In Death 30 - Fantasy in Death

jab. Feeney keeps talking, talking, pulling the guy’s attention to him, and gives me the go signal.”
    And Roarke could see it, too. He could see it in her eyes as she spoke.
    “I stun him—nice clean stream, and his body jerks the way it does with a hit. She shoves forward to get clear, pushes clear, bumps him back, and he’s jerking. The son of a bitch went right over the edge. Momentum, gravity, bad luck, whatever, but he went over and hit the sidewalk eight stories down.
    “I didn’t feel excited when I looked down at him. I didn’t feel guilty either. A little shaky, sure. Jesus, it was a straight stun, neither of us expected him to go over that way. I didn’t even have to go through Testing. We’d turned on our recorders when we started the chase, and it was all on there, it showed the girlfriend’s push and stumble caused the fall. Or basically. Bad luck for him, that’s all.”
    She let out a breath. “But I’m the one who aimed and fired. Fifteen years between. It took me that long to be sure, absolutely sure, I wouldn’t feel that excitement, or that guilt, or that hardening when I had to take another life.”
    She looked back toward the building. “One of those three, at least one of them, might be wondering if they’ll feel that again. One of them may want to.”
    “I can’t tell you how much I hope you’re wrong.”
    Her eyes, flat and cool, met his. “I’m not.”
    “No. I very much doubt you’re wrong.”

13
     
     
     
    S he spent a great deal of time picking through data on the lives of three people, analyzing it, scraping away at tiny details of family background, education, finances, and communication.
    She played each one against Mira’s profile, and the computer matched each one of them with a reasonably high probability to the general outline.
    Organized, detail-oriented, competitive, wide e-skills, known and trusted by victim.
    But the violence—that face-to-face, blood-on-the-hands cruelty bottomed them out again.
    Still, nowhere could she find any hint, much less any evidence, that any had bought a hit.
    Money wasn’t the only currency, she mused. A favor, sex, information—all those could stand in for dollars and cents and never show on any balance sheet. But that didn’t account for the fact Bart had known his killer. There was simply no reason to believe he’d allowed a stranger into his apartment, into his holo-room, into his game.
    One more time, she told herself, and rose to study and circle her board.
    Vic comes home happy, whistling a tune. And comes in alone according to both the doorman and the security cameras. EDD verifies by all that’s holy there’d been no tampering with the locks, and no entry before the vic’s in any access into the apartment.
    Still, she considered, we have three very skilled, very clever e-geeks. If there was a way to bypass without it showing, they’d find it.
    Or, more realistically, one of them, or another party met the vic outside and entered with him.
    Only the droid says otherwise—and once again EDD remained firm that no one tampered with or reprogrammed the Leia droid.
    Eve shut her eyes.
    “Maybe he doesn’t secure the door immediately. He’s excited, happy. The droid brings him a fizzy, he tells her to go ahead and shut down. The killer may have entered at that time, after the droid shut down, before the door was secured. It’s possible.”
    The friendly face shows up, Eve thought, tells the vic, I could-n’t resist. I want in on the game, or want to observe. One of the partners, she thought again. You play, I’ll document and observe.
    Also possible, she concluded. Why wait until after-hours? It’s almost ready. Let’s run it. The killer could’ve brought the disc, which explains why the vic didn’t log it out, as was his routine. Or, the killer told the vic he or she would log it for him.
    The weapon might have already been on the premises, or brought in by the killer.
    And the game begins. System reads solo. Bart plays, killer observes—it’s logical, it’s efficient.
    But at some point, the killer stops observing. Bruising, wrenched shoulder indicate a scuffle.
    And that, Eve thought, was where it just didn’t fit for her.
    The weapon’s there, the plan’s in place, so why the scuffle? Bart’s in good shape—superior shape for a geek—and he’s studied combat moves. Why risk a fight, why risk him getting some licks in?
    An argument? Passion of the moment? No, no, dammit , it wasn’t