Indulgence in Death

CHAPTER SEVEN

WITH HER MIND CROWDED WITH DATA AND theories, Eve crawled into bed. Her body clock yearned to be wound down, turned off, and rebooted after a solid downtime. She curved into Roarke as his arm came around her, felt everything in her give in, relax.

She closed her eyes.

Her ’link signaled.

“Hell. Lights on, ten percent. Block video.” She shoved herself up, answered. “Dallas.”

Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. See the officer, Coney Island, House of Horrors, main entrance. Possible homicide.

“Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. Probability of connection with Houston investigation?”

Unclear, but flagged.

“On my way. Shit,” she said as she cut transmission.

“I’ll drive.” Roarke stood, shook his head when she frowned. “I’ve a business interest in the park, as you know. I’ll be contacted—” He broke off when his ’link signaled. “Now, I’d say.”

She didn’t argue. He’d probably be handy.

She dressed, programmed a couple of coffees to go.

And said nothing when he chose one of his topless toys to zing them through the warm summer night. The wind and the caffeine would clear her brain and reboot the body clock a few hours ahead of schedule.

“What kind of security’s on that place?” she asked him.

“Minimal as it’s an amusement. Standard scanners at the entrances to the park, a network of cams and alarms throughout. Security personnel do routine sweeps.”

“A night like this, it’s probably packed.”

“From a business standpoint, one hopes. We’ve had very little trouble since we opened, and that on the minor side.” He flicked a glance in her direction. “I’m no happier to have a dead body there than you are.”

“Dead body’s less happy than both of us.”

“No doubt.” But it troubled him on an elemental level, not only because it was primarily his, but because it was meant to be a place for fun, for families, for children to be dazzled and entertained.

It was meant to be safe and, of course, he knew no place was really safe. Not a pretty Irish wood, not an amusement park.

“Security’s duping the discs now,” he told her. “You’ll have the originals, and they’ll scan the copies. They’ll be enhanced, as the lighting in that amusement is deliberately low, and there are sections with fog or other effects. We use droids, anitrons, and holos,” he said before she could ask. “There’s no live performers.”

“The stuff runs on a timer?”

“No. It’s motion activated, programmed to follow the customer’s movements. As for timing, there’s a feature that funnels customers in their groups, or individually if they come in alone, into different areas to enhance and personalize the experience.”

“So the victim and killer, if they came in together, could and would have been alone—at least for a portion of the ride, or whatever it is.”

“Sensory experience. There are sections inaccessible to minors under fifteen to conform with codes.”

“You’ve been through it.”

“Yes, several times during the design and construction stages. It’s appropriately gruesome and terrifying.”

“Won’t scare me. I have the gruesome and the terrifying greet me at the door every freaking day.” She smiled to herself, thinking it was too bad Summerset wasn’t around to hear her get that one off.

The lights shimmered and sparkled against the night sky, and music vied with the happy screams of people zooming on the curves and loops of the coasters, spinning on wheels that flashed and boomed.

She didn’t much see the appeal of paying for something that tore screams out of your throat.

On the midway, people paid good money to try to win enormous stuffed animals or big-eyed dolls she considered less appealing than rides that tore screams out of the throat. They shot, tossed, blasted, and hammered with abandon or strolled around with soy dogs or cream cones or sleeves of fries and whopping drinks.

It smelled a little like candy-coated sweat.

The House of Horrors was just that, a huge, spooky-looking house with lights flickering in the windows where the occasional ghoul, ghost, or ax murderer would pop out to snarl or howl.

A big, burly uniform and a skinny civilian secured the entrance.

“Officer.”

“Lieutenant. We’ve got the building secured. One officer, one park security inside with the DB. We’ve got a guard on every egress. Did an e-scan. No civilians left inside.”

“Why is it still running?” she asked, studying the door knocker in the form of a bat with shivering, papery wings and glowing red eyes.

“I didn’t want to make the determination to shut down, considering you might have wanted to go through as the vic had.”

It was a reasonable call. “We’ll do a replay when and if. For now, shut it down.”

