[In Death 15] - Purity in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “No, I think it’s a really big dog. A St. Bernard.”

  He took a sip of wine, walked closer. “I believe you’re right. Someone should report this activity to the Animal Rights League or whatever it is. Although . . . hmmm. He certainly seems to be enjoying himself if the size of his . . . Mother of God.”

  “Gimme that wine.” She grabbed it, drank deep. “There’s sick and there’s sick. This one goes off the scale. I’ve got no term for it. You recognize the woman romping with Fido?”

  “It’s a bit hard to tell, under the circumstances.”

  “Greene lists her as G.G. I ran an image search on her while she was rubbing butter all over herself to help get Fido in the game. Gretta Gowan, wife of Jonah Gowan. That’s Professor Jonah Gowan, of NYU. He’s head of the Sociology Department. A staunch Conservative Party member and a Methodist deacon. Want to bet Clarissa Price took some of his classes?”

  “Never bet against the house,” Roarke declared, fascinated despite himself with the on-screen action.

  “She recruited him into Purity, or he did her. I’d bet on that one. Anyway, Gretta there is the mother of two and—whoa, that is just nasty! Gretta chairs several committees, including the garden club, which would no doubt frown on her deep affection for canines.”

  “There’s a log entry on the PPC—it’s clean by the way—for G.G. Six thousand paid in six days before the murders.”

  “Fits with his journal. This vid wasn’t done at his place,” Eve said. “Some of the others I’ve viewed were. He used the second bedroom. They’re tamer than this. Group sex with costumes, bondage, and role-playing. One used a teenaged girl. I ran her image, too. She popped as another runaway. Greene knew how to sniff them out. Copy disc, log to file.”

  Roarke let out a long breath. “How about we run a nice classic comedy to cleanse the palate?”

  “I want to finish this tonight. At least get the IDs.”

  “For what purpose, Eve?”

  “To know for one thing.” She filed the disc, selected another. “And second, to see if I find a link.”

  “Do you really think terrorists are killing all these people so they can get rid of a blackmailer?”

  “No, but I think each one of the victims was carefully selected, and with Greene the blackmail was part of it. Maybe just a bonus, but part of it. Run disc. You don’t have to stay for this.”

  “If you can stomach it, I can.”

  “Home again,” Eve said, recognizing the bedroom in Greene’s condo. “My guess is he rigged the cameras before the client came in, ran them by remote until the session was over. Did the editing, made a copy. Gives that to the client with a demand for payments. Probably lost clients that way, but he kept the income. No overhead at all. Just pure profit. Here we go, curtain up.”

  A woman stepped in from the adjoining bath. A rather elegant woman in a killer black dress with long, lush waves of icy blonde hair spilling over the shoulders. Her legs were sheathed in black hose, her feet tucked into mile-high heels.

  She wore a diamond choker, and her lips were bloody-murder red.

  “Looks familiar,” Eve began. “Which is she? Client or hooker?”

  “Want an image search?”

  “Let it run awhile first.”

  A man stepped in from the outer door. He was stripped to the waist, bulging in tight black leather. His chest gleamed with oil. His hair was slicked back from a striking face sharp of bone. There was a tattoo under his left nipple. When Eve froze and enhanced the image, she saw it was a tiny skull.

  He ran a slim riding crop through his fingers.

  “Roseanna.” He spoke the name, and the woman lifted a hand to the diamond choker at her throat.

  “How did you get in?”

  “Role-playing,” Eve said. “We run a search on both of them.” She froze the disc again, blocked faces, started the task.

  “Eve?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Take a good look at her.”

  “I am. I know that face. Continue disc play.”

  With a half-smile on his face, Roarke leaned against the desk. “Take a better look.”

  Frowning, Eve watched the scene play out. The man ran the riding crop down the woman’s center. She shuddered. She turned as if to run. He dragged her back. Long, sloppy kiss. Lots of hands.

  Hands.

  Eve straightened with a snap. “That’s not a woman.”

