by J. D. Robb
“I’m never going to forget this. Never.” He spun around, walked away.
“Bet you won’t,” Eve murmured.
She left the bedroom, crossed the length of the loft to Cill’s holo-room. To satisfy herself, she tried the log. Was denied.
She went in search of McNab. “I want the data from the holo-log as soon as you can get it. I want to know when she last used it, and what she used it for.”
“No problem. This place.” He let out a low whistle. “These people know how to live.”
“Yeah. Until they don’t. Peabody,” she called out. “With me.”
She opted to walk, and though Benny’s building was only a half a block away, chose to cover the three blocks to Var’s.
“Who’s on this one?”
“I put Carmichael, Foster, Callendar on this one. It’s supposed to storm tonight. Do you think it’s going to storm?”
“How do I know? Do I look like a forecaster?”
“I’ve got these great shoes to wear to Nadine’s party, but if it rains and we get stuck getting a cab or have to walk to the subway, they’ll get screwed.” Peabody searched the sky for answers. “If it storms I need to wear these pretty mag boots, but they’re not new. Plus the shoes are so totally uptown.”
“Peabody? Your footwear is of absolutely no interest to me, and at the moment the source of mild annoyance.”
“Since it’s only mild, let me continue. I sprang for a new outfit, too. It seemed like a good excuse for one. Nadine’s book, fancy deal. And the Icove case was ours. I’m in the book and all that. I want to look complete. What are you wearing?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care.”
“You have to.” To bring the point home, Peabody stabbed Eve’s arm with her finger. “You’re like the star of the book.”
“I am not the star of the book.” The idea was horrifying. “The case is the star of the book.”
“Who was in charge of the case?”
“I’m going to show you my current footwear, Peabody, up close when my boot connects with your nose.”
“It’s usually my ass, so that’s a nice change.” She stopped, tipped down her shaded glasses to study Var’s building. “Post-Urban. One of those temps that became permanent. It’s in good shape, though. Good security again. He’s on the top two floors, roof access. I bet it’s a nice view from up on the roof.”
Inside, they rode up to ten.
“I bet you guys are taking a limo tonight,” Peabody said with some envy.
“I don’t know. I don’t care.”
“Easy not to care when you have a limo just by snapping your fingers.”
Eve sighed. She supposed it was. “Look, if I get you and McNab a limo will you stop whining, and say nothing more about your damn shoes or anything else about the damn party?”
Peabody let out a very uncoplike squeal and grabbed Eve in a hug before Eve could evade it. “Yes! Yes! Wow. Thanks, Dallas. Serious thanks. I can wear my new ... I can stop having any concerns about the weather.”
Eve shoved her back, struggled to realign her dignity as they stepped out.
Var didn’t command the entire floor, but took the west side of it.
He went for more muted tones, she concluded. More masculine, and a style she found more restful than that of his other two partners. In furniture, he’d gone sleek leaning toward avant-garde, curved shapes, sharp angles.
Order, she mused, a certain style and clean to the point of shining. Unlike Cill he avoided clutter, but he shared her predilection for mega-e in comps, systems, screens, toys. A display held a collection of weapons—props, she noted, toys again. No reals.
She studied the contents of his fridge—all liquids. Wines, beers, soft and power drinks. He relied on the AutoChef for food and had that well-stocked. Like Bart’s, she mused, heavy on the pizza, burgers, tacos, sweets. Steaks, she noted, potato sides, big on fried.
Guy food.
“His place is neater than hers,” Peabody observed. “Seems more organized, and more stylish.”
“She has her own organizational style, but yes, tidier.”
She moved onto his office, where Callendar was already at work on the comps. She said, “Yo.”
“Nice setup.”
“Nice? Baby, it’s rocket. Like total command center. From the main comp, he can control all the systems, the screens, even the ones in other rooms. He can multitask, no problem, but he adds to those capabilities with the aux. Workstation’s equipped with built-in smart screen. Oh, he gets hungry? He can command the AutoChef here or in any of the rooms. Have one of the droids serve it up.”
“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 soc
ks, 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 in 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 saying you ever say I did you’re a lying SOS, 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 ee
rily 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, then so damn sad.”