Fantasy in Death (10 page)

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.

“I’ve got a buzz out to his lawyer—on vacation. She’s cutting it short and I’m meeting with her in the morning. She was a friend,” Eve added. “She seems inclined to give me whatever I need, and already outlined some basic terms of his partnership agreement and will. Nearly everything goes to his parents, but his share of U-Play is to be divided among the three remaining partners. It’s a chunk.”

“Are you thinking one or more of them decided to eliminate him so they’d have a bigger slice of the pie?”

“Can’t write it off. But sometimes money isn’t the whole deal.” Money, she thought, was often the easiest button to push but not the only button. “Sometimes it’s not even in the deal. Still, I can’t write it off. You said they’d probably have some bumps and some delay in getting this new game out, but they’re going to reap a whirlwind of publicity so it seems to me when it hits, it’ll hit big. Would that be your take?”

“It would—and it will. Even though we have a similar game and system about to launch, it’s a considerable leap in gaming tech. And they’ll have a lot of media focused on them due to Bart’s death, and the method. It’ll give them a push, but for the long haul? Losing him is a serious blow.”

“Yeah, but some don’t think long haul. And conversely, from a competitive standpoint, if you cut off the head—literally and figuratively—you’re banking that the delay’s long enough to give you time to beat the jump. They may be partners, and all bright lights, but Bart was the head. That’s how it strikes me.”

“I’d agree. And, if it’s business? It feels more like competition than any sort of bid for splashy media attention. I can’t see that, Eve.”

Maybe not, she thought, but it was a by-product. “What do you know about game weapons—the toys used in a game, vid props, replicas, collector’s items.”

“They can be and are intriguing, and certainly can command stiff prices, particularly at auction.”

“You collect.” She shifted to study his profile. “But you mostly collect real.”

“Primarily, yes. Still, it’s an area of interest for anyone in the field, or serious about gaming. Game weapons run from the basic and simple to the intricate and complex, and everything between. They can and do add an element of immediacy and realism, a hands-on.”

He glanced at her. “You enjoy weapons.”

“I like knowing I’ve got one. One that does what it needs to do when I need it to do it.”

“You’ve played the games. You’re a competitive soul.”

“What’s the point of playing if winning isn’t the goal?”

“We stand on the same side there.”

“But a game’s still a game,” she pointed out. “A toy’s a toy. I don’t understand the compulsion to live the fantasy. To outfit your office like the command center of some fictional starship.”

“Well, for the fun or the escape, though no doubt some take it too far. We should go to an auction some time, just so you can experience it. Gaming and the collecting that’s attached to it, it’s an interesting world.”

“I like toys.” She shrugged. “What I don’t get is why anyone would spend millions on some play sword wielded by some play warrior in a vid or interactive.”

“Some might say the same about art. It’s all a matter of interest. In any case, some pieces of interest to collectors would be based on those vid props, and used in various games, or simply displayed. Depending on the accessibility, the age, the use, the base, they can be valuable to collectors. We routinely issue special limited editions of some weapons and accessories, just for that reason.”

“How about an electrified sword?”

He braked for a red light, then smiled at her. “You’d have your fire sword, your charged-by-lightning, your stunner sword and so on. They’d give off a light show, appropriate sound effects—glow, sizzle, vibrate, that sort of thing. But no game prop would do more than give an opponent a bit of a buzz. They’re harmless.”

“You could doctor one?”

“I could, and bottom out its value on any legitimate market. There are regulations, Eve, safety requirements—and very strict ones. You’d never get anything capable of being turned into an actual weapon through screening. It wasn’t a game prop that killed Bart.”

“A replica then, made specifically for the purpose. A killing blade that carries enough of an electric current to burn.”

He cruised through the green, said nothing for a moment as he swung toward the curb in front of Bart’s building. “Is that what did him?”

“That’s what we have at this point.” She got out after Roarke parked. “That tells me it wasn’t enough to kill. There had to be gamesmanship, too. It had to be fun or exciting for the killer. Whoever did it had to be part of it, part of the game. And he played to win. I have to figure out what he took home as his prize.”

