"This is good," Chang said, pulling out his notebook again. "With adjustments-"
"Don't mess with me, Chang, or you'll be eating that book."
"Dallas." Whitney got to his feet. "We're all on the same side. Tools and methods may vary, but the end goal is the same for all of us. Forget the polls and the politics for a moment. You know enough about human nature to understand that without a solid spin, people will begin to see this group as heroes. They'll see criminals, predators who slithered through the system's fingers finally meeting justice. Tonight our children are safe because someone took a stand."
"Justice doesn't hide behind anonymity. It doesn't operate without rules of conduct."
"That, in a nutshell, is the point. Press conference at sixteen-thirty, Central's media center. Be there at sixteen hundred to be briefed and prepped."
"Yes, sir."
"We all have our jobs, Lieutenant." Franco reached down, picked up a sleek leather briefcase. "And portions of those jobs are distasteful or annoying. But at the core, it's the safety of this city that concerns all of us."
"Agreed, ma'am. Fortunately my concern isn't contingent on polls or votes."
Franco's lips curved. "I was told you were a hard-ass. Good. So am I. Chief Tibble, Commander Whitney." She gestured to Chang, then strode out on her snazzy shoes.
"Lieutenant." Tibble remained in his position of power at the desk. "You will be required to work with Deputy Mayor Franco on this situation. I expect you to cooperate with her and the mayor's office, and to afford her the respect that office deserves. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"The potential for crisis here is layered. Public safety, public trust, financial and political ramifications. Those must all be addressed. The damage to city revenue, to individual businesses, to personal incomes could be serious if the tourist trade decreases because people are afraid to come into the city and use a public data center, if employees refuse to come into work, or use their home offices. If parents refuse to send their children to school or utilize their home-school options out of fear the educational units are infected. The media can swing this sort of thing on a dime. And if you believe this is an area beyond your concern, I'd suggest you ask your husband's opinion."
"My husband's opinion doesn't affect how I carry out my duty, Chief Tibble, nor does it affect the thrust of my investigations."
"Any married individual on or off planet knows that statement is bullshit, Lieutenant. At this point, you don't have the luxury of ignoring the politics or the media. Welcome to my world." He sat back studying her carefully blank face. "Sometimes, Dallas, you make me tired."
That cracked the mask enough to have her blink at him, once. Slowly. "I apologize, sir."
"No, you don't." He waved a hand at her, then rubbed it over his face. "Now, give me the details of your investigation you didn't want to divulge in front of Franco and Chang."
She started to fill him in. He interrupted once. "A social worker and a cop? How many other ways do you intend to complicate my life?"
"I've yet to speak with Detective Dwier, sir, and have no direct evidence linking him to the organization. But, as I suspect civilian parents of abused minors may also be involved, I'd say the complication level will rise fairly high."
"It'll leak. One of your interviews will go to the media. We'll need damage control."
"Chief Tibble-" When her communicator beeped, she had just enough control of her own to realize she'd just been saved by the bell. "With your permission, sir?"
"Answer it."
"Dallas."
"Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, possible priority homicide, 5151 Riverside Drive. Victim identified as Mary Ellen George. See uniformed officer on-scene."
"Acknowledged." Her face was blank again when she looked back at Tibble. "Things just got more complicated, or more simple, depending on your point of view."
He sighed. "Go."
Tibble pushed to his feet as she strode out. "Fifty that she uses this to ditch the press conference."
"I look like a sucker?" Whitney shook his head. "I'll see she's there. One way or another."
Chapter 10
It had been a long time since Roarke had worked a con as basic as the coin toss. Still all it took was quick fingers and a bit of misdirection.
That boyhood skill had come back to him, smoothly, when Feeney had called heads.
A snatch, a light rub of the thumb over the engraving of the coin to determine which end you needed up, and tails slapped onto the back of his hand.
It was all done fast, and if he did say so himself, very well indeed. Feeney might have been annoyed and suspicious at the results, but a deal was a deal.
Even when the game was fixed.
"We could give it another pass or two," Feeney said when they all stood in the temporary lab with Roarke holding the filter disc. "Could be we'd-"
"Don't be such a mother," Roarke said mildly.
"My life won't be worth piss something happens to you on my watch."
"Well now, cheer up. Had the toss gone the other way, I could say just the same. She'd have my bones for breakfast."
"About that toss..." Feeney hadn't seen anything hinky about it, but you could never be sure with Roarke. "I say we do it again, but let Baxter here do the flip."
"I could take that to mean you're calling me a cheat-though you examined the coin yourself, made the choice of heads without prompting. But, seeing as we've a long and friendly history between us, I'll just take it as concern. The deed's done, Feeney, and no Irishman welshes on a bet."
"Don't put me in the middle of this." Baxter kept his hands safely in his pockets. "Whatever the hell happens, Dallas is going to be pissed. So let's do it before she starts busting our balls."