  Distracted, Eve watched the bare-chested man yank the dress down to the blonde’s waist. Beneath was a black lace waist cincher. Though the breasts that spilled over it were full and lush, Eve had no doubt they were just another part of the costume.

  The man dealt a couple of sharp slaps to the buttocks when his partner struggled.

  There was moaning now, breathy protests. The dress spilled to the floor.

  “Looks pretty good for a guy,” Eve observed. The legs were slim, set off with thigh-high black hose, old-fashioned garters. Too much shoulder though, she mused, and the hands were too big. She could see the hint of an Adam’s apple beneath the glittering choker.

  In her mind she erased the wig, the red lips, the heavily accented eyes, and tried to see beneath the female artifice. She knew that face.

  And when it filled the screen, flushed with excitement as the camera zoomed it, she heard the click.

  “Oh good God.”

  “Did you make him? I’m not quite there yet. Give me another minute.” But when the bare-chested man pushed his captive down to the knees, exposed himself, Roarke winced. “Never mind, as I’d soon skip this part. It doesn’t—ah well.”

  He blew out a breath as the face filled the screen again, another angle as the eyes, crystal blue, stared up—full of hunger.

  “Yes, indeed, I’d as soon skip watching his honor the mayor give leather boy a blow job.”

  He turned away from the screen, caught Eve’s chin in his hand. “That’s why you’re the cop, all right. You weren’t wasting anyone’s time. That’ll teach me to doubt you.”

  “I have to watch the rest of it.”

  “Must you?”

  “I take this in tomorrow, I have to know what I’m dealing with. This isn’t your average transvestite. This tosses Peachtree right into the middle of a sex scandal, and a major homicide investigation.”

  “Then I’m getting another drink.” He took her glass. “For both of us.”

  “Smart,” she said later. “Greene caters to a small clientele—rich with whacked whims. Out of that exclusive club, he handpicks a smaller group. A handful of people who’ve used his services, built a certain level of trust in him, who can’t afford even a whiff of scandal. The payments are high, but none of them too high for these select few to afford. You got an even dozen paying out an average fee of twenty-five thousand a month, you rake in. . .”

  “An extra three million six annually. Nobody’s squeezed so hard they’ll pop, and you live in luxury.”

  “And from what I can tell from his records, most he was blackmailing continued as clients.”

  “The devil you know,” Roarke decided. “Are you putting the mayor in Purity?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ve sure got enough to ask him about it, don’t I?”

  “You’ll be putting your hand in the fire, Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah, I got that, too.” She pinched the bridge of her nose to relieve the pressure of a building headache. “Has to be on a need-to-know. Media gets a whiff of the scent, it’s a disaster. Shit, I voted for the guy.”

  “He might’ve gotten more votes yet if he’d campaigned in that little black dress. Very attractive.” Roarke only grinned when she stared at him. “I’d say it’s time for bed. We’re tired.”

  “You start talking about guys in black dresses looking pretty, you’re more than tired, pal.”

  “I said attractive,” he corrected. “And I meant the dress. I wouldn’t mind seeing you in one of those corsets, with spiked heels and little garters.”

  “Yeah.” She yawne
d as they rode to the bedroom. “You hold your breath on that one.”

  She was in bed in five minutes, asleep in ten.

  When the dream started, she didn’t know.

  A white room, washed with blood. She could see herself walking through it, her boots splashed with red as she stepped in grisly puddles.

  Even in sleep she could smell it.

  The girl was facedown on white carpet thick with red blood. Her arm was stretched out, fingers spread as if she reached for something.

  But nothing was there.

  The knife was there.

  In the dream she crouched down, picked up the knife by the hilt.

  She felt the slick warm wetness that ran from it onto her hand.

  When she looked, it wasn’t the girl now, but a baby. Hardly more than a baby. Cut to pieces, curled up tight. Her eyes were like a doll’s, staring.

  She remembered. She remembered. Such a little thing. So much blood for such a little body. And the man who’d done it, the father, mad on Zeus. The baby screaming, screaming, as Eve had charged up the stairs.

