Fantasy in Death (In Death #30)(62)

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.”