“I can do that from the box.” The skinny guy glanced at Eve, then sent Roarke a sorrowful look. “Sir. I have no idea how this could’ve happened.”

“We’ll want to find that out. For now, shut it down.”

“I need to go inside,” the civilian said to Eve. “Just inside to the box.”

“Show me.” She nodded to the uniform, who uncoded the door.

It creaked ominously.

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 ceiling. 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.”

“Did you touch her?”

“No. I could see . . . It was clear.” He swallowed. “I called Security, and they notified the police. We cleared the amusement. I’m afraid there had been several people through here between the glitch and the . . . discovery.”

Eve simply stared at him. “Customers tromped through the crime scene?”

“We—they—no one knew there’d been a crime. She was probably taken as part of the amusement. The exhibits are very lifelike.”

“Crap. I need the security discs.”

“We’re putting them together for you now. There is a bit of a wrinkle.”

Eve paused as she reached for her gauge. Glitch, blip, wrinkle, she thought. What other cute term would he find for clusterfuck? “Define wrinkle.”

“There are sections on the discs from various areas that appear to be blank.”

“Appear to be.”

“I’m having them analyzed. Sir.” He addressed Roarke now. “My first thought is someone entered and toured while carrying a sophisticated jammer. A pinpoint device of considerable strength. In order to bypass the security walls, and only for moments at a time, it had to be extreme, and in my opinion, the user had to know the locations of the cameras and alarms. He had to know the system. The route, as far as we can tell from the first run, leads here, then out through Sector D, which would be the nearest exit. I’m afraid whoever did this”—he glanced at the body—“periodically jammed our system so as to go undetected.”

“Did you kill her, Gumm?”

His head jerked on his bony shoulder as he gaped at Eve. “No! No, of course not. I don’t even know her. I’ve never—”

“She’s winding you up, Gumm,” Roarke said mildly, but Eve heard the anger under the surface.

“Finish the analysis, and get the lieutenant the discs,” he began when they heard footsteps coming down the passage.

Peabody popped out seconds before the love of her life, EDD ace McNab.

“This place rocks even when it’s turned off. McNab and I came in for the spooks a couple weeks ago. It’s total.”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself. Seal up,” Eve ordered. “Not you,” she added pointing a finger at McNab. “This is Gumm. Go with him and do e-crap.”

“Sure.” McNab, skinny of build, bony of ass, looked positively robust compared to Gumm. He offered a smile as sunny as the hair he’d pulled back into a long tail. “Live to serve.”

Because he was amenable, and as good as they come, Eve ignored the fact he wore red maxi cargo with multicolored pockets and a shortsleeved yellow jacket over a tank that looked like he’d soaked it in a rainbow.

“Go live. TOD, twenty-three-fifty-two.” She looked at Roarke. “There’s your blip. Her heart stopped, and whatever he was jamming it with gave you the blip instead of the alarm. He came prepared. Weapon, jammer, knew the route and the system if Gumm is to be believed.”

“He is. He’s skilled and reliable.”

“I’ll want a list of people who know the system, anyone who’s been fired or written up.”

“You’ll have it.”

“Peabody, contact the usual, and let’s get this place processed. Spookville’s shut down for the foreseeable.”

“What kind of knife is that?” Peabody asked as she pulled out her ’link.

“Bayonet. Vic is a high-priced LC. From a visual exam on the clothes, the state of the body, it doesn’t look like sexual assault—and really what would be the point? She’s got jewelry, cash, and credit still on her, so that ditches robbery—and again, why haul her in here, bringing a jammer and a freaking bayonet, if you just wanted sex and glitters?

“Limo driver, crossbow, transpo station parking. Pricey LC, bayonet, amusement park. Luxury items, unusual weapons, semipublic places. He’s got a system, and right now he’s two for two.”

She stood up. “Officer—”

“Milway.”

“Milway, see if you can find out how she got here. Personal transpo, private, public. Round up entrance security. Let’s see if he jammed that, too. Talk to park employees, find out if anyone saw her. She’s a looker. If they noticed her, they may have noticed who she was with.”

She waited until the uniform stepped out. “How do you figure he got that through the scanners?” she asked, gesturing to the bayonet.

