by J. D. Robb
“Not really. He just said how he’d made some decisions, and something about how sometimes bad things happen to wake you up, to tell you to play it straight, even if straight put you in a squeeze.”
“Did he talk to you about it, give you any details?”
“No, just that he felt good about it. And, oh, he said he was going to retire. He said that a lot, but it sounded like he meant it this time. He was going to go down to the islands next week, check out some property. He said maybe I could come. Maybe I would’ve. He was fun to be around. Then we went to bed for a while. After I made him a sandwich, then he—oh, I forgot. Somebody tagged him. He got all professional, so I figured it was a client.”
“Did you hear any of the conversation?”
“Not really. He walked back in the bedroom with the ’link. I did hear him say something about meeting at ten. I think it was ten. When he came out, he was … thoughtful. That’s how I’d say it. He gave me a big kiss, gave Frisky a rub, and left. I’ll never see him again.”
Eve tried a few more angles, but realized she’d wrung that source dry. Asner hadn’t given names of clients or specific business with them to friends.
But she had a fresh bone to chew. It appeared as though the killer had contacted Asner, not the other way around.
When she arrived at Roundtree’s the house droid informed her Mr. Roundtree was still on the set, and Ms. Burkette was not at home. Better yet, Eve decided.
“I need to review the theater area and the roof.”
“Do you want me to contact Ms. Burkette?”
“What for?”
“I … It’s not the usual practice to allow someone to wander the house without Ms. Burkette or Mr. Roundtree in residence.”
“I’m not someone. I’m the cop serving as primary investigator on a homicide, one that occurred in this house.”
“We’re all very upset.”
“I’m sure you are. You’ll probably be less upset when the individual who murdered Ms. Harris is identified, apprehended, and charged. So, I’m going to work toward that by reviewing the areas I mentioned.”
“Of course. I’ll show you to the theater.”
“I know the way.” Eve took out her PPC, pulled up Asner’s ID shot. “Does he look familiar?”
“No.” The droid went into that momentary dead pause as it scanned. “No. I don’t know him.”
“You never saw him around the neighborhood?”
“I have nothing in memory. Is there something I can get for you while you … review?”
“No, but thanks. I’ll let myself out when I’m done.”
Eve went directly to the theater. She stood for a few minutes, bringing the scene back into her mind as it had been that night. Everyone milling around, getting drinks or desserts, talking in little groups or lounging in the chairs.
Big, happy group, she thought. Except for Harris. She’d been sulky and withdrawn, off to herself.
Drinking and watching, Eve thought now, annoyed she’d paid so little attention to the woman.
Of course neither of them had known Harris would end up dead in under an hour.
She dimmed the lights, took the chair she’d had that evening, and tried, again, to bring it back.
She’d been focused on the screen, but Roundtree had never been far away. Seated near during the show.
People laughing, or calling out remarks. She closed her eyes, heard Mavis’s wacky giggle, Andrea’s voice making some comment. But when? When?
She couldn’t be sure.
Lots of laughter—gurgles of it, shouts of it, groans of it. Roarke murmuring in her ear when Marlo fumbled her prop weapon during a take.
All right, not what she heard then, there was too much of it. What hadn’t she heard.
No comments from Harris, at least none that had reached the front of the theater. None from Valerie, Preston, Steinburger. Again, not that she’d heard. Nothing from Connie after the first few minutes.
Julian? He’d said something, his voice slurred from the wine. Early on, she thought. Maybe.
She brought up the lights again, studied the layout. A good-sized room, the sloped floor allowing every chair or sofa a good, unobstructed view of the screen. One exit on the side, and the main in the rear.
Easy in and out, and they hadn’t been seated in a tight group. People had spread out, and as Roundtree had drawn both her and Roarke to the front, seated them, she hadn’t seen exactly where everyone settled.
She pulled out her notes, did a rough outline from the statements of seating arrangements. Dimming the lights again, she tested by sitting in each area, getting the angles, the views.
Interesting, she decided, but a long way from conclusive.
She left the theater for the roof.
She took the elevator. The killer would have, she thought. The quickest way, a way least likely to be seen by other guests or staff. Direct to the rooftop lounge.
Two minutes or less, then out to the pool.
Harris, pacing? Smoking her laced herbals, drinking. Argumentative, threatening, bitchy.
Had the killer argued with her? Impossible to say, or, if so, if the argument had been brief or protracted. The fall, the decision. Drag her in, search the evening bag. Get the bar rag, use the pool water to wipe up the blood, toss the rag in the fire. Take the elevator back down.
Minutes really. It could have taken only minutes. Hardly more than a quick run to the john. Why would anyone notice?
Eve looked up. The dome had been partially opened. A nice October night, but …
Curious she went downstairs again, hunted up the house droid.
“Question. This time of year is the pool dome generally opened or closed?”
“Oh, closed. Ms. Burkette uses the pool every day—or did. It’s been a warm autumn, but she likes to keep the dome heated, the water very warm. And the mechanism needs to be seen to.”
“For what?”
“It sticks off and on. It doesn’t close completely unless you turn it off then on again when it sticks. She was going to have someone come out and fix it, but since the night of the party, she hasn’t used the roof. No one was allowed up there.”
