In Death 30 - Fantasy in Death

counter as if his long legs wouldn’t support him any longer. “I can’t get it. I just can’t pull it in and keep it there. He’s gone. He’s really gone.”
    “Bart had big plans for the new game.”
    “Mega. He had a way of seeing the whole picture, taking it down the line. Having Plan B and C in place just in case.”
    “You went back a long way. I stopped in your office, looking for you. I saw the pictures.”
    “Yeah. I can hardly remember a time when Cill and Bart weren’t right there. Then Var.” He etched a square in the air with his fingers. “We clicked the corners and boxed it in. Four square. Oh Jesus.”
    “It’s a hard loss. A friend, a partner. You shared a lot. The picture in the costumes. Star Wars, right?”
    “Yeah, A New Hope. Episode four.” After heaving out a breath, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, then dropped them. “Leia, Luke, and Han. The summer before college, at Worldcon.”
    “Bart must’ve been a big fan. The costume, his house droid.”
    “Arguably, Star Wars opened things up, and the CGI developed by Lucas . . .” He managed a ghost of a smile. “You don’t want to get me started.”
    “He probably played it a lot, in fantasy games. Maybe favored versions of it in the new game.”
    “Not so much. I mean in the new game. We’ve got buckets of Star Wars and Jedi games. Really intense.”
    “But he knew how to use a light saber.”
    “Wicked frosted. He could holo or VR pilot any ship or transport, too. When Bart goes gaming, he’s into it. He works at it.”
    “What did he favor in the new game?”
    “Gosh, we mix it up a lot. You’ve got to when you’re developing.” But the question, the thinking it over, seemed to settle him. “He likes the battles. Save the girl or the village or the planet deal. Quests and wizardry, facing the Black Knight, slaying the dragon. The thing about the new game is you can do all that and more. You can build the world, the mythology.”
    As he spoke, excitement sparked in his voice, onto his face. “Bart’s the undisputed champ at world building. He wrote the outlines and consulted on the scripts for the vid versions of Charrah and Third Star. Bart’s a really good writer, and you combine that with the programming chops, you got something way up.”
    Benny wound down, sighed, seemed to deflate again. “I can’t get it straight in my head that he’s gone. Really gone. It’s like it won’t stick in my brain from one minute to the next. I don’t know what we’re going to do. When you find out who did it, when you put them away, will it get better? Will it?”
    “I don’t know. You’ll know who and why, and you’ll know Bart got justice.”
    “It matters.” He nodded. “Justice mattered to Bart. It’s why he liked to play the hero, I guess. But the thing is, Lieutenant Dallas, justice won’t bring him back.”
    “No, it won’t.”
    She left him, headed to the steps, started down. When she looked back she saw him, VR goggles in place again, hands fisted as he gave the opening salute.
    Going away for a while again, she thought.
     
    After the sticky, sweltering heat that seemed to bounce off the streets of East Washington into the faces of anyone with business out of doors, the chill of a hotel lobby felt like bliss. Even better, Peabody felt completely uptown in her plum purple multi-zips—the cut and placement of zippers helped, she believed, made her ass look smaller. She’d married it with knee-high shine boots and a float tank—low scoop—that gave her tits a nice lift.
    She’d added a temp tattoo on one of those nicely lifted tits of a winged dragon inside a heart, pumped up the facial enhancements, gone wild and curly with the hair, and draped on plenty of sparkles.
    No possible way she looked like a cop.
    She knew the outfit worked because McNab had taken one look at her, made that flattering mmmmm sound of his, and grabbed her ass.
    Undercover meant blending, and she concluded they’d passed that test, she in her plum purple and candy pink, McNab in his spring-grass green and Son of Zark tee. Hand-in-hand they glided across the lobby in her heeled shines and his ankle skids toward con registration.
    In his many pockets and inside her many zips, they carried weapons—which had required a stop and private ID scan at Security—as well as badges, restraints, ’links, and communicators.
    Neither expected trouble, but both sort of hoped for it.
    They collected their con