“The smartest way would be to have it on him, in a sheath or holder lined with magnetic fiber that would block the reading.”

Eve nodded, continued to study the body, the room. “An LC of that level has to have solid experience as well as skill and a clean bill. Her hair’s still perfect. Her dress, except for the blood, isn’t messed up. No bruises, no sign she tried to evade or fight. She didn’t see it coming. Didn’t get any kind of buzz he was off.”

“Neither did Houston,” Roarke pointed out. “A driver would be good at reading clients.”

“Should be. She comes in here with him. We’ll get the route from the glitches, the blips, whatever Gumm wants to call them, and then she ends up here. Must be gruesome when it’s running.”

“It’s meant to be.”

“People are fucked up,” she said half to herself. “Can you get them to turn on this sector? Just this sector. I want to see how it played.”

“Give me a moment.” He took out his ’link, stepped away.

“Sweepers dispatched, morgue team’s heading in.”

Nodding at Peabody, Eve considered. “She doesn’t have a memo book on her, but you can bet someone at her level has perfect records. She’ll have this guy listed. But he’d know that.”

“If it’s the same killer, you’re thinking he faked his ID again.”

“I’m thinking he’d cover himself, play the same pattern. If so, it means she didn’t know him. A first round. Wouldn’t she run him? Make sure she’s not dating a psycho—not that it did her any good. But wouldn’t she? I want to talk to Charles about that,” she said referring to their mutual friend, a retired LC.

“Charles might’ve known her,” Peabody added. “They would’ve run in the same circles, same social strata.”

She jumped as if her air skids were springs at the bloodcurdling scream.

“Nerves of steel,” Eve muttered while moans and stench and eerie light filled the chamber. She watched an anitron score another anitron’s face with a glowing poker.

“The torture methods in play are historically accurate,” Roarke told her. “The instruments are carefully crafted replicas of those used.”

“Yeah, seriously fucked up. Is there another entrance?”

“To the public, no. That one would channel the customers in here, through the maze of the place, then move them out again over there to the next sector.”

“Okay.” She moved to the entrance, ignoring cobwebs, skittering rats. “Is the smell authentic, too?”

“Or a close approximation.”

“And people pay for this.” She shook her head. “They come in here. Does it excite him, all the screams, the smell of blood and piss, the realism? I bet it does. He didn’t just decide to do it here, he planned it. Here in this replica of misery, cruelty, fear, despair. Maybe she’s playing the part, shivering, cringing, holding on to him. Or she’s going the other way, aroused, excited—whichever she thinks the client’s after.

“But they moved around.” She began to walk through. “Getting a closer look. Had to get to the kill zone. Shadows are deeper there. Maybe he maneuvers her, or she goes that way and plays into his hands. Up against the wall, braced against the wall, that’s how he did her. She thinks he wants a little sample of what’s coming, and he gets her against the wall so she doesn’t fall on anything, knock anything. Jamming the cameras, the sensors, but if she falls and knocks anything over, that could get through. He wants a little time to get out, get away. He leaves, the jamming stops. But she’s on the floor, in the shadows, and the show goes on.”

She walked over to a doorway that resembled the mouth of a cave. “Out here. Where does this go?”

“Here.” Roarke held out his PPC. “That’s the layout of this area. Depending on the route and timing of anyone ahead of you, the program would take you out into one of these three sectors. There are appropriately mocking signs here, here, here, for those who want to end their tour. This is where Gumm believes he exited.”

“Let’s have a look. Peabody, stay with the body, set up the sweepers when they’re on scene.”

“Ah, could we maybe lose the effects?”

“Coward.”

But Roarke winked at her, ordered them shut down.

The security lights illuminated a narrow corridor with torches on the walls. They followed its left fork into a wide cavern with what appeared to be a deep pool of water. On it sat a boat where men in dingy pirate garb were frozen in mid-sword fight. A couple of decaying corpses lay piled under jutting rocks. The topmost had a crow on its belly, beak buried in torn flesh.

“Nice.”

“You get what you pay for. When running there’s head severing, disemboweling, a bit of keel hauling, and the skeletal spirits of the damned. It’s fairly impressive.”

