In Death 30 - Fantasy in Death

your whole crew or somebody bobs to the surface.”
    “I know how it works, Lieutenant. I’ll just get back to it then, so you can have what you need and shift it back to your side of the line.”
    “That was low,” she mumbled as he walked out.
    “Maybe it was.”
    She sat, brooding into her wine. She didn’t know, exactly, why they were at odds. They were doing basically the same thing for basically the same reason.
    Basically.
    But he should’ve let her do it, or waited until she’d assigned him to do it. And that probably grated. The assign portion. Couldn’t be helped. She was the LT, she was the primary, she gave the damn orders.
    Now she was passing aggravated and heading toward pissed, she realized.
    She’d just been trying to shield him a little. Wasn’t that her job, too? she thought in disgust as she rose. Part of the marriage deal? So why were they fighting when she’d done her job?
    And now she had to do the damn dishes, which she’d fully intended to dump on him.
    She gathered them up as she scowled at the door he’d closed between their offices, and the red light above it that indicated he’d gone private.
    That was pattern, she thought as she carted the dishes into the kitchen. When he was seriously peeved he walked away, closed up until he cooled off. Which was probably for the best as it saved a serious bout. But it was . . . aggravating.
    She wondered why two people who loved each other to the point of stupid managed to aggravate each other as often as they seemed to.
    She couldn’t think about it now, she decided as she dumped the dishes in the washer. She had work to do.
    She programmed coffee and took it back to her desk.
    Since he was doing the runs, whether she wanted him to or not, she’d let that part slide for now. No point in doubling the work.
    Instead she studied the probabilities she’d set up before dinner. With the available data, the computer calculated a more than ninety-two percent probability Bart Minnock had known his killer. It gave her just under sixty on premeditation, high nineties on the killer working in or involved in the gaming business, which dropped to middle seventies on personnel from U-Play.
    “If it wasn’t premeditated, how’d he manage to clean up and walk out without his clothes full of blood? Dammit.”
    Had the killer taken some of Bart’s clothes? she wondered. Take a shirt, take some pants—Bart wasn’t in a position to complain. That increased the possibility of accidental or violent impulse.
    “Need the weapon. Need to ID the weapon. Who owned it.” She brought up Bart’s financials again, scouring them for any sign of a major purchase from an individual or a vendor who might deal in gaming weapons.
    She cross-referenced the financials with the inventory list of weapons, toys, props found in his apartment and his office.
    “Light saber. That’s a kind of electrified sword. Not a blade though, more like . . . a tube? Not a broad straight edge, not the weapon.”
    She picked her way through U-Play’s financial records. Steady, she thought, gradual and healthy up-ticks since inception, with a lot of the profit rolled back in. That showed partners in for the long haul.
    The four of them attended a lot of cons—individually or as a group, and sometimes sent other employees. The business picked up the freight, and paid the hefty fee for display and demo space, often sponsored contests and events.
    A lot of money for that, she noted. Was that usual, practical, smart? She glanced toward the closed door. She’d just have to ask her expert consultant, civilian, when he was in a better mood.
    Using the crime scene images, Morris’s findings, the sweeper’s reports she programmed a reconstruction of the murder. Eyes narrowed, she watched the two comp images stand face-to-face, watched the sword slice down so the tip ripped open the victim’s forearm, then swing up, back before making that slightly downward and powerful beheading stroke.
    “That had to hurt—the first gash. It had to hurt as well as shock.
    What does someone usually do when something hurts, when they’ve been cut, when they’re bleeding? Why didn’t you, Bart?” she asked aloud. “Why didn’t you press your hand to the wound? No blood on your palm, and there would’ve been. It cut, it burned, it bled, but you don’t attempt to staunch it, feel it. It’s instinctive. But you couldn’t if you had something in your hand, like the hilt of a sword. Couldn’t if