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Cobwebs draped the shadowy foyer like shawls over a body back. Light, such as it was, came from the flickering glow of ornate candelabras and a swaying chandelier where a very lifelike rat perched.
Something breathed heavily to the left, and made her fingers itch for her weapon. Shadows seemed to swoop and dive from the ce
iling. Up a long curve of steps a door groaned like a man in pain, then slammed.
The skinny guy moved to a panel on the wall, aimed his little handheld. The panel slid open to reveal a keypad. He coded something in.
Lights flashed on, movement and sound died.
Glancing around, she decided it was a little creepier in the bright and the still. Anitrons stood frozen on the floor, in the air, on the stairs. In a mirror a face held in mid-scream while a severed hand holding a two-bladed ax hung suspended.
“Where’s the body?”
“Subsection B. Torture Chamber,” the skinny guy told her.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Gumm. Ah, I’m Electronics and Effects.”
“Okay. Lead the way.”
“Do you want to go by the amusement route or employee?”
“The most direct.”
“This way.” He walked to a bookcase—why was it always a bookcase? Eve wondered—and engaging another hidden mechanism, opened the doorway.
“We have a series of connecting passages and monitoring stations throughout the amusement.” He guided them through a brightly lit, white-walled passage, past controls and screens.
“It’s all automated?”
“Yes, state of the art. To give the customers the full experience, we’re able to funnel them in various directions rather than have them all follow the same route and crowd together. It’s more personal. They can, if they choose, interact with the effects. Speak to them, ask questions, give chase or attempt to evade. There’s no danger, of course, though we have had some customers pass out. A loss of consciousness triggers an alarm in Medical.”
“How about death?”
“Well . . .” He made a turn, paused. “Technically, a loss of heartbeat should have triggered an alarm. There was a glitch, a kind of blip at twenty-three-fifty-two. A kind of blip. We’re looking into it, sir,” he said to Roarke.
He opened the door into the Torture Chamber. There was the faint memory of stench, as if something hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned. Over it smeared the smell of death.
The officer holding the scene came to attention. Eve gave him a nod.
The body slumped against the fake stone wall, legs spread, chin on chest. As if the woman had fallen asleep. The mass of curling brown hair hid most of her face, but one wide blue eye stared out from a part in that curtain, almost flirtatiously.
Sparkling stones glittered at her throat, her wrists, on her fingers. She wore a white dress in a summery fabric, cut low on the breasts. Blood stained it in a thin line where the blade pierced her heart.
Eve opened her field kit, used Seal-It to cover her hands and boots before tossing the can to Roarke. She’d already engaged her recorder.
“Victim is mixed-race female, looks early thirties, brown and blue. She has a small, jeweled bag on the belt at her waist, and is wearing considerable jewelry. Single stab wound,” she said as she stepped over and crouched. “Heart shot, and it looks dead-on, with a knife still in the body. The blade has some sort of mechanism, like a socket, on the grip.”
“It’s a bayonet,” Roarke said from behind her. “It would fit on a rifle or other firearm, or can be removed, as it is now, for use as a sidearm.”
“A bayonet,” she murmured. “Something else you don’t see every day.” She opened the little bag. “About two-fifty in cash, breath spray, lip dye, credit card and ID card, both in the name of Ava Crampton, Upper East Side addy. And it lists her as a top-level LC on her ID.”
She checked fingerprints to verify.
“Who found her?”
“Ah, I did.” With a look of apology on his face—Eve wondered if it was situational or permanent—Gumm raised his hand. “We ran down the source of the glitch to this sector, and I came down to do an on-site check. She was . . . just there.”
