“When he gets back and before school starts we’re going to have a party. If it’s okay,” Steven added. “Bart said we’d all get together: Linc and Bart’s friends from work, and there’d be a brand-new game. The best game ever. We’ll all get to play, and . . . but we can’t. We won’t. Because Bart’s dead now. I forgot. Bart’s dead.”
“You’re helping me help him right now,” Eve told him as the boy’s eyes swam.
“How?”
“By talking to me. Did he tell you anything about the new game? The best game?”
“He said you got to be anyone or anything you wanted. Imagine your reality and go beyond. That’s what he said. I remember because it made me laugh. It sounds funny.”
Even Bart couldn’t resist leaking a little of the project.” Eve paused outside the crime scene apartment before breaking the seal. “Only a couple of kids who really didn’t process any more than ‘party’ and ‘new game.’ But if he said something to them, he may have said something to someone who’d process a lot more.”
“Killing him didn’t get them the game,” Roarke pointed out.
“We can’t be sure of that. We can’t know what he may or may not have told his killer. Dubrosky used sex to get data. The killer may have used the same, or some other type of seduction. Praise, interest, financial backing. It goes back to the game,” she said as she closed and locked the door behind them. “It has to.”
She stood a moment, taking in the living area, trying to see it through the victim’s eyes. “However smart he is, he’s simple. The colors in here, throughout the place. Stimulating, sure, but simple. Primary colors. Game and vid posters for art, reflecting his taste. What he likes, what he’s comfortable with. Every room set up for games.
“He’s loyal, but that’s also a simplicity. You make friends, you keep friends. Playmates beco
me workmates, and you know them, understand them, again relate—and it’s comfortable. His current girlfriend, very comfortable relationship there, too. No drama, no kink. Just a nice girl hanging with a nice boy. Relatively new friends? Kids in the building. They’re simple, too. A kid’s going to play as long as you let him play. He’s not going to want a fancy meal when pizza’s on the menu. He gets kids because a big part of him still is one.”
“I’ve nothing to argue about so far.” Roarke watched her wander the room.
“Kids—unless you were you or me—are generally pretty trusting. He’s got good security. He’s not a fool. But he brings home a developmental disc, without logging it out. Their big project, and he carries a copy home, where again, sure he’s got good security. But what if he got mugged on the street, hit by a maxibus, had his pocket picked? He doesn’t think of that because he’s simple, and because he wants to play the game. In his own place. His game. So . . .”
She walked back to the door. “He comes home, a little earlier than usual. He can’t wait. The doorman’s not lying, so he came in alone. EDD reports that his droid’s programmed to bring him a fizzy when he comes in, remind him of any appointments or events. The memory log confirms that behavior, and the ordered shutdown. He drinks his fizzy, and the timing of the shutdown and the holo log-in indicates he went almost directly into the holo-room. Droid’s log has it suggesting he change his shoes. They were wet from walking home in the rain. But he didn’t. Security logs at the entrance show him wearing the same pair he died in.”
“Young,” Roarke commented, “eager to play. Not much thought about damp shoes.”
“Yeah.” She shook her head as they started up. “Maybe someone was already here. Maybe he let someone in after the shutdown, before he went up.”
“Someone he knew and trusted,” Roarke prompted.
“No sign of struggle, no defensive wounds except for arm gash, no chemicals in his system, no evidence of restraints. Maybe they freaking hypnotized him, but otherwise, he went into the holo-room with his killer.”
“A playmate.”
“Not a pint-sized one. Neither of those Sing kids could cover this.”
“So you can write them off.”
“If they’d been here and there’d been an accident, they’d have spilled it.” She thought of those dark, liquid eyes again. The simplicity, the innocence. “The younger one spilled about the fizzies. You could say, Gee, that’s cute, but what it is, under it, is honest. Still, possibly an accident with someone not as simple or honest as a couple of kids.”
“They’re a lovely family.”
Her gaze tracked as they continued on, as she looked for anything out of place, anything she might have missed before. “I don’t know why it always surprises me to see that sort of thing. Maybe I don’t generally interview lovely families. Steady ones. My impression is Bart came from the same. Maybe it’s a disadvantage in its own way.”
“What way would that be?”
“You can end up too simple and too trusting.” She glanced at him. “That’s sure not our problem.”
“The cop and the criminal?” He laid a stroke down her back. “I’d wager there’s a good many of those from steady families as well. Is that what worries you, Eve, about starting one of our own? Not time yet,” he added, helplessly amused by the quick panic in those canny cop’s eyes. “But when it is, is that your worry? We’ll either raise cops, criminals, or the too trusting?”
“I don’t have a clue. But just a for instance, who’ll remember to say, ‘No more fizzies’? What if I want one? Or no pizza for dinner again, when come on, why the hell not? It’s another endless set of rules to learn. I haven’t worked my way through the marriage rules yet.”
“And yet, here we are.” He lowered his head to kiss her lightly. “I think there’s a lot of on-the-job training involved in raising children.”
“That’s fine when it’s consenting adults, but it ought to be a lot more solid when there’s one of those little squirmy things involved, like Mavis’s Bella. Anyway . . .” She’d let herself become distracted, and Bart deserved better.