by J. D. Robb
It could still make her sick, deep in the belly, if she let it.
“That’s the type who can never go back,” she said quietly, but her eyes were hard, almost fierce. “Who have to do it again because sooner or later, the power demands it. Some of the shrinks will claim that’s a kind of madness, that compulsion to feel that power and excitement again. But it’s not. It’s greed, that’s all.”
She shifted to him. “I know this. I felt that power, even the excitement, when I killed my father.”
“You can’t toss self-defense in with murder. You can’t equate murder with a child fighting for her life against a monster.”
“It wasn’t murder, but it was killing. It was ending a life. It was blood on my hands.”
He took the hand she held out, shook his head, pressed his lips to the palm.
“Roarke, I know the power of that, the sick excitement. I know the horrible, tearing guilt, and even the hardening of the heart, the soul, because I felt all of that over time. All of it. I know, even though what I did wasn’t murder, what the murdering can and does feel. It helps me find them. It’s a tool.”
She touched his cheek, understanding that the memories, the idea of what she’d been through until the night when she’d been eight, hurt him as much as they hurt her. Maybe more now, she realized. Maybe more.
“I was twenty-three the next time I took a life,” she continued. “Fifteen years between. Feeney and I went after a suspect. He’d beaten two people to death, in front of witnesses, left DNA and trace all over the scene. Slam dunk, just have to find him. We followed a lead to this dive. Sex club where his girlfriend worked. We figured we’d shake her down a little, see if she knew where he was. Well, where he was happened to be the sex club. Idiot girlfriend screams for him to run, and runs with him. He’s mowing people down right and left, and those who aren’t mowed are stampeding. We chased him all the way up to the roof, and now he’s got a ten-inch blade against the idiot girlfriend’s throat, who is now singing another tune.
“It’s summer.” She could still feel it, smell it, see it. “Hot as a fuck in hell. Sweat’s pouring down his face. Hers, too. He’s screaming at us how he’ll slice her open if we come any closer. And now there’s blood trickling down with her sweat where he’s given her a jab to show he means it. He’s using her as a shield, and Feeney doesn’t have the angle for a stun stream.”
“But you do,” Roarke murmured.
“Yeah, I do. Barely, but I’ve got it. And we’re trying to talk him down, and it’s not going to happen. He gives her a second jab. Feeney keeps talking, talking, pulling the guy’s attention to him, and gives me the go signal.”
And Roarke could see it, too. He could see it in her eyes as she spoke. “I stun him—nice clean stream, and his body jerks the way it does with a hit. She shoves forward to get clear, pushes clear, bumps him back, and he’s jerking. The son of a bitch went right over the edge. Momentum, gravity, bad luck, whatever, but he went over and hit the sidewalk eight stories down.
“I didn’t feel excited when I looked down at him. I didn’t feel guilty either. A little shaky, sure. Jesus, it was a straight stun, neither of us expected him to go over that way. I didn’t even have to go through Testing. We’d turned on our recorders when we started the chase, and it was all on there, it showed the girlfriend’s push and stumble caused the fall. Or basically. Bad luck for him, that’s all.”
She let out a breath. “But I’m the one who aimed and fired. Fifteen years between. It took me that long to be sure, absolutely sure, I wouldn’t feel that excitement, or that guilt, or that hardening when I had to take another life.”
She looked back toward the building. “One of those three, at least one of them, might be wondering if they’ll feel that again. One of them may want to.”
“I can’t tell you how much I hope you’re wrong.”
Her eyes, flat and cool, met his. “I’m not.”
“No. I very much doubt you’re wrong.”
13
SHE SPENT A GREAT DEAL OF TIME PICKING through data on the lives of three people, analyzing it, scraping away at tiny details of family background, education, finances, and communication.
She played each one against Mira’s profile, and the computer matched each one of them with a reasonably high probability to the general outline.
Organized, detail-oriented, competitive, wide e-skills, known and trusted by victim.
But the violence—that face-to-face, blood-on-the-hands cruelty bottomed them out again.
Still, nowhere could she find any hint, much less any evidence, that any had bought a hit.
Money wasn’t the only currency, she mused. A favor, sex, information—all those could stand in for dollars and cents and never show on any balance sheet. But that didn’t account for the fact Bart had known his killer. There was simply no reason to believe he’d allowed a stranger into his apartment, into his holo-room, into his game.
One more time, she told herself, and rose to study and circle her board.
Vic comes home happy, whistling a tune. And comes in alone according to both the doorman and the security cameras. EDD verifies by all that’s holy there’d been no tampering with the locks, and no entry before the vic’s in any access into the apartment.
Still, she considered, we have three very skilled, very clever e-geeks. If there was a way to bypass without it showing, they’d find it.
Or, more realistically, one of them, or another party met the vic outside and entered with him.
Only the droid says otherwise—and once again EDD remained firm that no one tampered with or reprogrammed the Leia droid.
Eve shut her eyes.
“Maybe he doesn’t secure the door immediately. He’s excited, happy. The droid brings him a fizzy, he tells her to go ahead and shut down. The killer may have entered at that time, after the droid shut down, before the door was secured. It’s possible.”
