Fantasy in Death (14 page)

Lowering to her, he gave himself the pleasure of her naked back, the lean length of it, the play of muscle under hot, smooth skin. When his hand passed over the wound in her hip, she flinched.

“How’s the hip?”

“Hurts—just enough to let me know I took a hit.” She flipped over, reared up, pulling the dagger out of the ground. “Shoulder?”

“I’ll live.”

She smiled. “Better hold still or I’ll win by default.” She sliced the dagger down the leather. Her eyes on his, she turned the blade. “Trust me?”

He gripped her wrist, shoved her arm down until her fingers opened on the hilt. “No.”

With a laugh, she pulled him down to her.

His mouth warred with hers, quick bites, sliding tongues while their bodies, slick with sweat, stained with blood, moved over the rough grass.

Smoke plumed from the valley below, and on its edges echoed the endless combat. It seemed apt, she thought. No matter how in tune she and Roarke might be, there was always another battle brewing under the calm.

And always with it, always this need to take, to consume, to have, to be. Even now, in the midst of this violent fantasy, she wanted nothing more than his hands on her, then his body mated with hers.

She rolled again, straddled him. His hands closed possessively over her breasts before he pushed up so his mouth could do the same.

She tasted of the fight—hot, damp, hints of leather, and under his hungry mouth her heart thundered. For him. As her body trembled—all that strength, all that will trembling. For him. That was his miracle, his greatest treasure.

“Mine,” he said. “My heart.” And he felt the new thrill of hearing her answer him in the language of his blood. His hands tangled in her hair, the long, wild tumble of it—another new and oddly seductive sensation.

He overbalanced, taking her down to her back with the swords crossed just above her head. Now when he thrust, when she cried out, it was only in pleasure.

Power met power again, and with it speed while the new battle raged. When she closed around him, when she shuddered through her release, she dragged him with her through the violence, and into the peace.

She lay face up, the wind washing over her, the determined beams of sun pulsing red against her closed eyes. The grass, all those rough tufts, made her skin twitch—but it didn’t seem like a good enough reason to move. Particularly since Roarke lay beside her, nearly in the same position.

The clanging of her heart in her ears had slowed and quieted enough so she could hear the continuing war in the valley below them. Apparently, the hillside had come to a truce.

“Who won?” she asked.

“Let’s call it a draw.”

Seemed fair enough. “I guess we’re still a little pissed at each other.”

“I thought it was aggravated.”

“Same thing. But between the fighting and the sex, I worked most of mine off.”

“Then we’ll call that a draw, too.”

What was the point in arguing about it? she asked herself. They’d just start it all up again, and nothing would change what he did, who he was. Nothing would change what she did, who she was.

Sometimes that middle ground between them was narrow and slippery. The trick was figuring out how to navigate it.

“It’s a good game,” she told him. “Realistic, compelling, involving.”

“We barely touched the surface.”

“This.” She touched a hand to her hip, examined the smear on her palm. It looked like blood, felt like it, smelled like it.

“Illusion. It involves sensory enhancement, the scan of your vitals, your physicality, the motions, reactions.”

“What if you cut off a limb—or a head.”

“End of game. Or in multiplayer, end for the player who lost the limb or head.”

“I mean, would you actually feel it, see it?”

“Not the human players. If you were playing the comp, a fantasy figure, and got that kind of hit on it, you’d see it.”

“What about a droid?”

“Well, you could program it to play against a droid. Same results. The droid is solid. Therefore, the game would treat it as it would a human. The weapons aren’t real, Eve. They can’t harm anyone.”

“Which is what the vic would have assumed, whether he played against a human, a droid, or a fantasy character. Just a game. But it wasn’t.” She continued to study the blood on her palm. “I felt the hit—not like a cut, not like you’d just sliced me with a sword—”

“I’d hardly have done so if you would have.”

“But I got a jolt. Like an electric shock. Mild, but strong enough to let me know I’d taken a hit. And it throbbed—when we fought. I was fighting wounded.”

“Which would be the point.”

“I get that. I get it. But the vic had those burns. Up the voltage, you’d get burns.”

“Not without direct contact. The game reads the hit, registers it, transmits it.”

