by J. D. Robb
Peabody circled her eyes as if to remind Eve they were being recorded. “Um. It’s really clean? And quiet. You can’t hear any street noises at all.” She gestured to the window. “It’s kind of like a vid with the audio muted.”
“Or we’ve stepped into an alternate universe where the world outside this glass is soundless. And creepy.”
“Well, it’s creepy now.” Then Peabody winced, circled her eyes again. “But really clean.”
Eve turned again at the sound of footsteps—a man’s, and from the click-click, a woman’s heels.
She noted the woman first, and realized the new wife had modeled for the mostly naked sculpture in the foyer. Now she wore a short summer dress that matched the soft blue of her eyes and the current rage of footwear that left the top of the foot unshod. Her toes sported polish in various pastel shades. Her hair fell in a tumble of red with gilded highlights around a face dominated by full, pouty lips.
Beside her the man stood nondescript in a conservatively cut business suit. Still, his jaw held firm, and his burnished brown eyes matched his sweeping mane of hair.
His slightly crooked tie and the slumber-satisfied look in his wife’s eyes gave Eve a solid clue what the couple had been up to during her arrival.
“Lieutenant Dallas, is it, and Detective Peabody.” DuVaugne crossed the room to give them both a hearty handshake. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Bart Minnock.”
“Ah.” He gave a wise nod, a regretful sigh. “Yes, I heard about that. The media doesn’t have many details.”
“You were acquainted with Mr. Minnock?”
“No, not really. I knew of him, of course, as we’re in the same business.”
“Geezy, honey, you gotta ask them to sit down. Tsk.”
She actually said “Tsk,” and with the heavy Bronx base struggling to affect the rounded tones of her droid, Eve found it rather remarkable.
“I’m Taija. Mrs. Lane DuVaugne. Please, won’t you sit?” She gestured the way screen models did to showcase prizes on game shows. “I’d be happy to order some refreshments.”
“Thanks.” Eve accepted the invitation to sit. “We’re fine. So you never met Bart Minnock?”
“Oh, I believe we met a time or two.” DuVaugne took a seat on the red and silver sofa with his wife. “At conventions and events, that sort of thing. He seemed to be a bright and affable young man.”
“Then why did somebody kill him?” Taija asked.
“Good question,” Eve said, and made Taija beam like a student flattered by a favored teacher.
“If you don’t ask questions, you don’t find anything out.”
“My philosophy. Let me apply that by asking you, Mr. DuVaugne, if you can verify your whereabouts yesterday between three and seven P.M.
“Mine? Are you implying I’m a suspect?”Outrage sprang out where, Eve thought, puzzlement would have been a better lead. “Why, I barely knew the man.”
“Geezy, Lane wouldn’t kill anybody. He’s gentle as a lamb.”
“It’s standard procedure. As you said, Mr. DuVaugne, you and the victim were in the same line of work.”
“That’s hardly a motive for murder! Countless people in this city alone are in the gaming business, but you come into my home and demand I answer your questions.”
“Now, now, honey.” Taija stroked his arm. “Don’t get all worked up. You know it’s not good for you. And she’s being real polite. You’re always saying people need to do the jobs they’re paid to do and all that. Especially public servants. You’re a public servant, right?” she asked Eve.
“That’s right.”
“Anyway, honey, you know you were at work until nearly four. He works so hard,” she confided to Eve. “And then you came right home and we had our little lie-down before we got dressed for the dinner party at Rob and Sasha’s. It was a really nice party.”
“Taija, it’s a matter of principle.”
“There, there,” she said, stroking. “Now, now.”
DuVaugne took a slow, audible breath. “Taija, I think I’d like my evening martini.”
“Sure, honey, I’ll go tell Derby to mix you one right up. ’Scuze ... I mean, please excuse me a minute.”
After she’d clicked out, DuVaugne turned to Eve. “My wife is naive in certain areas.”
Maybe, Eve thought, but she also came off as sincere, and absurdly likeable.
“Naive enough not to understand ‘working hard’ includes you paying a con man for confidential information on the workings and projects of U-Play? We have Dubrosky in custody,” Eve said before he could speak. “He rolled on you.”
“I have no idea what or who you’re talking about. Now, I’m going to ask you to leave.”