  Too late. She’d been too late to save the baby. Killed the father, but lost the child.

  She hadn’t saved them, the baby, the girl. And their blood was on her hands.

  The knife gleamed over her fingers.

  The room wasn’t white any longer. It was small and dirty and cold. So cold. The red washed in from the light through the window. Over her hands. Little hands now on the hilt of a knife.

  When he walked in the door, the red light bounced off his face like a shadow of the blood yet to be spilled.

  “Eve.” Roarke gathered her close, holding tight when she struggled. Her skin was iced. As she wept in her sleep, it tore his heart to pieces. “Eve, wake up. Come back now. Just a dream.” He pressed his lips to her brow, her cheeks. “Just a dream.”

  “Kill the father, save the child.”

  “Ssh.” He ran his hands soothingly over her back, under the old white shirt she favored for sleeping. “I’m here with you. You’re safe.”

  “So much blood.”

  “God.” He sat up with her, held her in his lap and rocked her in the dark.

  “I’m all right.” She turned her face into his shoulder. Somehow just the scent of him could center her. “Sorry. I’m okay.”

  “I’m not, so you can hold on to me awhile.”

  She slid her arms around his waist. “Something about Hannah Wade, the way . . . the way she died. It reminded me of this little girl. Baby really. The little girl whose father ripped her up. I got there too late.”

  “Yes, I remember. It was just before we met.”

  “She haunts me. I couldn’t save her, couldn’t get to her in time. And I think that maybe if you hadn’t come into my life right after, that’s the one that might’ve broken me. But she haunts me, Roarke. A little ghost to add to all the others. To add to myself.”

  “You remember her, Eve.” He brushed his lips over her hair. “Perhaps you’re the only one who does.”

  In the morning, she got up early enough to do a hard, sweaty workout, then took a long swim. She beat off the fatigue and the vague, nagging hangover from the nightmare.

  And because she knew he’d keep at her until she gave in anyway, she sat down in the sitting area of the bedroom and ate the oatmeal Roarke ordered for her.

  But she cast a suspicious eye on the milky liquid in the glass beside her coffee. “What’s that?”

  “A protein drink.”

  “I don’t need a protein drink. I’m eating the stupid oatmeal, aren’t I?”

  “You’ll have both.” He stroked a hand over Galahad’s head, then gave his attention to Eve rather than the morning financials scrolling by on-screen. “They’ll offset the candy bar you probably plan to have for lunch. You didn’t sleep well.”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind. How come you don’t have to have a protein drink?”

  He forked up a section of grapefruit. “Can’t abide the stuff. And I’m not the one who’s going to have to deal with the mayor today.”

  “Yeah. I have to get started on that.”

  “I’m sure he’ll find it an even more unpleasant way to start his day than you do yours. Drink up, Lieutenant.”

  She scowled, but drank. She was actually starting to like whatever he dumped in those mixes. “This data doesn’t go to the rest of the team yet. I have to report it to Whitney, probably Tibble, and won’t that be fun?”

  “We should have your virus fully ID’d today. You’re closing in.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too.” She looked toward the data center. “I’ve been making plenty of noise. They’ll know I’ve got some solid leads now. Could they dump that virus in this system here?”

  “This system’s security is a great deal more complex than what you’ll find on other home systems.”

  Galahad inched toward the table, the plates. Roarke merely gave him one cool look. The cat shot up a leg and began to wash as if that had been the plan all along.

  “And I’ve taken separate precautions,” he continued, “based on the shield we’ve been working on in the lab. I can’t give you a hundred percent guarantee, but unless they upgrade and modify what they’ve used to date, no. They can’t infect this system.”

  “Let me take it in another direction. If there was an attempt to infect, can you rig some alarm, some detector, whatever, to alert us to it, maybe track the source?”