“Lieutenant.” The doorman stepped away from his post. “Is there any progress? Do you know who killed Bart—Mr. Minnock?”

“The investigation’s ongoing. We’re pursuing all leads. Has anyone tried to gain access to his apartment?”

“No. No one’s been up there since your people left. He was a nice guy. Hardly older than my son.”

“You were on duty when he got home yesterday.” It had all been asked before, she knew, but sometimes details shook out in the repetition. “How was his mood?”

“He was whistling. Grinning. I remember how it made me grin right back. He looked so damn happy.”

“And no one came in after him, or before him, who might have access to his apartment?”

“No one. Quiet yesterday. You remember the weather we had? People stayed in, mostly, if they didn’t have to go anywhere. Hardly anyone in or out all day, and I knew all of them.”

“Did he have any trouble with anyone in the building? Any complaints?”

“He was a friendly guy, easygoing, but maybe a little shy, a little quiet. I never heard him complain about anybody, or anybody complain about him.”

She shifted angles. “Maybe he was particularly friendly with one of the other tenants?”

“Well, the kids, sure.”

And there, she thought, a new detail. “What kids?”

“The Sing kids, and the Trevor boy. We don’t have a lot of kids in the building. Couple of teenage girls, but they’re not so into the game scene. But the younger boys, they were big for Bart.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, he let them come up and play now and then, said they were his market research. Gave them some demos here and there, passed them new games before they hit the stores.”

“Were the parents okay with that?”

“Sure. He wouldn’t’ve done it otherwise. In fact, Dr. Sing joined in sometimes. He’s more into strategy games and like that than the action stuff the kids like. Those kids are taking it hard, really hard, since the news got out. Well, the Sing kids. The Trevors are on vacation, so I don’t know if they heard about it.”

“What’s the Sings’ apartment?”

“They’re in five-ten if you want the main. It’s a nice two-level job. The whole family’s up there now, if you want to talk to them. I can buzz up, let them know.”

“Why don’t you do that? After, we’ll be working in Mr. Minnock’s for a while.”

“It’s good you’re keeping on it. That’s good. Whoever hurt that boy...” His lips thinned as he looked away. “Well, I can’t even say what I think about it. We get fired for that kind of language.”

Roarke keyed up his PPC as they got in the elevator. “Sing,

Dr. David—neurologist. His wife’s a pediatric surgeon. Susan. Boys, Steven and Michael, ages ten and eight respectively. Married twelve years. Both graduated from Harvard Medical School, and both are attendings at Mount Sinai. No criminal on either.”

“Since when do you access criminal records on that?”

“Since I consult with my lovely wife.” Roarke slipped the PPC back in his pocket.

“I’ve got a guy in a cage right now for accessing proprietary information.”

Roarke merely smiled, held his hands out, wrists up. “Want to take me in, darling?”

The elevator doors opened and spared her from an answer. “I just want a look, a sense. Maybe the whole deal was some sort of accident. Everybody’s playing, having fun, until somebody gets their head chopped off.”

“And a couple of kids clean up after themselves, reset the security, reprogram a very sophisticated droid?”

“No, but they have really smart parents. I assume smart given the Harvard Medical. It’s not likely, but—”

“You can’t write it off,” Roarke finished, and pressed the bell for 510 himself.

“Try to look like Peabody.”

“Sorry?”

“Serious, official, yet approachable.”

“You forgot adorable.”

“Peabody is
not
adorable.”

“She is from my perspective. Besides, I was talking about me.”

She barely smothered the laugh before the door opened.

David Sing wore jeans and a spotless white shirt. In her boots Eve had an inch on him, and his weary eyes skimmed from her to Roarke.

He spoke with a precision that told her English wasn’t his first language, but he’d learned it very well.

“You’re the police. I’m David Sing. Please, come in.”

There were touches of his Asian heritage in the decor—the pretty colors, the collection of carved dragons, the pattern of the silk throws. He ushered them to a bright blue sofa that showed both care and wear.

