In Death 30 - Fantasy in Death

break, for lunch, leave the building before you finished for the day?”
    “Not yesterday. Full plate. Yeah, full plate with second helpings.”
    “But you took breaks, had some lunch?”
    “Yeah, sure. Sure. Gotta fuel it up, charge it up. Sure.”
    “So, did you contact anybody? Tag a pal to pass the time with on a break?”
    “Ah . . .” His gaze skidded left. “I don’t know.”
    “Sure you do. And you can tell me or I’ll just find out when we check your comp, your ’links.”
    “Maybe I tagged Milt a couple times.”
    “And Milt is?”
    “Milt’s my . . . you know.”
    “Okay. Does Milt your You Know have a last name?”
    “Dubrosky. He’s Milton Dubrosky. It’s no big.” A little sweat popped out above his upper lip. “We’re allowed.”
    “Uh-huh.” She pulled out her PPC and started a run on Milton Dubrosky. “So you and Milt live together?”
    “Kinda. I mean, he still has a place but we’re mostly at mine. Mostly.”
    “And what does Milt do?”
    “He’s an actor. He’s really good. He’s working on his big break.”
    “I bet you help him with that? Help him study lines.”
    “Sure.” Shoulders jiggled again; toes tapped. “It’s fun. Kinda like working up a game.”
    “Being an actor, he probably has some good ideas, too. Does he help you out there?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Been together long?”
    “Nine months. Almost ten.”
    “How much have you told him about Fantastical?”
    Every ounce of color dropped out of his face, and for an instant, he was absolutely still. “What?”
    “How much, Roland? Those little bits and bytes, or more than that?”
    “I don’t know about anything like that.”
    “The new project? The big top secret? I think you know something about it. You’re in research.”
    “I just know what they tell me. We’re not allowed to talk about it. We had to sign the gag.”
    Eve kept an easy smile on her face, and a hard hammer in her heart. “But you and Milt are, you know, and you help each other out. He’s interested in what you do, right?”
    “Sure, but—”
    “And a big project like this, it’s exciting. Anybody’d mention it to their partner.”
    “He doesn’t understand e-work.”
    “Really? That’s odd, seeing as he’s done time, twice, for e-theft.”
    “No, he hasn’t!”
    “You’re either an idiot, Roland, or a very slick operator.” She angled her head. “I vote idiot.”
    She had the protesting and now actively weeping Roland escorted to Central, then sent a team of officers to scoop up Dubrosky and take him in.
    His criminal didn’t show any violent crimes, she mused, but there was always a first time.
    She finished her interviews, calculating it would give Roland time to stop crying and Dubrosky time to stew. She found two more who admitted they’d talked about the project to a friend or spouse or cohab, but the Chadwick-Dubrosky connection seemed the best angle.
    She broke open a tube of Pepsi while she checked in with the sweepers and added to her notes. She looked up as the door opened, and Roarke stepped in.
    He changed the room, she thought, just by being in it. Not just for her, but she imagined for most. The change came from the look of him, certainly, long and lean with that sweep of dark hair, the laser blue eyes that could smolder or frost. But the control, the power under it demanded attention be paid.
    Even now, she thought, when she could see the sorrow on that wonderful face, he changed the room.
    “They said you’d finished with your share of the interviews. Do you have a minute now?”
    He wouldn’t have always asked, she remembered. And she wouldn’t have always known to get up, to go to him, to offer a moment of comfort.
    “Sorry about your friend,” she said when her arms were around him.
    She kept the embrace brief—after all, the walls were glass—but she felt some of the tension seep out of him before she drew back.
    “I didn’t know him well, not really. I can’t say we were friends, though we were friendly. It’s such a bloody waste.”
    He paced away to the wall, looked out through the glass. “He and his mates were building something here. Too many holes in it yet, but they’ve done well for themselves. Creative and bright, and young enough to pour it all in.”
    “What kind of holes?”
    He glanced back, smiled a little. “You’d pull that one thing out of the rest. And I imagine though e-work’s not your strongest suit, you’ve seen some of those holes