The In Death Collection, Books 30-32

by J. D. Robb

  “Yes, sir. How bad was it? Was she? When you were observing?”

  “Jesus, Peabody, she’s a mess.” She jammed her hands in her pockets as memories of the dream snuck back in her head.

  You couldn’t save them all.

  “They’ve got the brain doc messing around in her head, and another guy working on her arm. It must be bad, really bad if they started there instead of the leg. They’ve got that in a sterile cage—whatever they’re called. Her face looks like somebody went at it with a bat. They’re dealing with internal injuries on top of it, trying to tie off bleeders or whatever they do when things inside are bleeding out. It looked to me like she was busted up every-damn-where.”

  She did a short circuit of the room. “I’ve seen a lot of beatings. I’m not sure that’s what this is.”

  “What else could it be?”

  Eve shook her head. “We need to see the medical data, talk to the doctors, get a better look at her. Until then, it’s just speculation.”

  “I got the report on the blood samples. It’s all hers.”

  “Yeah, it would be.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas?” The floor nurse came to the doorway. “We have an office set up for you.”

  “What’s the status on my victim?”

  “There have been some complications, but she’s holding her own.”

  “We’ll take shifts,” Eve said to Peabody. “I’ll come back for you.”

  She followed the nurse down the long corridor, then to the right down another. “I got a look at her in observation,” Eve commented. “She does look like she fell off a cliff.”

  “It’s really just an expression.”

  “Maybe. You people took pictures. Bone and body and scans. I’d like to see them.”

  “I’m not authorized.”

  “You can get authorization. You got a look at her.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Your people are doing everything they can to save her. I’m doing everything I can to find the son of a bitch who did that to her. Her name’s Cilla Allen, but they call her Cill. She had her twenty-ninth birthday six weeks ago. A couple days ago one of her closest friends was murdered, and yesterday she ordered food and flowers for his memorial. She cried for him. And last night or early this morning, the same person who killed her friend tried to kill her. The sooner I see what he did to her, the sooner I figure out how he did it, and who did it, the sooner I put the fucker away so he never hurts anyone else.”

  The nurse opened a door. “I’ll get the authorization. This room is generally available for family members of surgical patients. You’re free to use the equipment.”

  “Thanks.”

  It was a small office and still nearly twice the size of hers at Central. It boasted a sleep chair, an AutoChef and Friggie that took credit swipes. The desk held a comp, a ’link, and a small vase of yellow flowers.

  A window let in the summer light, but was filtered so as not to toss glare on the wall screen.

  She charged another cup of lousy coffee, sat, and got to work.

  It was probably crazy, what she was considering. No, it was crazy, she corrected, and still she started a search on numerous underground e and game sites.

  The weirder the better, she decided.

  She popped into the chat rooms McNab had given her, the message boards, and noted that Razor was still putting out feelers for the weapon—with no results.

  Or none that showed, she thought.

  She tried Mira, and was told by her chilly-voiced admin that the doctor was in session. Eve requested a ’link consult as soon as Mira was free.

  At the knock on the door, she called out, “Yeah, come in.” She expected the floor nurse, hoped to have a file of medical data to comb through. Instead, a waiter walked in carrying a tray.

  “Got your lunch order.”

  “I didn’t order lunch. You’ve got the wrong room. Scram.”

  “Room 880, East Surgical Wing. You Dallas?”

  Frowning, she gave him and his tray a closer look. “Yeah.”

  “Got your lunch order. Got one for Peabody, too. Waiting room A, East Surgical Wing.”

  “Who placed the orders?”

  “Ordered up by Roarke.”

  “Of course they were. Well, what’ve I got?”

  He set the tray on the desk, pulled off the insulated top. “Got your burger—that’s moo-meat, too. Got your fries, got your small side salad. Got your coffee—real deal. A double, black.”

  “Never misses a trick.” Eve dug into her pocket, came up with enough loose credits for a decent tip. “Thanks.”

  “Enjoy.”

  “I guess I will,” she murmured as he went out. She sampled a fry as she tagged Feeney. “What’ve you got?”

  “We’re not going to try removing the disc. Working on some ideas first. We got your time frame. Vic set up the holo at—is that a burger?”

  “No, it’s a catcher’s mitt. What does it look like?”

  “It looks like a burger. Is it meat?”

  “Mmmm.” She took a huge bite, grinned around it.

  “That’s cold, kid.” Genuine sorrow clouded his eyes. “Just cold.”

  “You get that disc out without blowing it up, I’ll buy you ten pounds of cow meat. Time line?”

  “Holo starts at twenty-one forty-six. The program ran until twenty-three fifty-two.”

  “Over two hours. Longer than Bart.”

  “Solo player, like him. We’ve got her starting off the jump. Level one.”

  “He started at four. So she ran whichever scenario she picked from the beginning, either because it was new to her—and I don’t like that one. She started at square one because she wasn’t playing so much as working. Working to shut out the grief. She’s going to check the program, look for any flaws or glitches, or any place to improve it. Can you tell where she stopped?”

  “She nearly finished level three.”

  “Nearly?”

  “It reads ninety-one percent. She didn’t make it to the end of the level.”

