In Death 30 - Fantasy in Death

save her. I’m doing everything I can to find the son of a bitch who did that to her. Her name’s Cilla Allen, but they call her Cill. She had her twenty-ninth birthday six weeks ago. A couple days ago one of her closest friends was murdered, and yesterday she ordered food and flowers for his memorial. She cried for him. And last night or early this morning, the same person who killed her friend tried to kill her. The sooner I see what he did to her, the sooner I figure out how he did it, and who did it, the sooner I put the fucker away so he never hurts anyone else.”
    The nurse opened a door. “I’ll get the authorization. This room is generally available for family members of surgical patients. You’re free to use the equipment.”
    “Thanks.”
    It was a small office and still nearly twice the size of hers at Central. It boasted a sleep chair, an AutoChef and Friggie that took credit swipes. The desk held a comp, a ’link, and a small vase of yellow flowers.
    A window let in the summer light, but was filtered so as not to toss glare on the wall screen.
    She charged another cup of lousy coffee, sat, and got to work.
    It was probably crazy, what she was considering. No, it was crazy, she corrected, and still she started a search on numerous underground e and game sites.
    The weirder the better, she decided.
    She popped into the chat rooms McNab had given her, the message boards, and noted that Razor was still putting out feelers for the weapon—with no results.
    Or none that showed, she thought.
    She tried Mira, and was told by her chilly-voiced admin that the doctor was in session. Eve requested a ’link consult as soon as Mira was free.
    At the knock on the door, she called out, “Yeah, come in.” She expected the floor nurse, hoped to have a file of medical data to comb through. Instead, a waiter walked in carrying a tray.
    “Got your lunch order.”
    “I didn’t order lunch. You’ve got the wrong room. Scram.”
    “Room 880, East Surgical Wing. You Dallas?”
    Frowning, she gave him and his tray a closer look. “Yeah.”
    “Got your lunch order. Got one for Peabody, too. Waiting room A, East Surgical Wing.”
    “Who placed the orders?”
    “Ordered up by Roarke.”
    “Of course they were. Well, what’ve I got?”
    He set the tray on the desk, pulled off the insulated top. “Got your burger—that’s moo-meat, too. Got your fries, got your small side salad. Got your coffee—real deal. A double, black.”
    “Never misses a trick.” Eve dug into her pocket, came up with enough loose credits for a decent tip. “Thanks.”
    “Enjoy.”
    “I guess I will,” she murmured as he went out. She sampled a fry as she tagged Feeney. “What’ve you got?”
    “We’re not going to try removing the disc. Working on some ideas first. We got your time frame. Vic set up the holo at—is that a burger?”
    “No, it’s a catcher’s mitt. What does it look like?”
    “It looks like a burger. Is it meat?”
    “Mmmm.” She took a huge bite, grinned around it.
    “That’s cold, kid.” Genuine sorrow clouded his eyes. “Just cold.”
    “You get that disc out without blowing it up, I’ll buy you ten pounds of cow meat. Time line?”
    “Holo starts at twenty-one forty-six. The program ran until twenty-three fifty-two.”
    “Over two hours. Longer than Bart.”
    “Solo player, like him. We’ve got her starting off the jump. Level one.”
    “He started at four. So she ran whichever scenario she picked from the beginning, either because it was new to her—and I don’t like that one. She started at square one because she wasn’t playing so much as working. Working to shut out the grief. She’s going to check the program, look for any flaws or glitches, or any place to improve it. Can you tell where she stopped?”
    “She nearly finished level three.”
    “Nearly?”
    “It reads ninety-one percent. She didn’t make it to the end of the level.”
    “You play. What would make you stop that close to moving up a level?”
    “Screwing up, getting shut out.”
    “Losing the level, okay. What else? If you got interrupted?”
    “Nobody’s going to stop me from moving up unless they’re bleeding or on fire. And they’d have to be gushing blood or frying. And I’d have to like them. A lot.”
    She glanced up at the knock on the door, then nodded as the nurse stepped in. Held up a finger. “Can you tell if she messed up, got shut out?”
    “Not from the program, but up to then, from the