“Did anyone else know about the trick to close it?”
“Mr. Roundtree, of course, most of the staff, the pool maintenance crew.”
“No one else?”
“Not to my knowledge, no.”
“Okay, thanks.”
So the killer opened the dome, Eve thought as she drove home. If Harris had opened it, why close it? Or try to. The information bumped Connie down the list. If she’d wanted it closed, she knew how to make it close.
The killer hadn’t. Maybe hadn’t noticed it hadn’t closed completely. Just flick the mechanism and go.
Why open it in the first place?
Smoke, from the zoner-laced herbals. Good possibility, she decided. Maybe the killer disliked the smell, was allergic, or just wanted the fresh air.
With her mind rolling that angle over and what it might mean, she zipped through the gates of home.
Rain smacked at her as she made the dash to the door, and inside she found the foyer empty.
Too quick for you this time, Scarecrow, she thought, and deliberately shed her jacket and tossed it over the newel post. She missed doing that during warmer weather just because she knew it got under Summerset’s skin.
Pleased with herself, she bounded up the steps and into the bedroom to change to workout gear.
An hour in the gym, some hard laps in the pool, would loosen her body and her mind. To avoid running into Summerset, she took the elevator down, then stopped short when she saw Roarke, already sweaty, doing bench presses.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
“I didn’t know you were home.” She walked over, looked down at him. “Did you buy everything already?”
“Everything worth having—today. Did you catch all the bad guys?”
“Made my quota. I thought I’d sweat out some theories, su
ppositions, and probabilities, then shower before scooping up another load of bad guys.”
“Good plan. Nice to see you.” He clicked the weights on their safety, sat up, and reached for his water bottle. “After a run?”
“Initially.”
“I wouldn’t mind one. Where are you going?”
“Hadn’t decided.”
“I’ve got a new VR program, and two can play.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not after sex sweat.”
He tipped back the water, eyes amused. He’d tied his hair back, and his skin gleamed.
He could probably change her mind on the sweaty activity, she decided.
“Strange, isn’t it, how often your mind leaps straight to sex?”
“Maybe because you’re always nailing me.”
“Maybe. But for now.” He pushed off the bench, walked to a built-in cabinet for the VR gear. “It’s more than a run. There are various obstacles, choices in directions, all of which have their own consequences or rewards. Different scenarios. We have urban, rural, suburban, seemingly deserted landscapes of myriad types. Night, day, a combination. Whatever you like, basically.”
“Is it a game or a workout?”
“It’s both. Why not have fun at it? Where would you like to go?”
She started to pick an urban background—it’s what she knew. But if it was a game, too, that meant competition.
“Let’s go rural.”
“You surprise me.”
“We’ll both be off our turf. Mix up day and night.”
He passed her a set of goggles, began to program. “The goal is to reach the destination that will be shown on the map in the insert at the bottom of your play screen. If you fail to navigate an obstacle or you’re injured, you lose points and distance. Clear one, gain them. Clear so many, you’re rewarded with something useful.”
“How many times have you played this?”
“A few, but not the scenario I’m putting on. We’ll start even on this. Thirty minutes do you?”
“Yeah, that should do it.” Eve fit on the goggles, studied the landscape that surrounded her, checked the insert, and saw the snaking, winding paths, intersections, blocks, and the pulsing light that indicated the goal.
Thick woods, dim light, a rough track and a lot of undergrowth. The sort of place strange animals wandered. Animals with teeth.
She’d be more comfortable running through a dark warehouse full of homicidal chemi-heads.
Which was exactly why she’d gone against type. She’d work harder.
“Watch for pulses on the map, they’ll indicate obstacles or some element of trouble. Ready?”
“Okay.”
The roar of wind came up, whipped the trees as the scene came to life around her. She heard crashing—branches falling, and a kind of whoosh and pound that might have been a waterfall.
But what did she know?
Eve started off at a warm-up jog, chose the left fork on the track. Another, bigger crash, and a tree fell across the path only a few feet ahead of her. She vaulted over it, racked up a few points. Increased her pace.
She veered right, heard a rumbling, echoing growl, and decided to backtrack. She’d just take the longer route.
She ran flat out now, finding her rhythm, muscles warming.
She saw the narrow, swaying bridge ahead—rope and open planks—with some gaps—over a wide chasm. A river, the color of mud, roared and churned below. She rushed the bridge, leaping over gaps, nearly crashed through when wood cracked under her feet.
Then the whole business began to vibrate. She thought, Oh shit, as frayed rope snapped, and the planks behind her tumbled down to splash into the swirling river.
She sprang up, snagged dangling rope and propelled herself forward. The surge of wind, speed, struck her, as exhilarating as it was terrifying. She landed hard—a jolt from ankles to knees—on a narrow ledge.
To the right, the ledge widened and stacked into rough stone steps. On which stood a howling pack of wolves. Even as she considered her options they began to slink forward.
She stopped, considering, and started climbing, dragging herself up the cliff face.
Sweaty, straining, she reached the top.
