In Death 30 - Fantasy in Death

to grill, killers to catch.”
    She programmed waffles and mixed berries, more coffee. She imagined Roarke had already fed the cat, but programmed a shallow bowl of milk. Galahad leaped on it like a puma.
    “It’ll keep him out of our hair,” she said as she sat.
    “And isn’t this nice, our little family having breakfast together.” He plucked a fat blackberry from his own plate, popped it in her mouth. “You look rested. No more dreams?”
    “No. Something relaxed them right out of me.” She picked up a raspberry, popped it in his. “But I was thinking about it. Dreams are subconscious whacka-whacka.”
    “A little known psychological term.”
    “Whatever. I can figure out most of it; it’s just not that deep. But I have a lead suspect in my head, so why was it the fantasy figure that killed Bart in the dream? Maybe because my subconscious was just following the game, or maybe because it’s telling me I’m wrong.”
    “You might run it by Mira.”
    “Maybe. If there’s time. When the warrants come through, the searches are going to take a while. Hitting three places means extra time, extra men.”
    “Mira might back you up on the need for those warrants.”
    “Yeah, I’m holding her in reserve. The killer knew Bart’s routine, that’s part of the thing. His inside-his-own-place routine, and that takes a certain intimacy. It’s like this, us,” she explained wagging a finger between them. “The way I knew you’d be sitting here when I came out of the shower. Drinking coffee, petting the cat, checking the stocks and morning media. It’s what you do. You deviate now and then, as necessary, but odds are it’s like this.”
    “Mmm.” Roarke cut a bite of waffle. “And the killer played the odds.”
    “They were good odds. Just like I favor the odds on whoever killed him making a move to take the leadership role at U-Play. Bart’s death leaves a void, and part of the benefit of that death would be filling it.”
    “You’re leaning away from more than one of them being involved now.”
    “It’s still a good possibility, but killing a friend, a partner, it’s an absolute betrayal of trust.”
    He nodded. “And anyone who’s capable of that sort of betrayal wouldn’t easily trust someone else.”
    She tapped her fork in the air. “You got it in one. These people live by creating scenarios, and calculating all the steps. Take this choice, get this result, and that leads to the next. I think the killer would have calculated the pros and cons of pulling someone into it with him.”
    “If the other weakens, makes a mistake, threatens, it’s a new problem. Difficult to kill another partner,” Roarke commented. “It would shine your light brightly on the remaining two. But . . .” He knew her, too. Her routine, her thought patterns. “You’re concerned that might happen.”
    “It depends on what’s to be gained, or lost—and how much ego and satisfaction were stoked by the first kill. When someone believes they’re smarter, more talented, just plain more right than anyone else, and they harbor this kind of need, they’re very, very dangerous.”
     
    Eve tried Cher Reo first. The APA was another friend, and Eve supposed in a broad sense, another partner. I knock them down, she thought as she pushed her way through morning traffic, you put them away .
    When she contacted Reo’s office she learned the APA was already at Central overseeing Reineke’s case.
    That didn’t take long, she mused, and cut west, away from Broadway and the crowds that inevitably partied there.
    The pizza would roll on the pipe wrench, she concluded—or vice versa. One would take a deal, and the other would do the full weight.
    And that had to be enough.
    She left a voice mail on Reo’s ’link, requesting a meet as soon as she finished sealing the deal, but it surprised her to find Reo already waiting—with coffee, in her visitor’s chair.
    “Thought you’d take longer,” Eve commented.
    “They were at it since just after two this morning, which was when your boys decided the happy couple had had enough snuggle time.” Reo stretched, rolled her shoulders. “She’d slipped into his place about eight. Lights went off at midnight. Or thereabouts. They have it documented.”
    She yawned, combed her fingers through her fluffy blond hair. “They got sloppy. Didn’t even bother to pull the privacy screen. Your guys got quite a little show before and after the lights went out.”
    “I’m