Fantasy in Death - J. D. Robb [95]
He smiled. “I’m a duly authorized officer of the NYPSD. Hacking’s a crime. Hypothetically, theoretically, and saying you ever say I did you’re a lying SOS, it could be experimental-type hacking keeps the gears oiled.”
“And a group of geeks, with exceptional skills, playing games all damn day and night, would likely experiment. If they, or one of them wanted to take it a little further—keep an eye on the innards of competitors say—unregistered equipment would be handy, and damn near essential.”
“Adds a nice layer of control and security,” he agreed. “It’ll cost, but they could afford it. Hell, this lot could probably build their own with spare parts. Everything in this place, and everything at U-Play HQ is properly registered.”
“Yeah, and I’ve been through each apartment twice now. If any of them have a hidden room it’s in another dimension. Off-site maybe, but still in the area.” Hands on hips, she turned another circle. “They keep everything close.”
“If they, or one of them, has a hidey-hole for unregistered, that would be the place they’d do the hacking. Just follows.”
“And where you’d work up the outline, the scenario for murder. Where you’d play the game.”
Another angle, she thought, another line to tug. But first she drove back to U-Play and Bart Minnock’s memorial.
Full house, she noted, and glanced at the screens where a montage of Bart’s life played out. She heard his voice over the voices of those who’d come to pay respect, and to mourn. Media interviews, cons where he’d given seminars, holiday trips, parties. Moments, big and small, of his life, she thought, spliced together.
Food and flowers, as much staples of a memorial as the dead, spread out in careful and creative displays. Simple food, simple flowers, she noted, along with self-serve fizzy bars.
She heard as much laughter as tears as she wound her way through to offer condolences to her victim’s parents.
“Mr. and Mrs. Minnock, I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Lieutenant Dallas.” The woman who’d passed her eyes, the shape of her mouth, onto her son gripped Eve’s hand. “Thank you for coming. Do you ... this isn’t the time to ask if ...”
“Your son has all my attention, and the determination of the NYPSD to bring his killer to justice.”
“His life was just beginning,” Bart’s father said.
“I’ve gotten to know him over the past couple of days. It seems to me he lived that life very well.”
“Thank you for that. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
She eased away, moving through the crowd, scanning faces, listening to bits of conversation. And searching for the partners.
She saw the Sing family, the two beautiful kids in dark suits she thought made them look eerily like mini-adults. Susan Sing had an arm around CeeCee’s shoulders so the five of them formed their own intimate little unit. Connected, she thought, by Bart’s life and by his death.
Eve started toward them when Cill spotted her. The outrage on her face held as much passion as a scream. Anticipating her, Eve crossed over, away from the main packs of people, forcing Cill to change direction to come after her.
“You’re not welcome here. Do you think you can come here now, now, when we’re remembering Bart? Do you think you can just grab some pizza bites and a fizzy and spy on us now?”
“You don’t want to cause a scene here, Cill. You don’t want to do this here.”
“This is our place. This was Bart’s place, and you—”
“Cill.” Roarke laid a hand on her shoulder. “Your anger’s misplaced.”
“Don’t tell me about my anger.” She shrugged his hand away. “Bart’s dead. He’s dead, and she’s trying to make it seem like we killed him. What kind of person does that? For all I know she’s decided this is an opportunity, and she’s passing our data onto you.”
“Be careful,” Eve said softly. “Be very careful.”
Cill jutted up her chin, and her eyes sparked challenge. “What are you going to do? Arrest me?”
“Come, walk outside