath, she shook her head. “It’s too much work, too much trouble. If you’re that good, you minimize the risks.”

  “And come in with him.”

  “He had to have company in here. Maybe he’d planned it that way, though there’s nothing on any of his ’links or comps to show he intended to meet anyone. An impulse. Someone from work, from the building, someone he ran into on the way home. And still an outsider had to get by the doorman unless they came in earlier or accessed another opening in the building. Delivery entrance, roof, an empty apartment. We know at least one apartment’s vacant with the Trevors on vacation. Probably others, or others just empty during the day.”

  “They’d have to expect Bart to come home in order to cross paths.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed. “Which goes right back to someone from U-Play. All it takes is one tag. He’s on his way. Get in, arrange to run into him—knock on the door a couple minutes after he’s inside. Time to have him shut down the droid so he’s got everything set for game time. ‘Hey, how’s it going—I was just in the neighborhood, thought I saw you come in.’ Bart’s all whistling-a-tune happy, excited. He’s nearly ready to launch his baby, just wants to play with it first, fine-tune. Here’s someone he knows. Another game player. It virtually has to be or why bring them in?”

  She paced the room, stopped, put her hands on her hips. “I don’t like it. Too loose, too many variables.” She closed her eyes a moment, tried to see another angle. “He takes the game disc, but doesn’t log it. Or he did and someone doctored the log. Either way, it’s a work thing. Someone from work, someone involved in the project, maybe someone he wants along to help with specifics. But on the down-low. They don’t come in together, so maybe the killer arranges to meet him. ‘I’ll be right behind you’ sort of thing. Gives him a chance to get in another way, before or after Bart leaves. Before’s better. Got a couple things to do first, so I’ll meet you. Access on the sly so nobody knows you’re there. Disc’s not logged out, and Bart’s place is a short walking distance from the warehouse. Busy place. Is anyone really going to notice if someone’s gone for an hour?

  “It could work.” Complicated, she thought again, but doable. And didn’t gamers prefer the complex? “You’re in, and the only person who knows you’re in is going to be dead.”

  “And the weapon?” Roarke asked.

  “Big shiny toy. Look what I’ve got. Just had to show you. Game’s in, and they play because that’s got to be part of it. The competition, the game. It wasn’t a goddamn accident. It was premeditated. Otherwise there’s no need to avoid coming in through security. No need to time it just so. Some sort of war fantasy, fight, sports—something to explain the minor bruising. Fight. Sword fight? Knights in shining freaking armor or warlords or whatever the fucking hell boys play.”

  She circled the room trying to see it, to get some sort of picture in her head. “Maybe Bart’s getting the upper hand, racking up points. That just pisses you off, helps wind you up for the kill. Give him a taste first or maybe you just missed. First blood with that arm wound. See the shock on his face, smell the blood—it’s like copper on the back of the throat. Then one vicious swing, and it’s done. End of game. The blood’s real though, so much of it now that copper taste is too strong. Clean up, change clothes, stuff the bloody ones in a bag. Get out the same way you got in.”

  “And leave the game disc behind?”

  “If he knew Bart well enough to get in, he kne
w him well enough to know the security. Anybody tries to eject without all the codes, it self-destructs. It’s just a copy. It’s not about the disc, it’s about the whole—the game, the company, the man, everything. Because to do what was done here, you were very, very pissed off. Passion,” she murmured. “Passion and ego more than money, I think. Money’ll play a part. It nearly always does, but it’s not leading this charge.”

  She held up a hand as a new thought emerged. “He brought the disc home. Five-minute walk. I bet it’s not the first time. Did EDD download the full log?”

  “It goes back to the beginning of the year. It’s archived prior. I only glanced at it as we’re working on getting into his comps and trying to piece together what we can from the disc. And don’t hope for much there. It’s hardly more than ashes.”

  “But the log may give us a pattern. That, the building’s security discs, and the security discs and logs from U-Play.”

  “It’s going to be a long night,” Roarke predicted.

  7

  On the way home she checked in with members of the team, logged the updates. She sent copies of all reports to her commander, then requested a consult with Mira for the next day.

  “Two arrests today,” she said, thinking of DuVaugne and Dubrosky. “Both deserve the cage time, but neither of them killed my vic. Someone closer than that. Someone more fun.”

  She remembered Peabody’s angle. “These conventions—cons—where people get all dressed up in weird outfits, play games, have contests, take seminars. I bet you’d meet a lot of fun people at those, if that’s what you’re into.”

  “Shared interests, like minds. That’s what you’re after.”

  “And the weapons. Fancy magic sword. Maybe it was a bribe, or some sort of payment. Let me play the game, let me be—what did Bart call it with the Sing kids—your test study—and you can have the sword.”

  “Most auctions and shops have records of that sort of sale. I can try to find it.” Roarke maneuvered around a maxibus, threaded the needle between a couple of Rapid Cabs while evening traffic spurted, snarled, or stalled. “But it’s just as likely it was private, and no record exists.”