He changed the room, she thought, just by being in it. Not just for her, but she imagined for most. The change came from the look of him, certainly, long and lean with that sweep of dark hair, the laser blue eyes that could smolder or frost. But the control, the power under it demanded attention be paid.

Even now, she thought, when she could see the sorrow on that wonderful face, he changed the room.

“They said you’d finished with your share of the interviews. Do you have a minute now?”

He wouldn’t have always asked, she remembered. And she wouldn’t have always known to get up, to go to him, to offer a moment of comfort.

“Sorry about your friend,” she said when her arms were around him.

She kept the embrace brief-after all, the walls were glass-but she felt some of the tension seep out of him before she drew back.

“I didn’t know him well, not really. I can’t say we were friends, though we were friendly. It’s such a bloody waste.”

He paced away to the wall, looked out through the glass. “He and his mates were building something here. Too many holes in it yet, but they’ve done well for themselves. Creative and bright, and young enough to pour it all in.”

“What kind of holes?”

He glanced back, smiled a little. “You’d pull that one thing out of the rest. And I imagine though e-work’s not your strongest suit, you’ve seen some of those holes already.”

“More than one person knows a secret, it’s not a secret anymore.”

“There’s that. Electronically it looks as though he covered the bases, and very well. It’ll take some doing to get through all of it, and I’m told you’ve already lost a key piece of evidence.”

“Self-destructed, but they got enough to give me the spring-board. How much do you know about this game, this Fantastical?”

“Virtual/holo combo, fantasy role-playing, varied scenarios at player’s choice. Heightened sensory levels, keyed through readouts of the player’s nervous system and brain waves.”

That pretty much summed up the big top secret project, she thought. “And when did you know that much?”

“Oh, some time ago. Which is one of the holes here. Too many of his people knew too much, and people will talk.”

“Do you know Milt Dubrosky?”

“No, should I?”

“No. It just erases a possible complication. If the technology developed for this game is so cutting-edge, why don’t you have it?”

“Actually, we’ve something I suspect is quite similar in development.” He wandered over to Vending, scanned, walked away again. “But my people don’t talk.”

“Because they’re paid very well, and because they’re afraid of you.”

“Yes. I’m sure Bart paid his people as well as he could, but there wouldn’t have been any fear.” He touched her arm, just a brush of fingertips, as he wandered the room. “They’d like him, and quite a bit. He’d be one of them. It’s a mistake to be too much one of your own as they’ll never see you as fully in charge.”

“When did you last see or speak with him?”

“Oh, four or five months back anyway. I was down this way for a meeting and ran into him on the street. I bought him a beer, and we caught up a bit.”

Restless, Eve thought. Pacing was normally her deal. Then he sighed once, and seemed to settle.

“One of my scouts brought him to my attention when Bart was still in college. After I’d read the report and done a little checking myself, I arranged a meeting. I guess he was twenty. God. So fresh, so earnest. I offered him a job, a paid internship until he got his degree, and a full-time position thereafter.”

“That’s a hell of an offer,” Eve commented.

“He’d have been a hell of a recruit. But he told me he had plans to start up his own company, with three friends. He outlined his business model for me there and then, and asked for my advice.” Roarke smiled a little, just a slight curve of those wonderfully carved lips. “He disarmed me, I have to say. I ended up meeting with the four of them a few times, and doing what I could to help them avoid some pitfalls. I don’t suppose this one any of us could have anticipated.”

“If he was that open with you, right off the jump, he might have been equally talkative with others.”

“Possibly, though that was one of the pitfalls I warned them of. He-they-wanted their own, and I know what it is, that want, that need. That, and well, the boy appealed to me, so it was easy to give them a little boost.”

“Money?”

“No.” His shoulder lifted, a careless gesture. “I might have done so if they’d asked. But they had some seed money, and you’ll work harder if it doesn’t come too easy. I had this property-”

“This? This is your building?”

“Was, so relax yourself,” he told her with the slightest hint of impatience. “I’m not involved here. I rented them space here for a time, and when they’d gotten off the ground, he asked me to sell it to them. As I said, the boy appealed to me, so I did. I made mine; they had theirs. Good business all around.”

“And the business is worth considerable.”

“Relatively.”

“Compared to you it’s a nit on a grizzly, but the money’s a motive, as is the technology they’re working on. Can they keep this place afloat without Bart?”

“No one’s indispensable. Except you to me.”

“Aww.” But she rolled her eyes with the sound and made him laugh a little. “They’ll split three ways instead of four.”

“And take a hit for the loss of the fourth. From a business standpoint, eliminating Bart’s a foolish move. He was the point man,” Roarke explained, “the public face, the big picture man. And he was good at it.”

“This kind of murder? Sensational, and tied in with the business. It’s going to get whopping truckloads of media. Free media of the sort that generates sales out of sheer curiosity.”

“You’re right about that.” He considered. “Yes, but that’s a temporary boost, and still poor business sense. Added to it, unless their dynamics have changed, it’s hard to see any of the other three hurting Bart.”

“People do the damnedest things. I have another angle to check out. Feeney will keep you busy if you want to be. I need a copy of the game disc. They’ll hand it over, but they’re going to drag their feet some. If they trust you, you might be able to nudge that along.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll be in the field.”

He took her hand as she walked to the door. “Take care of my wife.”

“She takes care of herself.”

“When she remembers.”

She went out, started down. She glanced back once to see him at that glass wall, hands in his pockets, and that sorrow that perhaps only she could see, still shadowing his face.

Back in the busy hive of Cop Central, Eve studied Roland Chadwick through the glass of Observation. He continued to sweat, just a bit, and his tear-swollen eyes tended to dart and dash around the room, as if he expected something to materialize in a corner and take a nice big bite out of him.

Perfect.

“We’ll take him together to start,” Eve told Peabody. “I’m going hard. He expects it from me now.”

“And you’d give him herbal tea and a fluffy pillow otherwise.”

“I’ll leave the fluffy to you, after I storm out of the room in disgust, leaving dire threats in my wake.”

“And I ‘there-there’ him until he spills his guts.”

“That’s the plan.”

Eve watched as Roland laid his head on the table as if to sleep. It wouldn’t have surprised her in the least if he’d popped his thumb in his mouth.

“While you’re doing that, I’ll start on Dubrosky. He’s been around the block a few times, and he has to know his dupe in there is a very weak sister. I believe his guts will also spill.”

Peabody smiled as Roland cushioned his face on his folded arms. “My guy will spill first.”

“Maybe. Let’s find out.”

She strode in, a tough, impatient woman who seemed capable of taking that nice big bite and enjoying it. Roland’s head popped up even as he shrank in his chair.