Fantasy in Death - J. D. Robb [114]
“Mmmm.” She took a huge bite, grinned around it.
“That’s cold, kid.” Genuine sorrow clouded his eyes. “Just cold.”
“You get that disc out without blowing it up, I’ll buy you ten pounds of cow meat. Time line?”
“Holo starts at twenty-one forty-six. The program ran until twenty-three fifty-two.”
“Over two hours. Longer than Bart.”
“Solo player, like him. We’ve got her starting off the jump. Level one.”
“He started at four. So she ran whichever scenario she picked from the beginning, either because it was new to her—and I don’t like that one. She started at square one because she wasn’t playing so much as working. Working to shut out the grief. She’s going to check the program, look for any flaws or glitches, or any place to improve it. Can you tell where she stopped?”
“She nearly finished level three.”
“Nearly?”
“It reads ninety-one percent. She didn’t make it to the end of the level.”
“You play. What would make you stop that close to moving up a level?”
“Screwing up, getting shut out.”
“Losing the level, okay. What else? If you got interrupted?”
“Nobody’s going to stop me from moving up unless they’re bleeding or on fire. And they’d have to be gushing blood or frying. And I’d have to like them. A lot.”
She glanced up at the knock on the door, then nodded as the nurse stepped in. Held up a finger. “Can you tell if she messed up, got shut out?”
“Not from the program, but up to then, from the time frame, it looks like she was cruising right along. I got through some of her older logs. She hits levels ten, twelve and up consistent.”
“But we don’t know if any of those were this scenario.”
“Can’t tell you until I get this disc out and you hand over ten pounds of cow meat.”
“But it’s unlikely, given her skills and experience, she’d have crapped out that quick. Or have stopped voluntarily that close to completing a level. Got it. I’ll get back to you.”
She clicked off.
“I got authorization to put what we’ve got on disc. You have to sign for it.”
“Thanks.” Eve dashed her name on the form, noted the woman’s wistful glance at her plate. “Do you want half?”
She smiled. “No, I’m watching my intake. But thanks. It’s a nice offer. I went in to get an update on her. She’s hanging in, but ... she’s got a long way to go.”
She started for the door, stopped. “We see a lot of hard things in our professions.”
“Yeah, we do.”
“I hope she makes it.”
“Me, too,” Eve murmured when she was alone.
Eve inserted the disc then called for the data on-screen.
She studied it, side-by-side with the records of the first responders.
On the holo-room floor, Cill lay crumpled, broken as a china doll heaved against the wall by an angry child. Blood had pooled and congealed under her, while her arm and leg cocked at unnatural angles. Snapped bone speared through the skin of her shin. Jagged, Eve thought, ignoring the movements of the cops, the voices as she focused on the victim. Not a clean break there. Several gashes, including one on her shoulder that appeared straight and true rather than torn.
Bruising around the eyes, she noted, scrapes at the temples.
She switched off, studied the scans. Several internal injuries, bruised and damaged organs. But the external bruising ...
She scrolled through, backtracked, scrolled again, studying the battered, torn body as she ate her lunch. She pulled out her beeping ’link, glanced at the readout.
“Doctor Mira.”
“Eve. I heard about Cilla Allen. What’s her status?”
“She’s still in surgery. I’m looking through the records, the scans. It’s bad. He used the victim’s holo-room again, the same project—the Fantastical game. She logged it out, or it’s been made to appear she did so. It’s the same basic setup—she appears to have been playing the game solo. But the method of attack is markedly different. Why?”
“He’d already won the game, that scenario. He’d want a different challenge with this new player. Possibly a game that opponent favored. It adds to the challenge.”
“Yeah, that’s my take. And it’s meaner than the first victim. That was quick and clean. He may be escalating, wants more bang