J. Robb - Fantasy in Death

“They can be and are intriguing, and certainly can command stiff prices, particularly at auction.”

“You collect.” She shifted to study his profile. “But you mostly collect real.”

“Primarily, yes. Still, it’s an area of interest for anyone in the field, or serious about gaming. Game weapons run from the basic and simple to the intricate and complex, and everything between. They can and do add an element of immediacy and realism, a hands-on.”

He glanced at her. “You enjoy weapons.”

“I like knowing I’ve got one. One that does what it needs to do when I need it to do it.”

“You’ve played the games. You’re a competitive soul.”

“What’s the point of playing if winning isn’t the goal?”

“We stand on the same side there.”

“But a game’s still a game,” she pointed out. “A toy’s a toy. I don’t understand the compulsion to live the fantasy. To outfit your office like the command center of some fictional starship.”

“Well, for the fun or the escape, though no doubt some take it too far. We should go to an auction some time, just so you can experience it. Gaming and the collecting that’s attached to it, it’s an interesting world.”

“I like toys.” She shrugged. “What I don’t get is why anyone would spend millions on some play sword wielded by some play warrior in a vid or interactive.”

“Some might say the same about art. It’s all a matter of interest. In any case, some pieces of interest to collectors would be based on those vid props, and used in various games, or simply displayed. Depending on the accessibility, the age, the use, the base, they can be valuable to collectors. We routinely issue special limited editions of some weapons and accessories, just for that reason.”

“How about an electrified sword?”

He braked for a red light, then smiled at her. “You’d have your fire sword, your charged-by-lightning, your stunner sword and so on. They’d give off a light show, appropriate sound effects-glow, sizzle, vibrate, that sort of thing. But no game prop would do more than give an opponent a bit of a buzz. They’re harmless.”

“You could doctor one?”

“I could, and bottom out its value on any legitimate market. There are regulations, Eve, safety requirements-and very strict ones. You’d never get anything capable of being turned into an actual weapon through screening. It wasn’t a game prop that killed Bart.”

“A replica then, made specifically for the purpose. A killing blade that carries enough of an electric current to burn.”

He cruised through the green, said nothing for a moment as he swung toward the curb in front of Bart’s building. “Is that what did him?”

“That’s what we have at this point.” She got out after Roarke parked. “That tells me it wasn’t enough to kill. There had to be gamesmanship, too. It had to be fun or exciting for the killer. Whoever did it had to be part of it, part of the game. And he played to win. I have to figure out what he took home as his prize.”

“Lieutenant.” The doorman stepped away from his post. “Is there any progress? Do you know who killed Bart-Mr. Minnock?”

“The investigation’s ongoing. We’re pursuing all leads. Has anyone tried to gain access to his apartment?”

“No. No one’s been up there since your people left. He was a nice guy. Hardly older than my son.”

“You were on duty when he got home yesterday.” It had all been asked before, she knew, but sometimes details shook out in the repetition. “How was his mood?”

“He was whistling. Grinning. I remember how it made me grin right back. He looked so damn happy.”

“And no one came in after him, or before him, who might have access to his apartment?”

“No one. Quiet yesterday. You remember the weather we had? People stayed in, mostly, if they didn’t have to go anywhere. Hardly anyone in or out all day, and I knew all of them.”

“Did he have any trouble with anyone in the building? Any complaints?”

“He was a friendly guy, easygoing, but maybe a little shy, a little quiet. I never heard him complain about anybody, or anybody complain about him.”

She shifted angles. “Maybe he was particularly friendly with one of the other tenants?”

“Well, the kids, sure.”

And there, she thought, a new detail. “What kids?”

“The Sing kids, and the Trevor boy. We don’t have a lot of kids in the building. Couple of teenage girls, but they’re not so into the game scene. But the younger boys, they were big for Bart.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, he let them come up and play now and then, said they were his market research. Gave them some demos here and there, passed them new games before they hit the stores.”

“Were the parents okay with that?”

“Sure. He wouldn’t’ve done it otherwise. In fact, Dr. Sing joined in sometimes. He’s more into strategy games and like that than the action stuff the kids like. Those kids are taking it hard, really hard, since the news got out. Well, the Sing kids. The Trevors are on vacation, so I don’t know if they heard about it.”

“What’s the Sings’ apartment?”

“They’re in five-ten if you want the main. It’s a nice two-level job. The whole family’s up there now, if you want to talk to them. I can buzz up, let them know.”

“Why don’t you do that? After, we’ll be working in Mr. Minnock’s for a while.”

“It’s good you’re keeping on it. That’s good. Whoever hurt that boy…” His lips thinned as he looked away. “Well, I can’t even say what I think about it. We get fired for that kind of language.”

Roarke keyed up his PPC as they got in the elevator. “Sing,

Dr. David-neurologist. His wife’s a pediatric surgeon. Susan. Boys, Steven and Michael, ages ten and eight respectively. Married twelve years. Both graduated from Harvard Medical School, and both are attendings at Mount Sinai. No criminal on either.”

“Since when do you access criminal records on that?”

“Since I consult with my lovely wife.” Roarke slipped the PPC back in his pocket.

“I’ve got a guy in a cage right now for accessing proprietary information.”

Roarke merely smiled, held his hands out, wrists up. “Want to take me in, darling?”

The elevator doors opened and spared her from an answer. “I just want a look, a sense. Maybe the whole deal was some sort of accident. Everybody’s playing, having fun, until somebody gets their head chopped off.”

“And a couple of kids clean up after themselves, reset the security, reprogram a very sophisticated droid?”

“No, but they have really smart parents. I assume smart given the Harvard Medical. It’s not likely, but-”

“You can’t write it off,” Roarke finished, and pressed the bell for 510 himself.

“Try to look like Peabody.”

“Sorry?”

“Serious, official, yet approachable.”

“You forgot adorable.”

“Peabody is not adorable.”

“She is from my perspective. Besides, I was talking about me.”

She barely smothered the laugh before the door opened.

David Sing wore jeans and a spotless white shirt. In her boots Eve had an inch on him, and his weary eyes skimmed from her to Roarke.

He spoke with a precision that told her English wasn’t his first language, but he’d learned it very well.

“You’re the police. I’m David Sing. Please, come in.”

There were touches of his Asian heritage in the decor-the pretty colors, the collection of carved dragons, the pattern of the silk throws. He ushered them to a bright blue sofa that showed both care and wear.

“We’ll have tea,” he said. “My sons’ nanny is preparing it. She stayed late this evening as our children are very upset by what happened to our friend. Please sit. Tell me how I might help you.”