"We get the diagnostic run, we keep our balls." Jamie was in heaven. Not only were they about to do something beyond chilled, but he was standing around talking the trash with cops. "Infected unit's a snail, and the filter program's complex. It's going to take ninety-three seconds to download the shield," he said to Roarke. "If you start the diagnostic while it's loading, you'd-"
"Jamie, are you under the impression that this is, so to speak, my first day on the job?"
"No, but while the diagnostic's running, you want to upload the results onto-"
"Go away."
"Yeah, but-"
"Jamie, lad." Feeney laid a hand on his shoulder. "We'll be monitoring from outside. You can badger the man from there. Ten minutes," Feeney said to Roarke. "Not a second more."
"I'll be running a time sequence."
"No, ten minutes, not a second more." His jaw went firm as stone. "I want your word on it."
"All right. You have it."
As satisfied as he could get, Feeney nodded. "If we see anything worrying in the medical readouts, you'll shut it down."
"If you're thinking I'm willing to have my brains come spilling out my ears, let me reassure you." Then he flashed a grin. "But if such a thing should happen, I'll have the satisfaction of knowing Eve will be sending the lot of you to hell right behind me."
"She'll go easy on me." McNab worked up a smile. "I'm handicapped."
"Don't count on it. Now if you'd all get out, we could get this done before we're all old and gray."
"You'll wait until I give you the go-ahead. I want a check of your medicals first." Feeney stopped at the door, glanced back. "Slainte."
"You can say that again, over a couple of Guinness in just a bit."
When they'd gone out, Roarke engaged the door locks. He didn't want his associates to panic and burst in on him again. Alone, he unbuttoned his shirt, then attached the sensors that would monitor him.
Lost your mind, haven't you?he thought.Not just working for cops, which is bad enough, but risking your bloody brains for them.
Life was a damn strange business.
He wouldn't lose his brains, or his life, like a lab rat, if it came to that.
He sat, faced Cogburn's mac
hine, and felt under the work counter, let his fingers play lightly over the weapon he'd secured there.
He'd chosen the nine-millimeter Beretta semiautomatic from his collection. It had been his first gun, acquired at the age of nineteen from the man who'd been pointing it at his head. A banned weapon, of course, even then. But smugglers weren't so picky about such things.
It seemed to him, should things go wrong, a properly ironic cycle if he ended it all by doing himself with the very weapon that had started his collection, and had helped him on the road to riches.
He didn't anticipate anything going wrong. They'd taken all possible precautions, and those who had taken them were some of the best e-men-and boy-available. But there was always a chance, however slim.
If push came to shove, he would decide his own fate.
Then he took his hand away from the cold steel, and put it out of his mind.
"Going to run a check on your vital signs."
Roarke glanced up at the wall screen, nodded at Feeney. "Fine. Cut the audio in there when you're done. I don't want all of you nattering at me when I'm working."
He slid his hand into his pocket, rubbed a small gray button between his fingers for luck. For love. It had fallen off the jacket of the very unflattering suit Eve had worn the first time he'd seen her.
"You're good to go," Feeney told him.
"Booting up then. Start the clock."
***
Mary Ellen George had, thanks to the royalties on the book she'd written on her arrest, trial, and acquittal, and the speaking fees she commanded, lived a very comfortable life in her West Side apartment.
She'd died there, as well, but it hadn't been comfortable.
Unlike Cogburn and Fitzhugh, the signs of her illness weren't violent nor were they destructive. It was apparent she'd taken herself off to bed, dosed herself with over-the-counter medication for several days-then with strong, street versions-during which time she had blocked her 'link calls and had refused to answer her door.
She'd taken a laptop unit into bed with her, essentially destroying herself, Eve thought, as she tried to heal.
One of her last acts had been to place a hysterical transmission to a former lover, begging him for help, weeping about the screaming in her head.
Her last act had been to fashion her silk sheets into a noose and hang herself.
She wore only a white nightgown, obscenely soiled. Her hair was matted, her nails bitten down below the quick. There were tissues and washcloths, stained with blood, littering the bedside table.
Trying to stop the nosebleeds, Eve concluded, and picked up a medication bottle with sealed fingers. Trying to treat a brain on the point of exploding with ten-dollar blockers.
The laptop was still on the bed, its stark message filling the screen.
ABSOLUTE PURITY ACHIEVED
"Get this screen on record, Peabody. Victim: George, Mary Ellen, female, Caucasian, age forty-two. Body discovered in victim's apartment at fourteen hundred hours, sixteen minutes by building manager, Officer Debrah Banker and Hippel, Jay, who placed the nine-eleven."
"Record of scene and body complete, Lieutenant."
"Okay, Peabody, let's get her down."
