In Death 30 - Fantasy in Death

Cill’s security system, and used every test, idea, method known to man and machine going back over Bart’s. We can’t find a single abnormality. I’d stake my reputation, and yours for that matter, that no one entered those apartments after the victim secured the door.”
    “Good.”
    Irritation rippled over his wonderful face. “Well, I’m delighted you’re pleased and we’ve lost countless brain cells on this.”
    “Fact: No one entered the scene after the victim. Facts are good. What’s the rest?”
    “We’ve made some progress on reconstructing the disc from Bart’s holo-room. It’s one painful nanochip at a time, but there’s some progress.”
    “Even better.”
    “Aren’t you the cheery one?” He stepped to the AutoChef, programmed coffee.
    “I know who did it, and I have an idea how.”
    “All right, let’s start with who.”
    “Var.”
    “Well, that’s a fifty-fifty for most, but you being you, the odds are higher.”
    “It’s nice to be so easily believed.”
    He waved that off. “You wouldn’t say it so definitely unless you were bloody damn sure. So, it’s Var. Because?”
    “He’s the odd man out. The other three go back to childhood. He comes along later in the game—you have to play catch-up. I bet he never liked playing catch-up. But he doesn’t hook in with the already established group until college. Before that, if you look at his records, he was the best—by far—in his electronics, math, science, comp, theory classes. Nobody came close.”
    “Used to being the star—the champion, you could say.”
    Eve nodded. “Yeah, you could. Then, in college, he hooks up with the other three. Not only are they as good as he is, Bart’s better. And he’s popular. In a geeky kind of way. Supreme Wizard of the Gaming Club. Where do they come up with titles like that? TA for a couple of classes, dorm manager. Responsible guy, cheerful guy. Brilliant, skilled, and people tended to like him.”
    Roarke settled in the visitor’s chair with his coffee. “And that’s your motive?”
    “It’s the root. Who did you approach when you considered recruiting that group?”
    “Bart. Yes. He was de facto leader, even then. Go on.”
    “And he turned you down, wanted to build his own company. His initial concept from all the statements, the data, the time lines. Equal partnership, sure, but Bart was the head, and the public face.”
    “True enough, but you could say both Cill and Benny had been competing with him even longer. Benny, for instance, always the sidekick.”
    “Yeah, I considered that. I had a moment in his apartment during the search with the droid. The Dark Knight connection.”
    Roarke lowered the coffee, obviously baffled. “What would Batman have to do with it?”
    “How do you know that?” Baffled, she tossed up her hands. “How do I say ‘Dark Knight’ and you immediately click to Batman. How do you know this stuff?”
    “The question might be how do you not know. Batman’s been part of the popular culture lexicon for more than a century.”
    “Never mind. It’s just weird. I could . . .” She narrowed her eyes. “Who murdered sixteen male prostitutes between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three over a three-year period and fed their remains to his prizewinning hogs?”
    “Christ Jesus.” Despite the image, Roarke had to laugh. “I’m delighted to say I have no idea.”
    “Hanson J. Flick, 2012-2015.” She smirked. “You don’t know everything.”
    “And your particular area of expertise is occasionally revolting.”
    “Yet handy. In any case, Benny’s stuck on Cill, which could have been a motive on Bart, except there’s zero going on there in the screwing around department. And Benny’s happy with his place in the company. He likes his research. Cill’s apartment was a mess—a kind of organized mess. Benny’s was lived-in, and he’s got Mongo and Alfred for company when he wants them. It’s probably healthy in some weird way.”
    “Mongo?”
    “A parrot. It talks. A lot, I’m betting. And you didn’t ask who Alfred was.”
    “You said Benny, Dark Knight, so Alfred’s the butler.”
    To that Eve could only heave out a breath. “Okay. Benny’s place. There were signs of grieving and . . . simplicity,” she decided. “Var’s place was clean. Like he was expecting company. He knew we’d need to do a search—he’d anticipated the steps in the game, and he was ready for it. He stocks good wine, fancier food, spends