"Who is he?" Duke wasn't ready to use the past tense, not yet; although the man was clearly dead, the sword standing dramatically upright in his chest. There should have been more blood.
"Campbell. Sam Campbell." Morgan, the owner-manager of Swords in Store answered. He was studying not the body, but the sword standing so uncompromisingly in the corpse's chest. In Morgan's left hand, the store's cordless phone squawked. The emergency operator was trying to regain Morgan's attention and hold him on the line.
Rachel stretched a long arm and took the phone. Morgan didn't resist, didn't notice. Duke watched her put the phone to her ear and murmur soothingly. Yes, everyone was all right. Only Campbell was dead.
Dead.
They waited for the police who arrived quietly, without lights or sirens, apparently without haste. Rachel informed the emergency operator of the professionals' arrival and disconnected. She replaced the phone, crossing the room with the athletic grace which made her the object of desire for the mostly male group who hung around the store.
Beautiful, thought Peter. His protuberant brown eyes swivelled to follow Rachel.
Jack watched, his arms folded over a burly chest. He nodded to the detective stepping inside. Dilgin and he had a history. His body tightened with the memory of that history. Even here, in the presence of death, she could do that to him.
Dilgin turned her shoulder, shutting out Jack, breaking the connection between them, wishing that the physical act could be echoed emotionally, that she could convince her aching, restless, responsive – dammit – body it was over.
"Who is he?" Dilgin echoed Duke.
"Sam Campbell," Morgan said again. This time he added. "He's a programmer with Teckko."
"He was," Rachel murmured.
"I want everyone to wait outside," ordered Dilgin. A uniformed officer shepherded them out, corralling them in the mouth of the adjacent alley. He and Rachel fell into easy conversation, Peter hovering on the edges.
Duke and Jack discussed the weekend ballgame, neither concentrating. Morgan said nothing, only glared at the brick wall as if to see through it into his store. The smoke of his cigarette smelled strongly "of camel dung," Duke said. "Put it out." Morgan took another drag and Duke shifted edgily.
"Did anyone see who stuck the sword in the body?" Flanagan, Dilgin's partner, appeared.
No one answered. Flanagan shrugged wearily. "So tell us at the station."
The interview room was small and smelled sourly of antiseptic.
"How'd it happen, Jack?" Dilgin asked quietly. Her lipstick had faded, leaving a blurred rim at the edge of full lips. "Tell me." Jack followed her words like a lip-reader. Self-consciously, Dilgin ran a hand through her untidy hair, brushing it into still wilder disorder. The nervous gesture brought Jack back to the room.
"It was weird." He leant back in his chair, his eyes leaving Dilgin's face, heading for the vacant space to her left. "I didn't see or hear anything until the guy hit the floor. I don't remember seeing anyone move."
"What were you doing?"
"Flicking through a magazine. You saw the place, Dil. It's not just swords. There's all the gear for role play, and various fantasy stuff. I was reading."
"Yeah, Jack. I have seen the place. It's small. You can't tell me you were all in that store when Campbell died and none of you saw or heard the murder."
8%"I didn't." Jack let the statement lie on the table. Two minutes passed. Dilgin sighed.
"Wait here, Jack. I'll be back."
"I'll be waiting." The echo of earlier, personal words caught them both. The right corner of Jack's mouth turned down in self-derision. "Always waiting."
Dilgin left the room. Jack blew out a frustrated breath. He stood and paced the square room.
"The three wise monkeys," Flanagan said. "See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil."
Dilgin scowled. "These monkeys have to talk. The woman says she was swinging a sword, testing it for balance, and totally focussed. The short guy, Peter, says he was watching her."
"Huh," Flanagan snorted.
"Yeah. I believe him," Dilgin agreed. Peter was the sort who would watch a woman, and not in a good way. "Jack reckons he was reading. The owner, Morgan, says he was on the phone; had to hang up fast to call emergency. The last guy, Duke, said he was looking at a dragon statue."
"Looney tunes," Flanagan snorted again. "Who do they put closest to the body?"
"Jack," Dilgin said without expression.
"Dilgin," one of the uniforms interrupted. "The woman wants to speak to y'all."
"What?" Dilgin asked uncompromisingly. The interview room was windowless.
"I've decided it would be appropriate to tell you who I am."
"Who you are?" Dilgin echoed.
"I'm from Checkers Security." Rachel recited a phone number. "They'll confirm my story. I was hired to protect Sam Campbell."
"Seems you failed." Flanagan drew up a chair. "Why were you hired?"
"Campbell was paranoid. He believed someone was out to get him because of his technical brilliance." Rachel observed the look the detectives exchanged. "I know you're thinking, just because he was paranoid doesn't mean he was wrong; but he was. I checked Campbell out with his employers, Teckko. He was a good programmer, but not genius level; definitely replaceable. The only person who believed Campbell was at risk was Campbell."
"How could he afford a bodyguard?"
"Inherited wealth. Campbell had enough in the bank to live on. He didn't need to work."
"Lucky bastard," muttered Flanagan.
"Also, Campbell didn't want a bodyguard while he was at work or locked in his house. The man had more security equipment in his house than the Pentagon, all new."
Dilgin shrugged, apparently dismissing the information. "Are you sure you didn't see or hear anything when Campbell was murdered?"
"No," Rachel's mouth compressed. Her reputation was shot.
"What do you know of the other people in the store?"
"Jack's okay. He doesn't hang around the store much, not like the others. Peter haunts it." Rachel and Dilgin shared a look of distaste, momentarily united. "Duke? Duke I'd take a second look at."
"What do we know of Duke Graves?" Flanagan asked outside the room.