It was an ugly job. Neither of then spoke as they wrestled with the makeshift noose, as they shouldered the deadweight and lowered it to the bed.
"Visual evidence of blood in victim's ears, in nasal passages. Indication of blood vessel eruption in the eyes. No head or facial trauma evident. There are no visible wounds other than the bruising around the neck, which is consistent with strangulation by hanging."
She opened her field kit, took out a gauge. "Time of death established at fourteen-ten."
Eve reached over, shut down the laptop. "Bag this, log it and have it transported to my home office."
Then she stepped back and took a long, careful look at the bedroom. "She didn't exhibit the same level of violence as the other vics. You can see she'd been spending most of her time in here, popping blockers and tranqs, trying to sleep off the pain. She got a little messy, a little careless with housekeeping and appearance, but she didn't run around breaking furniture."
"People handle pain differently," Peabody said as she bagged the laptop. "Like you. You pretend it's not there. Like it's a personal insult and you're going to ignore it so it'll go away. Me, I go straight for the holistic stuff. Early childhood training. But if that doesn't work, it's better living through chemistry. And guys, like my brothers and my dad, they whine. A guy gets sick he reverts to babyhood. Which includes temper tantrums."
"That's interesting, Peabody."
"Well, you know. Testosterone."
"Yeah, I know. In these cases, the two males-three counting Halloway-tried to beat the pain and anyone who got in the way. And the female tried to suppress it with traditional methods. Everybody failed, everybody died. And here's what else everyone did. Burrowed."
"Burrowed, sir?"
"Holed up. Climbed into their nest, or the closest thing to it. Cogburn was locked in his apartment. Maybe if his neighbor hadn't come along, hammering at the door, shouting, cursing at him, he'd have stayed there until he died, or until he killed himself."
She studied the messy, makeshift noose. "Terminate and end the pain. I bet it's programmed into the virus. Fitzhugh, holed up, self-terminated. Halloway, the only one who wasn't a target, the only one who was exposed outside of his own home, burrowed into Feeney's office. If we hadn't kept him busy, I think he'd have offed Feeney, then turned the stream on himself."
"Cogburn and Halloway." Peabody nodded, following the dots. "They were the only two who had contact with anyone during the last stages of the infection. If they hadn't..."
"Would they have just opted out, like Mary Ellen George? Shuts herself in, blocks her incomings, ignores anyone who comes to the door. Terminates."
"Wounded animal instinct? The burrowing," Peabody asked.
"Human nature. It's logical. And it makes sense for Purity. They don't want to take out the innocent, just the ones they've judged guilty. They're looking for minimum negative fallout. They want public support for their cause. Even with the incidental casualties, they're starting to get it."
"They won't keep it. No, Dallas, they won't. I'm not going to believe most people really want something like this." She gestured toward the body.
"We had legal executions for what, over two hundred years in the grand old U.S. of A.," Eve reminded her. "Illegal ones have been going on since Cain bashed Abel. Under the polish, Peabody, we're still a primitive species. A violent one."
She thought of Roarke. And sighed. "Turn her over to the ME. Open the scene to the sweepers. I'll be talking to Hippel."
She turned on her own recorder as she walked into the small, cheerful office space off the living area. Officer Baker stood on post while a young black male with a muscular build sat with his head down and his hands dangling between his knees.
Eve wagged a thumb at the doorway, and Baker stepped out.
"Mr. Hippel?"
He lifted his head. His skin was a rich chocolate just now faintly tinged with the green of nausea.
"I've never seen... I've never... It's the first..."
"Do you want some water, Mr. Hippel?"
"No, I... The officer got me a glass. My insides are too shaky to drink."
"I need to ask you some questions. I'm Lieutenant Dallas."
"Yeah. I saw you on-screen doing that deal with Nadine Furst." He tried to get his lips to curve up, but they just trembled. "She's hot. I always try to catch her segments."
"She'll be thrilled to hear that." Eve sat down on a small, tufted chair. "Ms. George contacted you."
"Yeah. I hadn't heard from her in a couple weeks. We broke things off. Mutual," he said quickly. "We didn't fight or anything. Just time to move on, that's all. Okay, maybe she was a little steamed. Maybe I wanted to move on more than she did, but we didn't fight. Okay, maybe we had an argument."
He choked on his own g
uilt, spit out information while Eve sat in silence and let him run through it. "Maybe we yelled at each other some. Jesus, Jesus, she didn't do that because I dumped her, did she?"
"When did the dumping take place, Jay?"
"Maybe two weeks ago. It'd been coming on. I mean, hey, she's a fine-looking, sexy lady and all. Plenty of coin, too. But I'm twenty-four, and she's not. Guy needs a piece or two his own age once in a while, right? Only natural. And Mary Ellen, she was getting a little territorial. Crimping my style, got me?"
J D Robb - Dallas 15 - Purity in Death Page 15
