Fantasy in Death (In Death #30)(25)

DuVaugne dropped his hands. “I don’t know what this Dubrosky character’s told you, but he’s a thief and a liar. He’s not to be trusted.”

“You trusted him with about a hundred and fifty thousand,” Eve pointed out.

“That’s business, just the price of doing business.” He waved that away, then settled his hands on his knees. “And he came to me. He said he wanted to develop a game, and was working on some new technology, but needed backing. Normally, I’d have dismissed him, but he was persuasive, and the idea was interesting, so I gave him a few thousand to continue the work. And a bit more shortly after as I confess I was caught up. I should know better, of course, but poor judgment’s no crime. Then, after I’d invested considerable time and money, he told me he’d stolen the data from U-Play.”

On a huff of breath, DuVaugne poured a second martini—and

remembered the olives. “I was shocked, outraged, threatened to turn him in, but he blackmailed me. I’d paid him, you see, so it would look as if I’d hired him to access the information. I continued to pay him. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Eve sat for a moment. “Do you buy any of that, Peabody?”

“No, sir. Not a word.”

Obviously stunned, he lowered the glass. “You’d believe a common criminal over me?”

“In this case,” Eve considered, “oh yeah. You’re not naive, DuVaugne. Not like your very nice wife. And you wouldn’t take a big chunk of cash out of your own pocket to help some struggling programmer develop a game. You hired Dubrosky, and you paid him to do exactly what he did—use some silly sap to feed him the data you wanted. You bring the game and the technology to your company, which is downsizing rapidly, you get to be the hero. Your investment pays off several hundred times. The only hitch to pulling it off? Bart Minnock.”

“I’m not a murderer!” DuVaugne downed half the second martini before slapping the glass down. “If Dubrosky killed that man, he did it on his own. I had nothing to do with it.”

“You just paid him to steal?”

“It’s business,” DuVaugne insisted. “It’s just business. My company’s in some trouble, that’s true. We need an infusion, some fresh ideas, a boost in the market. When information comes my way, I use it. That’s good business. It’s the way of the industry. It’s very competitive.”

“When you pay someone to steal and/or transfer proprietary information it’s called theft. And guess what? You go to jail. And if that theft is linked to murder you get the bonus prize of accessory thereto.”

“This is insane. I’m a businessman doing my job. I’d never hurt anyone or have a part in it.”

“Stealing the results of someone else’s sweat hurts, and we’ll see what we add to that before we’re done. You can call that lawyer on the way downtown. Lane DuVaugne, you’re under arrest for the solicitation of theft of proprietary information, and for the receipt of same, for conspiracy to commit corporate espionage. Cuff him, Peabody.”

“No. Please, please. My wife. You have to let me explain to my wife. Let me tell her I’m going with you to—to help you with your investigation. Please, I don’t want to upset her.”

“Call her down. Tell her whatever you want. But she’s going to find out when she has to post bail—if you get it.”

She hadn’t done it for him, Eve thought as she let Peabody handle the booking. She’d done it to give his wife a little more time to adjust to the coming change. DuVaugne could talk with his lawyer, could try to wheedle, but there was no way they’d have a bail hearing until morning.

She’d see what he had to say after a night in a cell.

In her office, she tagged Roarke to let him know she was back, then wrote and filed her report.

While waiting for him she did what she hadn’t had time to do all day. She started her murder board.

When it was done, she sat, put her feet on the desk, sipped coffee, and studied it.

Bart Minnock, his pleasant face, slightly goofy smile, rode beside the grisly shots from the crime scene, the stills from the morgue, and the people she knew connected to him.

His friends and partners, his girlfriend, the sad sack Roland, Dubrosky, DuVaugne. She scanned the list of employees, of accounts, the financial data, the time line as she knew it and the sweepers’ reports.

Competition, she thought, business, ego, money, money, money, passion, naivete, security. Games.

Games equaled big business, big egos, big money, big passions, and the development thereof, big security.

Somewhere along the line that security had failed and one or more of the other elements snuck through to kill Minnock.

“I heard you made an arrest,” Roarke said from behind her.

“Not on the murder, not yet. But it may connect. They’ll push this project through, this game, without him. Not just because it’s what they do, but because they wouldn’t want to let him down.”

“Yes, it’ll be bumpier, and there may be a delay, but they’ll push it through.”

“Then what’s the point of killing him.” She shook her head, dropped her feet back to the floor. “Let’s go take a walk through the scene.”

6

She let Roarke drive so she could continue to work on her notes, determine who among those interviewed needed a second pass, and who she still needed to contact.