Fantasy in Death

“Take five,” she told him.

“Yes, sir.”

Eve moved to the foot of the bed. They’d caged the leg, the arm, she noted, which made Eve think of a droid in mid-development. The limbs inside the cages showed the livid red and purple of insult and repair. Tubes snaked, hooking Cill to monitors that hummed and beeped in a slow, steady rhythm. The bruising around her eyes showed black against pasty white skin, and the lacework of bandages.

They’d shaved her head, Eve noted, and had it resting on a gel pillow that would ease the pressure. All that hair, Eve mused. That would probably be as much of a jolt as the glass walls and cams.

If she woke up.

“I’ve gotten messed up a few times, but I have to say, you win the prize. Coming back from being put together again’s got to be almost as hard as being busted to pieces. We’ll see how tough you are.”

She walked over to the side of the bed, leaned down. “Don’t you fucking give up. I know who did this to you. I know who killed Bart. I’m going after him, and I’m going to win. Then he’s going to pay. You remember that, and don’t you fucking give up. We’re going to beat him, you by coming back from this, me by taking him down.” She straightened. “He was never your friend. You remember that, too.”

She stood watch until the guard came back.

And when the partners went in to see her, Eve stood watch a little longer, studying them on the monitor.

“Do you think she’ll make it?” Peabody asked when Eve got behind the wheel.

“She’s not the giving-up type. That’s in her favor. Reserve a conference room and set up a briefing with the EDD team. Thirty minutes. No, give me an hour.” Eve used her in-dash ’link while Peabody made arrangements.

“Lieutenant,” Roarke said.

“She’s out of surgery, holding her own.”

“That’s good to hear. You spoke with her surgeon?”

“Yeah. They’re doing what they do. Now we’ll do what we do. Can you meet me in my office in twenty?”

“I can, yes.”

“Bring an open mind.”

He smiled a little. “I always carry it with me.”

“You’ll need it.”

“We’re set,” Peabody told her. “Room B. You’ve got something.” Peabody pointed a finger. “Something new.”

“What I’ve got is a dead guy without a head, a woman in critical with injuries consistent with a fall who was found on a holo-room floor. No weapons, no trace, and no security breaches the aces at EDD can find. Logic it out.”

“The weapons were removed, the killer sealed up. The victims knew and trusted the killer who has supreme e-skills that have so far baffled our e-team. They’ll find the breaches.”

“Assuming they’re there to be found. He miscalculated with Cill. She wasn’t supposed to fall.”

“Fall where?”

“That’s a question, and we may never have the full answer to that one unless she wakes up and tells us. Meanwhile, we think out of the box. Fuck. We burn the damn box.”

She pulled into the garage at Central. “Set up everything we have, including the scans and data we got from the hospital.”

“Okay, but-”

“Less talk, more work.”

Eve double-timed it to her office and began to put her briefing together. She scowled at her computer and wished for better e-skills. She wanted to have at least the bones together before Roarke got there.

“Okay, you bastard, let’s give this a try.” She sat, and using the medical data began to build a reenactment.

Marginally pleased, she nodded at the screen as Roarke came in.

“Do you want the good news or the bad?” he asked her.

“Give me the bad. I like to end on an up note.”

“We’ve sca

“Good.”

Irritation rippled over his wonderful face. “Well, I’m delighted you’re pleased and we’ve lost countless brain cells on this.”

“Fact: No one entered the scene after the victim. Facts are good. What’s the rest?”

“We’ve made some progress on reconstructing the disc from Bart’s holo-room. It’s one painful nanochip at a time, but there’s some progress.”

“Even better.”

“Aren’t you the cheery one?” He stepped to the AutoChef, programmed coffee.

“I know who did it, and I have an idea how.”

“All right, let’s start with who.”

“Var.”

“Well, that’s a fifty-fifty for most, but you being you, the odds are higher.”

“It’s nice to be so easily believed.”

He waved that off. “You wouldn’t say it so definitely unless you were bloody damn sure. So, it’s Var. Because?”

“He’s the odd man out. The other three go back to childhood. He comes along later in the game-you have to play catch-up. I bet he never liked playing catch-up. But he doesn’t hook in with the already established group until college. Before that, if you look at his records, he was the best-by far-in his electronics, math, science, comp, theory classes. Nobody came close.”

“Used to being the star-the champion, you could say.”

Eve nodded. “Yeah, you could. Then, in college, he hooks up with the other three. Not only are they as good as he is, Bart’s better. And he’s popular. In a geeky kind of way. Supreme Wizard of the Gaming Club. Where do they come up with titles like that? TA for a couple of classes, dorm manager. Responsible guy, cheerful guy. Brilliant, skilled, and people tended to like him.”

Roarke settled in the visitor’s chair with his coffee. “And that’s your motive?”

“It’s the root. Who did you approach when you considered recruiting that group?”

“Bart. Yes. He was de facto leader, even then. Go on.”

“And he turned you down, wanted to build his own company. His initial concept from all the statements, the data, the time lines. Equal partnership, sure, but Bart was the head, and the public face.”

“True enough, but you could say both Cill and Be

“Yeah, I considered that. I had a moment in his apartment during the search with the droid. The Dark Knight co

Roarke lowered the coffee, obviously baffled. “What would Batman have to do with it?”

“How do you know that?” Baffled, she tossed up her hands. “How do I say ‘Dark Knight’ and you immediately click to Batman. How do you know this stuff?”

“The question might be how do you not know. Batman’s been part of the popular culture lexicon for more than a century.”

“Never mind. It’s just weird. I could…” She narrowed her eyes. “Who murdered sixteen male prostitutes between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three over a three-year period and fed their remains to his prizewi

“Christ Jesus.” Despite the image, Roarke had to laugh. “I’m delighted to say I have no idea.”

“Hanson J. Flick, 2012- 2015.” She smirked. “You don’t know everything.”

“And your particular area of expertise is occasionally revolting.”

“Yet handy. In any case, Be

“Mongo?”

“A parrot. It talks. A lot, I’m betting. And you didn’t ask who Alfred was.”

“You said Be

To that Eve could only heave out a breath. “Okay. Be