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“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, hav
ing 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.”