  “You play. What would make you stop that close to moving up a level?”

  “Screwing up, getting shut out.”

  “Losing the level, okay. What else? If you got interrupted?”

  “Nobody’s going to stop me from moving up unless they’re bleeding or on fire. And they’d have to be gushing blood or frying. And I’d have to like them. A lot.”

  She glanced up at the knock on the door, then nodded as the nurse stepped in. Held up a finger. “Can you tell if she messed up, got shut out?”

  “Not from the program, but up to then, from the time frame, it looks like she was cruising right along. I got through some of her older logs. She hits levels ten, twelve and up consistent.”

  “But we don’t know if any of those were this scenario.”

  “Can’t tell you until I get this disc out and you hand over ten pounds of cow meat.”

  “But it’s unlikely, given her skills and experience, she’d have crapped out that quick. Or have stopped voluntarily that close to completing a level. Got it. I’ll get back to you.”

  She clicked off.

  “I got authorization to put what we’ve got on disc. You have to sign for it.”

  “Thanks.” Eve dashed her name on the form, noted the woman’s wistful glance at her plate. “Do you want half?”

  She smiled. “No, I’m watching my intake. But thanks. It’s a nice offer. I went in to get an update on her. She’s hanging in, but ... she’s got a long way to go.”

  She started for the door, stopped. “We see a lot of hard things in our professions.”

  “Yeah, we do.”

  “I hope she makes it.”

  “Me, too,” Eve murmured when she was alone.

  Eve inserted the disc then called for the data on-screen.

  She studied it, side-by-side with the records of the first responders.

  On the holo-room floor, Cill lay crumpled, broken as a china doll heaved agai
nst the wall by an angry child. Blood had pooled and congealed under her, while her arm and leg cocked at unnatural angles. Snapped bone speared through the skin of her shin. Jagged, Eve thought, ignoring the movements of the cops, the voices as she focused on the victim. Not a clean break there. Several gashes, including one on her shoulder that appeared straight and true rather than torn.

  Bruising around the eyes, she noted, scrapes at the temples.

  She switched off, studied the scans. Several internal injuries, bruised and damaged organs. But the external bruising ...

  She scrolled through, backtracked, scrolled again, studying the battered, torn body as she ate her lunch. She pulled out her beeping ’link, glanced at the readout.

  “Doctor Mira.”

  “Eve. I heard about Cilla Allen. What’s her status?”

  “She’s still in surgery. I’m looking through the records, the scans. It’s bad. He used the victim’s holo-room again, the same project—the Fantastical game. She logged it out, or it’s been made to appear she did so. It’s the same basic setup—she appears to have been playing the game solo. But the method of attack is markedly different. Why?”

  “He’d already won the game, that scenario. He’d want a different challenge with this new player. Possibly a game that opponent favored. It adds to the challenge.”

  “Yeah, that’s my take. And it’s meaner than the first victim. That was quick and clean. He may be escalating, wants more bang for the buck. Except ... Can you take a look? I’ll send you the record from the first responders.”

  “Of course.”

  “Hang on just a minute.” Eve ordered the transfer of data. “The two remaining partners discovered her this morning. The statement, from both, is they became concerned when she didn’t come in, walked over to check on her. The nine-one-one went out immediately.”

  “She sustained severe trauma.” Mira’s toned remained even as her brows knit in study. “Blood loss. The leg ... It would seem he spent considerable time and rage. I’m surprised her face isn’t more badly damaged.”

  “Does it look like a beating to you?”

  Mira’s brows unknit and lifted. “What else?”

  “Could these injuries have been the result of a fall?”

  “A fall? Are you considering the holo-room a dump site rather than the attack site?”

  Eve hesitated. Not yet, she thought. Not ready to share quite yet. “I’m considering all kinds of things.”

  “This isn’t my area of expertise, and I hesitate to make a conclusion based on this, but I would say that yes, it certainly could be the result of a fall. What do her doctors say?”

  “I haven’t been able to interview any of them. They’re pretty busy with her.”

  “I can try to make some time later today, come to the hospital and study her data, speak with her medical team.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ve got another angle on that. Why is she alive? That’s the sticker. Why didn’t he finish her?”

  “He may have thought he had, but that kind of mistake isn’t consistent. It’s possible drawing it out adds to the enjoyment. It prolongs the game.”

  “If she lives, it would box him in. He could lose.”

  “Yes. It’s possible that adds to his sense of competition. It doesn’t fit well, but often the criminal mind doesn’t follow a logical path. Still ...” Mira frowned, slowly shook her head. “He didn’t finish the game, and he should have.”

  “He’s stuck on this level now, and can’t advance unless, or until she dies.”

  “I’m sure you have her well protected.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got her covered.”

  “I’d like to think about this further, review my notes and this additional data.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get back to you.”

  She clicked off, and contacted someone whose area of expertise might give her some answers—and more questions.

  While she waited, she tried out her theory with a probability run, and got back a percentage she considered the computer equivalent of Have you lost your freaking mind?

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.”

  Since she didn’t have her murder board, she worked to create a facsimile of one on-screen. Then sat back, sipped excellent coffee, and studied it.