“Peabody, read Mr. DuVaugne his rights.”
While he blustered, Peabody recited the Revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter?” Peabody finished.
“This is beyond belief!” His face burned bright red as he shoved to his feet. “I’m calling my lawyer.”
“Fine. Tell him to meet us down at Cop Central.” Cool and calm in contrast, Eve rose. “Where you can chill in Holding until he arrives, at which time we’ll filter our questions through your representative on both matters—your involvement in corporate espionage and your connection to Bart Minnock’s murder.”
“Just a minute, just one damn minute. I was nowhere near Minnock’s apartment yesterday. I’ve never been to his apartment.”
“You’ve requested a lawyer, Mr. DuVaugne,” Eve reminded him. “We’re obliged to wait until your representative meets with you before we take any statements or continue this interview. We’ll hold you at Central prior to that, and prior to booking you on the pending charges.”
“Arresting me? You’re arresting me? Wait. Just wait.” He didn’t sweat like Roland, but his hand trembled as he pushed it through his glossy mane of hair. “We’ll hold on the lawyer; we’ll keep this here.”
“That’s your choice.”
“Martinis!” Taija announced in a bright singsong as she preceded Derby into the room. “Let’s all sit down and have a nice drink. Oh, honey, look at you! All red in the face.” She walked over, patted his cheeks. “Derby pour the drinks. Mr. DuVaugne needs a little pick-me-up.”
“Give me that.” DuVaugne grabbed the oversized shaker, dumped the contents into a glass to the rim. Then downed it.
“Oops! You forgot the olives. Derby, pour our guests drinks.”
“We’re not allowed to drink on duty, Mrs. DuVaugne, but thanks.” Taija’s mouth turned down in a sympathetic frown. “Geezy, that doesn’t seem fair.”
“Taija, go upstairs. I have business to discuss here.”
“Oh.” After shooting her husband a hurt glance, she turned to Eve and Peabody. “It was nice meeting you.”
“Nice meeting you, too.”
“Derby, leave us alone.” DuVaugne sat, rubbed his fingers over his eyes. “I didn’t have anything to do with Minnock’s murder. I was at my office until four. My driver brought me home. I didn’t leave the house again until seven. You can check all this.”
“Can and will. But when a man pays someone to steal for him, it’s a short step up to paying someone to kill for him.”
DuVaugne dropped his hands. “I don’t know what this Dubrosky character’s told you, but he’s a thief and a liar. He’s not to be trusted.”
“You trusted him with about a hundred and fifty thousand,” Eve pointed out.
“That’s business, just the price of doing business.” He waved that away, then settled his hands on his knees. “And he came to me. He said he wanted to develop a game, and was working on some new technology, but needed backing. Normally, I’d have dismissed him, but he was persuasive, and the idea was interesting, so I gave him a few thousand to continue the work. And a bit more shortly after as I confess I was caught up. I should know better, of course, but poor judgment’s no crime. Then, after
I’d invested considerable time and money, he told me he’d stolen the data from U-Play.”
On a huff of breath, DuVaugne poured a second martini—and remembered the olives. “I was shocked, outraged, threatened to turn him in, but he blackmailed me. I’d paid him, you see, so it would look as if I’d hired him to access the information. I continued to pay him. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Eve sat for a moment. “Do you buy any of that, Peabody?”
“No, sir. Not a word.”
Obviously stunned, he lowered the glass. “You’d believe a common criminal over me?”
“In this case,” Eve considered, “oh yeah. You’re not naive, DuVaugne. Not like your very nice wife. And you wouldn’t take a big chunk of cash out of your own pocket to help some struggling programmer develop a game. You hired Dubrosky, and you paid him to do exactly what he did—use some silly sap to feed him the data you wanted. You bring the game and the technology to your company, which is downsizing rapidly, you get to be the hero. Your investment pays off several hundred times. The only hitch to pulling it off? Bart Minnock.”
“I’m not a murderer!” DuVaugne downed half the second martini before slapping the glass down. “If Dubrosky killed that man, he did it on his own. I had nothing to do with it.”
“You just paid him to steal?”
“It’s business,” DuVaugne insisted. “It’s just business. My company’s in some trouble, that’s true. We need an infusion, some fresh ideas, a boost in the market. When information comes my way, I use it. That’s good business. It’s the way of the industry. It’s very competitive.”