“Okay, but if somebody reprogrammed the game, and used an actual weapon.” She sat up, pushed her hair back—surprised and disconcerted by the length of it.

“It’s different. Your hair.” His gaze ran over it. “Interesting.”

“It gets in the way.”

When he smiled, she ran a long, loose lock between her fingers. “It feels real. If I tug it, I feel it, even though it’s not really there. My weapon’s over there. I can’t see it, but it’s there. It’s real. So if his killer brought it in—like I did—oh yeah, forgot. Sets it down in a specific place. He’s only got to remember where it is, pick it up, use it. But why do all that? Why go through the motions of the game first?”

“More sporting?”

“Maybe. Maybe. The bruises, the burns. If the game was sabotaged ahead of time, the levels bumped up beyond what they could be for code, for sale, that ups the competitive level, too, doesn’t it? And if the killer used a droid, he wouldn’t have to be here. Alibis, none of them would matter with that angle. Talk Bart into testing the game at home with a droid.”

“The droid would have to be sabotaged as well, or built and programmed off code. The weapon would register as real, as lethal, so it would have to be programmed either not to register the weapon as lethal, or to discount it. Then to clean up and reset the security. Some of that would involve computer use, and that should have alerted CompuGuard.”

“You could do it.”

“Yes, I could do it. But I have unregistered equipment and the privacy to do the work without sending out flags. EDD combed the warehouse. There’s no unregistered equipment there. And none in Bart’s apartment.”

“Which only means, potentially, someone else had a copy of the disc, and worked on it off-site. You know this whole thing is showy. Showoffy,” she added and started to rise.

And remembered she was naked, and her illusionary clothes torn and bloody. “Ah, let’s shut this down.”

“If we must. Game end.”

The hillside vanished, the sounds of war faded away. She watched the blood on her palm do the same. She picked up her shirt, studied the ragged tear down the back.

“There was no dagger,” Roarke explained. “So essentially I tore the shirt you actually had on to remove the tunic you didn’t.”

“Different cause, different method, same result. That’s what we’ve got here. Somehow. A mix of illusion and reality combined to murder.” She held up the ruined shirt. “Essentially someone did this to Bart Minnock.”

In the morning, because there seemed to be no point not to, she compared the results of her level three to Roarke’s.

“There’s nothing here that sends up any flags, not on this investigation.”

“No,” he agreed, but continued to study the data on-screen.

“Do you see something I don’t?” she asked.

“No, not as applies to this. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or frustrated.”

“Well, it would be easier if something had popped here, or on the runs I’ve done on U-Play employees. DuVaugne was the big pop at Synch, but he’s just a cheat.”

She downed more coffee. “Whoever did this is a lot more tech-savvy and creative than DuVaugne. From what we know of the victim, considerably more to have been able to get past his guards. I’ve got meets with the lawyer and with Mira today. Maybe that’ll shake something loose.”

“I’ve meetings of my own. I’ll do what I can to work with EDD when I’m clear.”

“I’m going to try another angle. The sword. I’m going to send Peabody and McNab on that trail, figuring the team should include a geek and nongeek. McNab can talk the talk and pass for a collector. There’s what they call a mini-con in East Washington.”

“We have a booth there. I can easily arrange to get them in.”

“Fine. Saves me the trouble.” She crossed to the murder board, walked around it. “I’ll be talking to his three partners today. Individually this time.”

“Longtime friends suddenly turning murderous?”

She glanced over at him. “People get aggravated.”

Roarke lifted an eyebrow. “Should I worry about losing my head?”

“Probably not. We tend to blow it off, fight it off, yell it off, so the aggravation or the serious piss doesn’t dig in too deep. With other people, sometimes it festers. Maybe we’ve got a festerer here. These three have the means—the tech savvy, the creativity. They had the vic’s trust, and easy access to his home, his office. They’ve got motive, in as far as they’ll benefit from his death by upping their share of the company. And opportunity, as much as any.”

“They loved each other.”

“That’s just one more motive. How many women and kids are in Dochas right now, because someone loves them?” she asked, referring to Roarke’s abuse shelter.