  “Whacked theory,” she murmured. “Way-out-of-orbit theory. But, didn’t we just have a party last night to celebrate a book about mad scientists secretly creating generations of human clones? That’s pretty whacked.”

  She adjusted the screen, putting her two victims side-by-side.

  Partners, she thought. Friends. Those words, those concepts meant different things to different people.

  History, shared interests, trust, emotion, passion. All shared.

  Shared business, profits, work, risks.

  Both attacked during play, in their own secured homes. One dead, one hanging on by the skill and efforts of medical science—and maybe her own grit.

  No weapons, no signs of forced entry, no trace other than the victims’.

  Add the timing, yeah, add the timing in there, too.

  People were always finding new ways to create and destroy, weren’t they? It’s what humans did. Technology was a tool, a convenience, and a weapon.

  She walked over to answer the knock on the door. “Thanks for coming, Morris.”

  “It’s nice to get out of the house now and then.”

  He wore black, as he had every time she’d seen him since Coltraine’s death, but Eve took hope from the flash of the shimmering red tie that the leading edge of his grief had dulled.

  “I need you to look at these pictures and the medical data, and give me your opinion on the cause.”

  “I’d do better with the body.”

  “Well, she’s not dead yet.”

  “That’s fortunate for her. I might point out you’re in a hospital, and there are likely doctors wandering around who tend to serve and assess those not dead yet.”

  “Yeah, the ones working on her are busy. And I don’t know them.” Trust, she thought again, the solid base of friendship. “What I’m looking for is your opinion on how this twenty-nine-year-old female incurred these injuries.”

  She turned to the screen, ordered the image of Cill on the holo-room floor.

  “Ah, well. Ouch. You say she’s alive?”

  “So far.”

  He moved closer, tilting his head. “If she lives, I hope she has an exceptional orthopedic surgeon on that leg. Enhance that for me. A bit more,” he said when she complied. “Hmm. Now down to the ankle, same leg,” he told her after a moment.

  “You can run it. Take your time.”

  As he went section by section, injury by injury, she swiped the Friggie for two tubes of Pepsi.

  He grunted in thanks, and continued. “You have her scans?”

  “Yeah.” Eve ordered them on-screen, then rested a hip on the desk as he studied, as he worked.

  “She’ll need the god of all neuros,” he murmured. “And even then I’m afraid I might see her on my table. The head injuries are the worst, and the rest is very nasty. If she gets her miracle, they’ll have to replace that kidney at some point, and the spleen, and she’ll require extensive PT for the leg, the arm, the shoulder. She’s got a lot of work ahead of her. Brain damage is another risk she faces. She may live, but it may not be a blessing. Still, it’s a wonder she didn’t snap her spine in a fall like this.”

  “A fall.” Eve all but leaped on it. “Not a beating.”

  “A fall,” he repeated. “The contusions, the breaks, the lacerations aren’t consistent with a beating, but a fall. She landed primarily on her back, with the impact shattering that elbow and twisting the leg with enough force to break the bone. A hard, uneven surface, I’d say from the type of injuries. Broken concrete, rocks, something on that order.”

  He glanced back at Eve. “I’m sorry. Where was she found again?”

  “Here.” Eve brought the image back on-screen, watched Morris fr
own.

  “A smooth surface. She didn’t incur those injuries by taking a tumble on that floor.”

  “Could she have been moved, and dumped here?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t see how she would have lived through it. Look at the blood pool. She certainly would have bled profusely at the point of impact. Moving her would mean more blood loss. Added to this? No, I don’t see how that could be.”

  He took a drink from the tube, frowned again. “This is annoying. I feel I’ve let you down. Let me go through the scans and data again.”

  “No, you haven’t let me down. Your findings mesh with mine.”

  “Do they?” He angled away from the screen, taking another sip as he looked at Eve. “Are we going to explain to each other how this twenty-nine-year-old female managed to fall onto a smooth surface and incur injuries consistent with a fall of—I’d say—at least twenty feet onto a rough and uneven one?”

  “Sure. After I get someone to explain it to me.”

  “Well, I love a mystery. Still, I hope she lives so she can tell you herself. It’s rare, if ever, you and I consult over someone with a pulse. Tell me more about her.”

  “She’s one of the partners of my last victim.”

  “Ah. The head job. Holo-room.” He gestured to the screen. “And this would be a holo-room as well.”

  “It would. Hers. In her apartment, which was secured. She was, by the evidence on-scene, playing the same game, though it may have been another scenario, as the first vic.”

  “Consistency is often an advantage. Burns? Does she have internal burns at the site of the injuries?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Let me look at the scans again, enhanced. If we can get a strong enough picture, I might find them. I wasn’t looking before.”

  “Help yourself. It used to be you had to do everything on a comp by hand, right? Fingers on keyboard only. No voice commands, no smart screens.”

  “When I was a medical student we keyboarded nearly everything, and had only just begun to use palm scans routinely for diagnostics. Holo wasn’t yet considered reliable or cost-effective for teaching or diagnostics. I remember as a boy we—ah, look here. Do you see this?”

  She moved closer to the screen. “What am I supposed to see?”