“When you pay someone to steal and/or transfer proprietary information it’s called theft. And guess what? You go to jail. And if that theft is linked to murder you get the bonus prize of accessory thereto.”
“This is insane. I’m a businessman doing my job. I’d never hurt anyone or have a part in it.”
“Stealing the results of someone else’s sweat hurts, and we’ll see what we add to that before we’re done. You can call that lawyer on the way downtown. Lane DuVaugne, you’re under arrest for the solicitation of theft of proprietary information, and for the receipt of same, for conspiracy to commit corporate espionage. Cuff him, Peabody.”
“No. Please, please. My wife. You have to let me explain to my wife. Let me tell her I’m going with you to—to help you with your investigation. Please, I don’t want to upset her.”
“Call her down. Tell her whatever you want. But she’s going to find out when she has to post bail—if you get it.”
She hadn’t done it for him, Eve thought as she let Peabody handle the booking. She’d done it to give his wife a little more time to adjust to the coming change. DuVaugne could talk with his lawyer, could try to wheedle, but there was no way they’d have a bail hearing until morning.
She’d see what he had to say after a night in a cell.
In her office, she tagged Roarke to let him know she was back, then wrote and filed her report.
While waiting for him she did what she hadn’t had time to do all day. She started her murder board.
When it was done, she sat, put her feet on the desk, sipped coffee, and studied it.
Bart Minnock, his pleasant face, slightly goofy smile, rode beside the grisly shots from the crime scene, the stills from the morgue, and the people she knew connected to him.
His friends and partners, his girlfriend, the sad sack Roland, Dubrosky, DuVaugne. She scanned the list of employees, of accounts, the financial data, the time line as she knew it and the sweepers’ reports.
Competition, she thought, business, ego, money, money, money, passion, naivete, security. Games.
Games equaled big business, big egos, big money, big passions, and the development thereof, big security.
Somewhere along the line that security had failed and one or more of the other elements snuck through to kill Minnock.
“I heard you made an arrest,” Roarke said from behind her.
“Not on the murder, not yet. But it may connect. They’ll push this project through, this game, without him. Not just because it’s what they do, but because they wouldn’t want to let him down.”
“Yes, it’ll be bumpier, and there may be a delay, but they’ll push it through.”
“Then what’s the point of killing him.” She shook her head, dropped her feet back to the floor. “Let’s go take a walk through the scene.”
6
SHE LET ROARKE DRIVE SO SHE COULD CON-TINUE to work on her notes, determine who among those interviewed needed a second pass, and who she still needed to contact.
“I’ve got a buzz out to his lawyer—on vacation. She’s cutting it short and I’m meeting with her in the morning. She was a friend,” Eve added. “She seems inclined to give me whatever I need, and already outlined some basic terms of his partnership agreement and will. Nearly everything goes to his parents, but his share of U-Play is to be divided among the three remaining partners. It’s a chunk.”
“Are you thinking one or more of them decided to eliminate him so they’d have a bigger slice of the pie?”
“Can’t write it off. But sometimes money isn’t the whole deal.” Money, she thought, was often the easiest button to push but not the only button. “Sometimes it’s not even in the deal. Still, I can’t write it off. You said they’d probably have some bumps and some delay in getting this new game out, but they’re going to reap a whirlwind of publicity so it seems to me when it hits, it’ll hit big. Would that be your take?”
“It would—and it will. Even though we have a similar game and system about to launch, it’s a considerable leap in gaming tech. And they’ll have a lot of media focused on them due to Bart’s death, and the method. It’ll give them a push, but for the long haul? Losing him is a serious blow.”
“Yeah, but some don’t think long haul. And conversely, from a competitive standpoint, if you cut off the head—literally and figuratively—you’re banking that the delay’s long enough to give you time to beat the jump. They may be partners, and all bright lights, but Bart was the head. That’s how it strikes me.”
“I’d agree. And, if it’s business? It feels more like competition than any sort of bid for splashy media attention. I can’t see that, Eve.”
Maybe not, she thought, but it was a by-product. “What do you know about game weapons—the toys used in a game, vid props, replicas, collector’s items.”
“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 v
arious 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.”