The friendly face shows up, Eve thought, tells the vic, I couldn’t resist. I want in on the game, or want to observe. One of the partners, she thought again. You play, I’ll document and observe.
Also possible, she concluded. Why wait until after-hours? It’s almost ready. Let’s run it. The killer could’ve brought the disc, which explains why the vic didn’t log it out, as was his routine. Or, the killer told the vic he or she would log it for him.
The weapon might have already been on the premises, or brought in by the killer.
And the game begins. System reads solo. Bart plays, killer observes—it’s logical, it’s efficient.
But at some point, the killer stops observing. Bruising, wrenched shoulder indicate a scuffle.
And that, Eve thought, was where it just didn’t fit for her.
The weapon’s there, the plan’s in place, so why the scuffle? Bart’s in good shape—superior shape for a geek—and he’s studied combat moves. Why risk a fight, why risk him getting some licks in?
An argument? Passion of the moment? No, no, dammit, it wasn’t impulse. Too many safeguards in place.
Ego? She studied the three faces on the board.
Yes, ego. I’m better than you are. It’s about time you found out how much better. Tired of playing sidekick and loyal friend and partner. Have a taste of this.
She studied the autopsy photos, the data, rocked back and forth on her heels.
Considering, she opened the panel for the elevator and ordered Roarke’s weapons room. She used the palm plate, keyed in her code, and stepped into a museum of combat. Display after display held what man had used again man, or beast, over centuries. To kill, to defend, for land, for money, for love, for country, for gods. It seemed people could always find some new way to end each other, and some handy excuse for the blood.
From ancient sharpened points, to silver swords with jeweled hilts, from crude and clumsy muskets that used powder and ball to rip steel into flesh, to the sleek, balanced automatics that could wage a storm of steel with a twitch of a finger. Lances, maces
that looked like iron balls studded with dragon’s teeth, the long-ranged blasters of the Urban Wars, the razor-thin stiletto and the two-headed axe all spoke of the violent history of her species, and very likely its future.
She found studying them, seeing so many killing tools in one space, both fascinating and disturbing.
She opened a case, selected a broadsword. Good weight, she decided, good grip. Satisfied, she stepped out and reengaged the security.
“Is there a problem?” Summerset demanded as he seemed to eke out of the shadows.
Eve gave herself points for not jolting, smiled instead as she leaned on the sword. “Why do you ask?”
“The weapons aren’t to leave the display.”
“Gee, maybe you should call a cop.”
The long, cool stare he gave her was as derisive as a sniff. “What you have there is very valuable.”
“Which is why I’m not poking you with it. I might hit the stick up your ass and break the tip. Don’t worry. Roarke’s the one who’s going to be using it.”
“I expect it to be returned to the display in the exact condition it was in when you removed it.”
“Yeah, yeah, blah blah.” She stepped back on the elevator, and couldn’t resist tapping the flat of the blade to her forehead in a quick, sarcastic salute before the doors closed.
“I’d better not be stitching someone up tonight,” Summerset muttered.
Eve stepped out in her office, walked over to Roarke’s. “Hey.”
He made a humming sound, and continued to work his comp.
“Can you come in here a minute?”
“In five,” he said.
While she waited she went to her own comp, ran a reenactment of the murder using a figure representing each of the partners in height, weight, reach.
“What do you need?” Roarke asked her. “And why do you have that sword?”
“I’m trying to figure how it went down. So ...” She stepped into the center of the room, and imagining Summerset’s horror, tossed the sword to Roarke. “Come at me.”
“You want me to attack you with a broadsword?”
“We’ll start with that version.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not going to go at you with a bloody sword.”
“Well, for God’s sake, I don’t want you to whack me with it. I don’t want it to be a bloody sword. Demonstration purposes only. You’re the killer.” She pointed at him. “I’m the vic.” And tapped her chest. “Now you’ve got that big, sharp, shiny sword, and I’ve got some useless holo-weapon, so wouldn’t you just—”
She broke off as he took one quick step forward, and had the flat of the blade an inch from her throat.
“Yeah, like that. And see, my instinctive reaction to that move would be to bring my useless weapon up like this.” She moved slow, to block, shoving the sword aside. “The thing is, the gash was on his other arm. Vic’s right-handed, so logic says he’d have the useless holo-weapon in his dominant hand. The wrenched shoulder’s on that side, but Morris said it’s the kind of injury you’d get from over-rotating.”
“Maybe, in surprised defense, he brought his other arm up.”
“Yeah, but, see, if he did, the gash is just wrong.” She demonstrated again. “Logic again says the wound should go across, not up and down. Besides, if you had a big, long sword, and I didn’t, wouldn’t you just ram it into me? You’ve got the advantage of reach.”
“I would, yes. Get it done.”
“But it didn’t just get done. Bruises on the arms and legs. See, if we’re fighting. Put it down a minute.” When he had she gave him a finger curl. “Come at me.”
She blocked, pivoted. He blocked her side kick.
“See, we’re fairly even here, and if we meant it, I’m going to get some bruises where I either land a blow or block, or you block me. But you’re not going to block me with your arm when you’ve got that big sword.”