“We’ll have tea,” he said. “My sons’ nanny is preparing it. She stayed late this evening as our children are very upset by what happened to our friend. Please sit. Tell me how I might help you.”

He hadn’t asked for ID, but Eve took out her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m primary investigator in the matter of Bart Minnock’s murder.”

“Yes. Jackie explained when he called up. And I recognize you. Both of you. We heard of Bart’s death this afternoon, and my wife and I took leave immediately. We didn’t want our sons to hear of it before we could speak with them, prepare them. Ah, here is our tea. Min, this is Lieutenant Dallas and Roarke.”

The woman who rolled in the tray was tiny and hadn’t seen seventy for a number of years. She bowed slightly, then spoke in a quiet voice in a language Eve didn’t understand. Then she laid a hand on Sing’s shoulder in a gesture that spoke clearly of a long and deep connection.

“I’ll pour, Min.” He reached up, gave the hand on his shoulder a light squeeze. “Go, put your feet up awhile.” He added something in their native language.

The woman kissed the top of his head, then left them.

“Min was my nanny when I was a boy. Now she helps take care of our boys.” He poured pale gold tea into handle less cups. “My wife is upstairs with the children. We can speak freely.”

“It would be helpful to speak to your wife, and your sons.”

“Yes, they’ll come down shortly. I thought, if you needed to give any details... I hope you can spare the children some of it. They’re very young, and they were very fond of Bart.”

She wished briefly for Peabody. Peabody was better than she was with kids. Well, anybody was, she decided, and considered Roarke.

“We’ll be as sensitive as possible with your children, Dr. Sing.”

“They understand death, as well as a child can. Their parents are doctors, after all. But it’s difficult for them, for any of us to understand how their friend could be upstairs one day, and gone the next. Can you tell me if there are plans for any sort of service? I think attending would be helpful for them.”

“I don’t have that information at this time, but I’ll see that you get the details when I do.”

“Thank you. I understand you’re very busy. I’ll get my family.”

When he left the room, Eve shifted to Roarke. “I think you should talk to the kids.”

“Funny. I don’t.”

“They’re boys. They’d probably relate better to you.”

Face placid, body at ease, he sampled the tea. “Coward.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m not right. Besides, I’m primary. I get to call the shots.”

He smiled at her. “I’m just a civilian.”

“Since when?” she retorted.

“Try the tea. It’s very nice.”

“I’ll show you what you can do with the tea.” But she postponed the demonstration as she watched the Sing family come in.

The woman had the dark skin, the ice-edged cheekbones, and regal bearing of an African princess. She must have topped out at six feet, and she carried it on a lush and admirable body. She and her husband flanked the boys, a hand on each shoulder indicating a united front.

Eve didn’t know much about kids, but she was pretty sure she was looking at two of the most beautiful examples of the species. They had their father’s black, almond-shaped eyes, their mother’s cheekbones, and skin of an indescribable tone that somehow blended their parents to golden, glowing perfection.

The boys held hands, a gesture that gave her heart one hard wrench. Beside her, she heard Roarke sigh, and understood.

Such youth, such beauty should never have to face the senseless violence of murder.

“My wife, Susan, and our sons, Steven and Michael.”

“Lieutenant. Sir. You’re here to help Bart.” Susan stroked a hand gently up and down Steven’s back.

“Yes. Thank you for your time.” Eve braced herself, looked at the children. “I’m very sorry you lost your friend.”

“The police find the bad people,” the younger boy, Michael, said. “And arrest them. Then they go to jail.”

Someone, she thought, had given the kids the basic pecking order. “That’s right.”

“Sometimes they don’t.” Steven’s jaw tightened. “Sometimes they don’t find them and arrest them. And sometimes when they do they don’t go to jail.”

And, the reality. “That’s right, too.”

“Lieutenant Dallas always finds the bad people,” Roarke told the boy, “because she never stops looking. She never stops looking because even though she didn’t know Bart before, he’s her friend now, too.”

“How can she be his friend if she didn’t know him?”

“Because after he died, she went to him, and looked at him, and promised him her help. That’s what friends do. They help.”

“He helped me with compu-science for school,” Michael piped up.