  “You interest me, Lieutenant. I’ve already started working on that. It can’t be done with any real success until we complete the full ID. But your lab rats have been devising some creative options. Jamie’s particularly skilled in this area. I swear, if the boy wasn’t determined to be you, he’d make his first billion before . . . well, before I made mine.”

  “If you could track it from this system, would you be able to track it back from one of the infected units?” She saw the look on his face. “Okay, so I’m one step behind the master geek plan. You get me that today, I might just dig up a pair of garters.”

  “I want the corset, too. And the shoes.”

  “You get me a source location, you get the shoes.”

  “I’m really starting to like this job. You have to wear the shoes the whole time we—”

  “Let’s not push it, pal.” She rose. “I’m going to make this call from my office.”

  She closed her door. Though she wasn’t sure of Whitney’s schedule, she assumed he was already on the way in from Westchester. She tried his car ’link, and didn’t mind admitting to herself that she’d timed it so she didn’t have to tag him at home and chance dealing with his wife.

  “Whitney.”

  “Sir. There’s been a development in the investigation that requires your attention, and I believe Chief Tibble’s.”

  “What development?”

  “I don’t believe I can discuss this over ’link, Commander. My judgment puts this at Code Five.”

  She saw his eyes narrow. Code Five meant complete media block, and all departmental records would be sealed during the investigation.

  “Are you at your home office?”

  “Yes, sir. I can be at Central in—”

  “No. The chief is closer to you than downtown. For that matter, at this point, so am I. I’ll contact him. Expect us within thirty minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Has your team been informed of this development?”

  “No, sir. Just the expert consultant who was working with me when this new development surfaced.”

  “Keep it that way for now. Out.”

  Even as the screen blanked, there was a quick knock on her door. Nadine burst in.

  “Damn it, Nadine, when I close a door it’s because I want it closed. I don’t have time for the media. Go away.”

  “Don’t be so hasty.” She closed the door at her back, then crossing the room at a clip, tossed a disc to Eve. “I went to a lot of trouble to get that to you and I don’t want anyone to know
you got it from me.”

  “Why, and what is it?”

  “Why, because it could be perceived as taking media/police relations one step too far. I’ve a strong feeling the bosses at 75 would think so. What it is, is a copy of the home vid 75 bought after what I’m told was a rapid and lively negotiation from a tourist. A tourist who was taking a spin on an airtram when Nick Greene ran out on his balcony. They’re going to air at nine, sharp. I wanted to give you a heads up.”

  “Channel 75 is going to air a guy killing himself?”

  “I’m not saying I approve. I’m not saying I disapprove. This hits at nine, it’s going to be big. What I will say, for your ears only, is I disapprove of going public with it without informing the police first. The vid doesn’t change the outcome, the investigation, but I don’t like the way it might stir up more support for Purity. So I’m giving you time to structure a response.”

  “Have you looked at this?” Eve held up the disc.

  “I ran it on my way over. It’s grim, it’s ugly. And it makes Greene look like a monster. It’s going to be easy to look at it and think: Thank God he’s dead.”

  “Give me the name of the tourist.”

  “I can’t do it.” She pushed impatiently at her mane of hair. “Dallas, even if I knew, I couldn’t do it. A source is a source.”

  “Is this your story?”

  “No.”

  “Then he’s not your source.”

  Nadine shook her head. “I’ll only go so far over, same as you. If you’re thinking this guy was a plant, I don’t see how he could’ve been. But I’ll look into it. I will promise if I smell a setup, I’ll spill.”

  Satisfied, Eve nodded. “Tell me one thing. How much they shell out for this?”

  “Dallas—”

  “Off the record, Nadine. For both of us. I’m just curious.”

  “One cool mil for twenty seconds of feed.”

  “I guess he really hit the jackpot. I know you didn’t have to do this. I won’t forget it.”

  “So, you owe me one.”

  “I don’t like to owe. Something’s going to bust,” she said after a moment. “Likely within the next day or two. Don’t bother to ask any questions, I won’t answer. When it goes down and I’m cleared to talk about it, I’ll give you an exclusive.”