One way to discourage personal use if a cop had an urge to virtually lie naked on a beach, or get it on with a fellow officer, visitor, or tech.
There were ways around it, of course, and rumor was the second holoroom was routinely glitchy because somebody messed with the monitors so they could lie on the beach or get it on.
As Eve rarely used the facilities, she didn’t much care.
She swiped her master in the slot, waited while it was scanned and approved.
Dallas, Lieutenant Eve approved. Time and facility booked by Peabody, Officer Delia. Approved, the computer announced after Peabody also swiped in.
They stepped into the empty room with its white, windowless walls and white floors. Eve moved to the wall comp as Peabody secured the door.
Eve keyed in the three case files, in order, programmed a reenactment, most probable, in sequential order.
Elements accepted, system analyzing. Facial details on suspect incomplete.
“Use the sketches.”
Coordinating artist renditions, merging. Remaining data is being uploaded.
“I saw this vid where these four people were fooling around in a holoroom and got stuck there in like this swampy jungle place—except one of them who got tossed in some urban underworld. And there was this guy with an ax who . . .”
Peabody trailed off as she looked around the white room. “And maybe I shouldn’t be thinki
ng about that right now. We could end up in a swampy jungle. Anyway it was called HoloHell. They’re doing the sequel now.”
“If some guy comes at you with an ax, stun him,” Eve suggested.
Upload complete, program to commence in ten seconds. You have thirty-four minutes, eighteen seconds remaining on your reservation.
“Fine, fine, fine. Go.”
Program to commence in three seconds, two seconds, one second.
Eve followed the killer to the door of Bastwick’s building. She noted the fading light of the late December evening, the computer-generated traffic noises. She watched the gloved hand press the buzzer, and the casual ease of the door opening.
“What do you suppose she’s feeling?” Eve wondered as she stepped onto the elevator with the killer. “If this is the first time—and we’ve got no reason to believe it isn’t, doesn’t she feel nerves? Excitement? Something? But her hands are steady. She shifts and angles the box so easy, like it’s choreographed in her head.”
“No hesitation,” Peabody commented. “No rush either.”
“Everything about her says pay no attention, and no one did. But attention’s what she wants. Maybe most of all.”
“Yours.”
“Yeah, to start.”
Bastwick, in her classy loungewear, opened the door. Bastwick’s mouth moved, and the program gave her voice.
All right. Just put it on the
Her last words as the killer stepped in, drawing the stunner from the right pocket. Center mass, full stun. Bastwick’s nervous system went haywire so her body convulsed, perfectly manicured hands flapping. She crumpled, fell back, went down. The head smacked against the floor. Eyes stared for a second, another, before rolling up white, then the lids came down.
Following the scenario Eve had laid out, the killer—the face an almost cartoon-like sketch—set the box on a table, took a box cutter from the left pocket of the coat, broke the seal.
Removed a can of Seal-It from the box, removed the gloves.
“She’d have sealed up before she came in. Hands, feet, everything. Maybe she gave the hands another backup coat, but she didn’t step in without being sealed first.”
“The cleaning service came in on the twenty-third,” Peabody said, referring to her notes. “No one came to her place that we know of until this. The sweepers didn’t find any hair, fiber, prints that weren’t the vic’s.”