Reward, the screen flashed. You now have a knife.
She patted her hip, felt the sheath.
Frosty.
Panting a bit, she ran left, away from the wolves. Just as she found her rhythm again, something snaked around her ankle. The next thing she knew she hung upside down, dangling from a rope from a tree branch.
Somewhere, drums began to beat.
Probably cannibals, she thought. It would figure.
By the time she levered herself up—oh, her aching abs—and cut the rope, landed hard on the forest floor, the drums sounded a whole lot closer.
She caught her breath, glanced at the map to choose directions.
An arrow dug with a thwack into the tree an inch away from her braced hand.
She ran hard. Climbed a mountain of stones, fell into a bog, jumped off a cliff into a river to avoid a really big bear.
Her next reward—a flashlight—came in handy when dark fell like an avalanche.
Wet, winded, momentarily lost, she found herself surprised when the screen flashed END TIME.
She pulled off her goggles, turned to Roarke, and was pleased to find him as winded as she.
Plus, she’d edged his score by three points.
“Apparently I have a broken arm,” he told her. “It cost me.”
“I was nearly snack food for a bear, and lost my knife when I fell into a bog. That was fun.”
He grinned. “It was. Want another thirty?”
She’d planned on an hour, she reminded herself. So why not?
“You’re on. I want a quick swim after, then I’ve got work. Questions. Lots of them. Maybe if I bounce some off you, you’ll have an answer.”
“All right then. Loser deals with dinner. I’ve a mind for red meat after this.”
“Again, you’re on.”
“From the beginning, or where we left it?”
“Where we left it.”
At the end of thirty, she slid down to the floor—limp.
“I was attacked by a pig.”
“A boar,” Roarke corrected.
“A mutant pig. I always knew there were mutant pigs with really sharp teeth in the woods. Why do people like to go there? And there was a meadow. Pretty. It looked safe. Snakes. I should’ve known there’d be snakes.”
“I had a machete. It came in handy.” Seated beside her, he studied the tallies. “Make my steak rare, would you, darling?”
“Crap. I was kicking ass here until the pig. Fucker cost me the game. And neither of us got to the goal.”
“Next time.” He pushed to his feet, offered her his hand. “Still want that swim?” he asked as he pulled her up.
“I had one. In a river. With jagged rocks. There may have been alligators.” She rolled her shoulders. “Hell of a workout, though.”
She grabbed a shower instead of a swim. And fair being fair, put the meal together. With fair being fair, she put it together in her office. But didn’t object when Roarke opened a bottle of wine.
They’d earned it.
“So.” She took a long, slow drink. “Could you say who you heard, maybe who you didn’t hear, while we were in the theater watching the gag reel?”
“Not for certain, no. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Me either. That part of my to-do list was mostly a bust. I talked to an LC Asner used for palship and sex.”
“Always nice to have sex with a pal.”
“She has sex with her pal the afternoon Asner was murdered, then made him a sandwich.”
“Now that is a pal.”
“Says the man eating steak.”
“Where’s my sex?”
“You ought to be able to find it.” She sent him an easy smile. “So, Asner told the sandwich-making LC he’d decided to play somet
hing straight, even though it might put him in a squeeze.”
“Interesting. Do you think he’d decided to turn over the recording?”
“Maybe. Piecing together his state of mind—from his secretary, conversations he had with his lawyer friend, and now this—I’m leaning toward him learning his client, who I’m betting he made as Harris, had been murdered, which caused him to rethink any possible bonus round with the recording. Play it straight, turn it in, retire, and move to the islands.”
“But end up dead instead.”
“Yeah. His sex pal said he got tagged on his ’link right before he left. She didn’t hear the conversation, except that he agreed to meet the caller in his office that night at ten.”
“Indicating his killer contacted him.”
“Exactly. Indicating the killer knew about him, and how to contact him.”
“From Harris’s ’link?”
It was good to have someone who connected the dots. “That’s my bet. He arranges the meet, kills Asner, hauls out the files and electronics—covering all the bases. People kill for all sorts of strange reasons, but I’m not buying this is over that recording.”
“You think Asner—through Harris, or vice versa—had something on the killer.”
“Something he intended to turn over along with the M and M recording, yeah. Or the killer was afraid he would. Digging into dirt, that was Harris’s MO, and that’s what fits. Her brother came to see me today.”
They ate as she told Roarke about the conversation.
“It’s a sad commentary on a life, isn’t it?” he commented. “She not only turned against those who loved her, but used them for her own gain. She’d rather have had that gain, wield that power, than have real affection, real friendship.”
“Did she choose to be like her father, or was she just like him?”
Roarke laid a hand over hers. “You’re living proof of the power of choice.”
“Mostly I believe that’s how it works. You decide. Like the workout game. Go right, go left, up or down, and deal with the results. So, yeah, I think she made the choices. I think she believed she liked it that way. But she wasn’t happy. You could see she wasn’t happy with the choices.”
“Yet she continued to make them.”
“Until someone chose to kill her. It wasn’t Roundtree or Connie. I’m saying—at least with what I have now—it wasn’t Marlo or Matthew. It wasn’t Preston.”