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The weapon might have already been on the premises, or brought in by the killer.
And the game begins. System reads solo. Bart plays, killer observes—it’s logical, it’s efficient.
But at some point, the killer stops observing. Bruising, wrenched shoulder indicate a scuffle.
And that, Eve thought, was where it just didn’t fit for her.
The weapon’s there, the plan’s in place, so why the scuffle? Bart’s in good shape—superior shape for a geek—and he’s studied combat moves. Why risk a fight, why risk him getting some licks in?
An argument? Passion of the moment? No, no, dammit, it wasn’t impulse. Too many safeguards in place.
Ego? She studied the three faces on the board.
Yes, ego. I’m better than you are. It’s about time you found out how much better. Tired of playing sidekick and loyal friend and partner. Have a taste of this.
She studied the autopsy photos, the data, rocked back and forth on her heels.
Considering, she opened the panel for the elevator and ordered Roarke’s weapons room. She used the palm plate, keyed in her code, and stepped into a museum of combat. Display after display held what man had used again man, or beast, over centuries. To kill, to defend, for land, for money, for love, for country, for gods. It seemed people could always find some new way to end each other, and some handy excuse for the blood.
From ancient sharpened points, to silver swords with jeweled hilts, from crude and clumsy muskets that used powder and ball to rip steel into flesh, to the sleek, balanced automatics that could wage a storm of steel with a twitch of a finger. Lances, maces that looked like iron balls studded with dragon’s teeth, the long-ranged blasters of the Urban Wars, the razor-thin stiletto and the two-headed axe all spoke of the violent history of her species, and very likely its future.
She found studying them, seeing so many killing tools in one space, both fascinating and disturbing.
She opened a case, selected a broadsword. Good weight, she decided, good grip. Satisfied, she stepped out and reengaged the security.
“Is there a problem?” Summerset demanded as he seemed to eke out of the shadows.
Eve gave herself points for not jolting, smiled instead as she leaned on the sword. “Why do you ask?”
“The weapons aren’t to leave the display.”
“Gee, maybe you should call a cop.”
The long, cool stare he gave her was as derisive as a sniff. “What you have there is very valuable.”
“Which is why I’m not poking you with it. I might hit the stick up your ass and break the tip. Don’t worry. Roarke’s the one who’s going to be using it.”
“I expect it to be returned to the display in the exact condition it was in when you removed it.”
“Yeah, yeah, blah blah.” She stepped back on the elevator, and couldn’t resist tapping the flat of the blade to her forehead in a quick, sarcastic salute before the doors closed.
“I’d better not be stitching someone up tonight,” Summerset muttered.
Eve stepped out in her office, walked over to Roarke’s. “Hey.”
He made a humming sound, and continued to work his comp.
“Can you come in here a minute?”
“In five,” he said.
While she waited she went to her own comp, ran a reenactment of the murder using a figure representing each of the partners in height, weight, reach.
“What do you need?” Roarke asked her. “And why do you have that sword?”
“I’m trying to figure how it went down. So . . .” She stepped into the center of the room, and imagining Summerset’s horror, tossed the sword to Roarke. “Come at me.”
“You want me to attack you with a broadsword?”