“That’s not love.”

“The person doing the ass-kicking often thinks it is. Believes it is. It’s an illusion, like the game, but it feels real. A lot of nasty things grow out of love if it isn’t... tended right. Jealousy, hate, resentment, suspicion.”

“A cynical, and unfortunately accurate assessment. I love you.”

She managed a half-laugh. “That’s kind of odd timing.”

He crossed to her, cupped her face in his hands. “I love you, Eve. And however many mistakes either of us makes, I believe we’ll do our best to tend it right.”

She lifted her hands to cover his. “I know it. Anyway, any time something nasty crops up, we end up burning it off with some serious mad before it roots.”

“I wasn’t even mad at you, not really. I realize I’d hoped to find someone in that search, even if it was one of mine. It would be specific, you see, instead of this vague worry and wondering if I’d have a target.”

He glanced toward her murder board. “I can’t explain even to myself why his death strikes me, and where it does.”

“He might’ve been you, if things had been different. He might have been you,” she repeated when Roarke shook his head. “If you’d had a different scenario to play in childhood. Or some parts of you might’ve run along parts of him. We can both see it. So I guess that’s why I went around you, and you went around me.”

“And why, when confronted with that choice, we both got... aggravated?” Watching her face, he ran his hands up and down her arms. “It rings true enough, considering us.”

“Considering us. We’re okay.”

He rested his brow on hers. “We’re okay.”

“Here’s what you have to do.” She eased him back so their eyes met. “You have to stop asking yourself if you’d done something different, said something else, pushed another button, if Bart would have come on board with you instead of starting his own company. And if he’d done that, he’d be alive. Life’s not a program.”

“I haven’t been doing that. Very much,” he qualified. “But I could have pushed other buttons, said considerably more, and done quite a bit differently. I liked the idea of him striking out on his own, following that jagged path. So I didn’t. And I know perfectly well none of this is on me, and now I can be relatively sure none of it’s on any of mine. It doesn’t give me that specific target, but it helps clear my head.”

“Okay, head’s clear. And since I know you’re going to poke around on the magic sword angle whenever you get time today, make sure you let me know anything you come up with.”

“I’ll do that.”

“I’ve got to go. Lawyers and shrinks and suspects.”

“Oh my.” Her puzzled stare made him laugh and pull her to him for a cheerful kiss. Then just hold on to her for a moment more. “Go on then, be a cop. I’ll let you know if and when I can get away to work with Feeney.”

He’d find a way, she thought. He always did.

She met Peabody in the offices of Felicity Lowenstien. The sharp-looking reception area—small, efficient, and done in reds, blacks, and silvers—was manned by a sharp-looking woman who, either by design or preference, matched the decor with her short silver hair, black suit, and large red fabric rose at the lapel.

She took them straight back—no fuss, no waiting—past a small office, what looked to be a tidy law library, a closed door. The woman knocked briefly on the next door, then opened it.

“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”

Attorney Lowenstien rose from behind her desk. As she came around it Eve noted that the woman had boosted her five feet of height with three-inch scalpel-edged heels. She also wore black with just a hint of white lace at the cross of her jacket. Her hair, rolled back in a smooth twist, was a dense brown with gilded streaks.

She offered both Eve and Peabody a firm shake, then a chair.

“I appreciate you coming here. I’ve got everything I think you’ll need or want.” She paused, let out a breath. “Let me give you some personal background. I met Bart in college, through Cill. Cill and I got to be friendly, and she decided she’d fix me up with Bart.”

“Romantically?”

“That was the idea. It didn’t take, but Bart and I became friends. When we all established ourselves in New York, I became his attorney. I handled the partnership agreement, and I handled his estate. I don’t do criminal law, but I dated an ADA once.” She smiled, just a little, in a way that told Eve things hadn’t taken there either. “I know there’s little you can or will tell me, but I have to ask. Do you have any leads?”

“We’re pursuing several avenues of investigation.”

“That’s what I figured you’d say.” She sighed as she turned her gaze toward her window. “We didn’t hang out often anymore. Cill and I, or Bart and the others. Different directions, work, that kind of thing. But he was a good guy. A sweet guy.”