She held up a hand for peace. “I ran some reenactment. They just don’t play out logically.”
“We argue, it gets physical,” he suggested. “I lose my head, grab the sword, and take yours.”
“If it went down that way, why is the sword there in the first place?” She paced away, frowned at her murder board again. “If it went down that way, why isn’t the disc logged out? Why was it timed so the killer arrived after the droid shut down? And why did the killer evade building security on the way in?”
“Might be coincidence.”
“One might be a coincidence.” Hands on her hips, she turned back. “Put them together it’s a pattern.”
“Well, I’m forced to agree with you. So we’ve had our fight. What do you do when I pick up the sword?”
“I say, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Or words to that effect,” Roarke agreed. “And when I come at you?”
“I run, or at least try to get the hell out of the way of the really sharp point.”
“And, you’d run, one would think, for the door.”
“If the game’s still up, he might’ve been disoriented.”
“True enough.” As she did, Roarke tried to see it, to put himself into it. “Then wouldn’t you do one of two things—use the game, the holo-features for cover? Attempt to hide. Or call for the game to end, then try for the door.”
“Yeah. But the body was well inside the room, nearly center, and facing—so to speak—away from the door.” She huffed out a breath. “It skirts all around the edges of logical. I can’t make it work in my head. I can’t see the steps. Maybe there were two people. Mira believes there might’ve been.”
She tilted her head at the reconstruction she’d paused on-screen. Maybe she needed to add another figure. “The killer and the planner. If so, he still had to know and trust both of them to let them into that room during game play. The game was too important for him to let anyone he didn’t know, anyone who wasn’t involved get a sneak peek.”
“It depresses me to say it, but maybe it was the lot of them. All three.”
“Possible.” She’d circled around that herself. “I can’t figure why all three of them would want him dead, but possible. Two to do the job, one to stay back and cover for the other two.”
She paced away again. “I can’t find anything in the business that indicates there was any trouble, anything that makes me think he might’ve been throwing his weight around or threatening to walk away, or anything else that relates specifically to the partnership that comes up motive.”
“So it was personal.”
“I think it was, yeah.” That, she mused, was the one element that kept repeating for her. “Personal could’ve come out of the partnership, the business. They practically lived together in that place. Worked together, played together. The only one in a semi-serious outside relationship was Bart. Need to talk to her again. The girlfriend,” Eve added.
She turned back to Roarke. “Are you up for a game?”
“Will I need my sword?”
“Ha.” She gestured toward the broadsword. “Bring that one, too.”
“Ha,” he echoed.
“I want to run the two scenarios you culled out.” She retrieved the disc. “From the level he started.” They moved into the elevator. “Solo play,” she decided when Roarke ordered the holo-room. “Let’s replay as close as possible to what he might’ve done.”
“Question. Why does what he was playing matter?”
“Because I can’t see it.” And that, she had to admit, was a pisser. “I can’t make it work no matter how many ways I play it out. The injuries, the timing, the entry and exit by the killer. Every time I get one part of it solid, another part goes to goo in my fingers. Something’s missing. I could bring the three of them in,” she said as they stepped out again. “Pressure them some, try playing one against the other. Maybe I’d crack it. Or maybe I’d shore up whoever did it—because something’s missing and I don’t have it to use. Whoever did it would know that. Right now
they think they’re clear, and maybe, just maybe, the killer relaxes and makes a mistake. If I push when I can’t see it, a mistake’s more likely.
“You play the first one, Bart’s character menu.”
“All right.”
“They could do it again.”
He paused, looked back at her. “Why? If it was specific toward Bart, why again?”
“Because it worked. Gaming can be a kind of addiction. It’s what they do—what the killer does—all day, one way or the other. It’s what feeds them, what excites them, what gives them purpose and pleasure. Higher stakes once you’ve killed. A new level. Some gamers start skipping the lower levels—like Bart did—once they nail them. It’s a little boring, right?”
“Yes. Yes, you’re right.”
“It’s hard to go back to the simple stuff once you’ve proven yourself. Not just the kill, like we were talking about before. But the challenge. More, if it is one of them—say just one of them—they’re close, they’re tight. Day in and day out. One little slip, something said or done that makes the others wonder. Good excuse to do it again. You’re just protecting yourself.”
“The murder of another partner would increase your focus on the two remaining,” Roarke pointed out.
“True gamers juice on the risk, the challenge. Right? They want the buzz. Maybe need that buzz.”
“You believe the killer’s playing against you now.”
“Yeah, at least on one level. And the ego’s saying hey, I’m better than she is.”
“The ego would be wrong,” Roarke commented.
She tucked her thumbs in her front pockets as he inserted the copy of the game into the holo-unit. “Since I feel like I’m spinning my wheels, I’ll take the confidence booster.”
“You’re not spinning anything. A day ago, I wouldn’t have believed one or more of his friends would plot his death. But you’ve picked it all apart and laid it back out so that there’s simply no other answer. To my mind, that puts you well ahead in this game.”
“I wish I was wrong.”
“For my sake, or Bart’s?”