IF THE PIRATE’S BLADE YOU FEAR,

TAKE THIS CHANCE TO ESCAPE FROM HERE.

“I bet.” She studied the sign on an arched door fashioned to replicate planks.

“The exit.” She tried the door. It opened into the bright lights and sounds of the park. “He’d be out and gone in two minutes, easily. With the heart jab, he shouldn’t have gotten any blood on him. Or if he did, it’s easily cleaned off before he leaves. Stroll right out. He could buy a fucking soy dog to celebrate. He’d look ordinary, forgettable. But she doesn’t, that’s the thing. She’s the type people notice, so maybe somebody noticed him, too.”

She shut the door. “I’m going to take another walk through. Maybe you could give Gumm and McNab a kick. I want whatever they’ve got, and we’ll see what EDD can do with it. And yeah,” she said before he could speak, “you’re on as expert consultant, civilian, if you want to be. I know this is your place, and you’re pissed.”

“Not entirely mine, but, yes, I’m pissed. It’s good security here,” he added, looking around, “but it’s a playground. Families, children, people looking for a bit of fun. I don’t suppose we were as stringent in that area as we might have been.”

“Nobody’s going to monitor an amusement spook house the way they do the UN. And he knew what he was doing, just how to do it.” She frowned. “I want a list of other investors, partners, whatever they are. The money people who’d know what went into this place. He has money, or he wants it. The kind that buys gold limos and expensive LCs.”

She went out the exit, circled around to the front. This time she wanted to retrace the killer’s route. She tagged McNab. “Guide me through this place, by the blips on the security.”

“Can do. Let me get a fix on your ’link.”

She followed his directions, winding through a vampire’s lair, a graveyard with zombies dragging themselves out of the ground. She could imagine the lighting, the sounds, the movements well enough.

What if the program had taken them another way? she wondered. He’d had alternatives set up. Other kill zones with easily accessed exits. And the vic had played along, doing what she’d been paid to do.

She stopped, narrowed her eyes. Paid. An LC in her league would get a hefty deposit. She needed to consult with Charles, get a solid opinion on the practice and procedure.

By the time she reached Peabody she had the route mapped in her head. “He probably made it here with her in under twenty. Probability’s high this was his first stop, and her last.”

“I did a run on her. She had over a dozen years in, not a single citation. Clean and regular health checks, paid her fees on time, worked her way up the chain. She’s diamond level, and if I remember what Charles said that means she earns about ten thousand for a four-hour date. She’s certified for male and female, groups, bondage, submissive or dominant. Name it, she’s licensed. There are only half a dozen LCs in the city at her level. Only one other female.”

“He wants or needs exclusive.” She turned as Officer Milway came back in.

“Lieutenant. She didn’t book transpo, but I checked for private going to her address tonight. There was a pickup for that address, her name, booked at twenty-two-thirty. Elegant Transportation. The driver, Wanda Fickle, dropped her off at the main entrance at twenty-three-ten. The car was ordered by and paid for by a Foster M. Urich. He’s got an address in the Village.”

“Good work.”

“Yes, sir. We’re asking around. We found a couple of people who think they saw her. With a male, but they’re vague and contradictory on the male. We’ll keep on it.”

“If you get anything solid there, I want to know ASAP.”

“Yes, sir.”

She pulled out her ’link. “I’ve got to go to the Village.”

“Take the car,” Roarke told her. “McNab and I will get ourselves and the discs into Central.”

Since suggesting he go home and get some sleep first would be a waste of time, she didn’t bother. “I’ll see you there.”

“Morgue’s in the house.” Peabody tucked away her communicator. “Sweepers right behind them.”

“Good, let’s get things wrapped here, and go see Foster M. Urich. Do a run.”

“Already on it. Forty-three, Caucasian male, recently divorced, one child—daughter, age eight. CEO of Intelicore. Minor bust for zoner at age twenty. Nothing else on his record.”

“What’s Intelicore?”

“Data gathering and storing services. Major player globally and off planet. Three generations in.”

“Interesting,” Eve murmured. “That’s another two for two.”