by J. D. Robb
Again, she thought, again, and curled her body, pumped her legs to drive herself off the wall. Beside him, true as a shadow, she struck out through the clear, the cool, the blue.
She lost track of the number of laps, of time, of everything but the motion, the pace, the sheer physical push and pleasure of spurring herself, and him.
Challenge and motion, skin and water, speed and need.
And when he caught her, slick, wet body to slick, wet body, in midstroke, she was ready for him.
Searching, their mouths came together, cool from the water, hot from hunger. With quick, frantic bites she answered the urgency of the kiss while her racing heart pressed to his. She wrapped her legs around his waist, too desperate to care if they sank like stones.
“Now.” She’d go mad if it wasn’t now.
She captured him even as he gripped her hips, and those hips plunged, demanding more, taking more. When he gave her more, shoving her back to the wall, bracing her, her head fell back on a single choked cry.
Strong, sleek, he thought as he ravaged her neck. And always so much his. Love and lust, need and pleasure swirled inside him as water fumed up in the storm of their mating.
With him, again with him, beat for beat, demand for demand, in this last frantic lap of the race. She chained herself to him, arms and legs locked like shackles as her mouth fused to his once more.
And strong and sleek, she quivered for him as he drove them both to the finish.
He lowered his brow to her shoulder, then managed to grip the edge when she started to slide. “Have a care.” He could barely murmur it. “Or they’ll find us both floating facedown in the morning.”
“Okay.” But she curled into him. “Need a minute.”
“You’re not alone. I had no idea swimming laps made such intense foreplay.”
“My idea.”
“There, you’ve collected sex credit and friend credits in the same day.”
The sound she made was half laugh, half sigh. “Louise is all nervous about the wedding, about all the details being perfect. She has charts and time lines and told me how she’s a wreck of nerves and didn’t expect to be.”
“It’s an exceptionally important day.”
“Yeah, but I said she’s nervous about the minutiae because she’s not nervous about the marriage, about Charles, what they’re doing and why.”
He brushed his cheek to hers as he drew back to study her. “Aren’t you the wise one?”
“I wasn’t nervous about the details of the wedding stuff when we got married. I barely paid attention to them, dumped it on you.”
“You did.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But then you were distracted by a serial killer.”
“No, that’s not it. I mean, yeah, that was a factor.” She brushed his hair, wet black silk, away from his face. “But I figured out I wasn’t nervous about the minutiae because I was nervous about the rest. About marriage, you, what we were doing and why. I thought that was the crazy part of it—you, me, marriage.” She cupped his face in her hands, looked into his eyes. “I’m really happy I was wrong. I’m re ally happy.”
It surged through him, everything she was to him. “There, too, you’re not alone.”
She brought her lips to his again, softer now, sweeter. Then eased back. “That’s enough of that. Breather’s over.”
She wiggled free, pushed to the head of the pool to climb out. When he stepped out, she tossed him a towel.
“As breathers go, it was exceptional.”
“Yeah, well, anything worth doing. He’d think that.”
Roarke wrapped a towel around his waist. “And our transition is complete.”
“Well, my head’s cleared. I think he’s good at what he does—careful. Doesn’t want too much attention. But he’s the reliable guy, the one who gets it done without the fanfare. People would say, oh yeah, Murdering Bastard’s reliable. I bet he hates that.”
“Why so?”
Tossing on a robe she walked to the elevator. She’d change into soft clothes for the rest of the night’s work. “Because he’s better than that. Better than they are. He’s young, he’s good-looking, charming, efficient, smart, and skilled enough to come up with, or get someone else to come up with this e-virus that’s got all you geeks stumped.”
“We’re not stumped,” Roarke corrected with some annoyance as they rode to the bedroom. “The bleeding investigation is ongoing and we’re pursuing all shagging avenues.”
While it amused her to hear him quote the usual departmental line—with the addition of the Irish—she shrugged. “Point’s the same. He’s not going to be in management, not even middle management unless it requires wearing a name tag. He’ll be the clerk or tech or laborer who never bitches about getting work or OT dumped on him. Who plods through the work, gets it done, but doesn’t object when his boss or coworker or supervisor takes all or most of the credit.”
In the bedroom she pulled on a support tank, underwear. “And he’d hate it, the way he’d hate not being able to beat MacMasters’s security from the outside.”
“You think so?”
“I know so, because I’m looking at you. You’re pissed off because he’s done something e-wise you haven’t been able to figure out. Yet,” she added, not bothering to disguise a grin when those blue eyes fired. “It’s frustrating.”
“You’re making it more so,” Roarke muttered.
“You’ll deal. But the point is, the average guy is a shell, a suit he has to wear that probably doesn’t fit very well. The little things oppose a good fit. Leaving the glass, making the vid, spending hours on the kill, and doing it inside the house. Easier ways, safer ways, but he’s got to show off a little.”
Intrigued, Roarke continued to dress. “And what does all this tell you?”
“Well, adding in he’s young, and that’s going to factor even with his sense of patience and control, he’s going to make more mistakes. Maybe just little ones, show-offy ones, but he’ll make them. And I’ll be able to use his need to shed that ordinary suit when I have him in interview. He’ll want to tell me.
“And for now?” She scooped a hand through her damp hair. “It tells me if he works for Security Plus, he’ll be one of the geeks. Wherever he works, he takes home a decent salary, but damn it, not enough to afford that system. He has to be a geek for either the manufacturer or a service company.”
“I had Caro get me the names of every male under thirty who works for that arm.” He spoke of his redoubtable admin. “The rest of the geeks and I have been running them throughout the day. None of them are standing out, and none have made a tidy fit with your profile.”
“Profiles can be off. That was good work, getting the data, taking it into EDD.”
“Perhaps I’ll ask for a raise.”
“I just gave you one.” She shot him a grin as they walked out of the bedroom. “I like a service company better. It’s more in keeping. Service, don’t create. No splash.”
“I just serviced you, and I distinctly recall splashing.”
“Okay now we’re even on the sex jokes.”
“It’s only fair. Eve, he could be an independent consultant, a brain trust, a troubleshooter. The field is wide and open. He may not work for any one company.”
“Shit. Shit.” She had to pace. “That would be even better for him, wouldn’t it? Someone who comes in, fixes things, or gives advice, but doesn’t actually do the day-to-day. It’s perfect. Damn it. I’m going to work through it all again, piece by piece. Add in the data you get me, shuffle it with the Columbia data. Then—”
“One thing you haven’t considered,” Roarke interrupted. “He’s young, smart, skilled, and he has no scruples. There are other ways for someone like that to make money, enough to buy a top-flight system and the residence to put it. You steal it.”
“Steal it?”
“In the grand old e-tradition. Hack into accounts, siphon funds off. Keep that mid-level, too—nothing too big. He knows how to use s
omeone else’s ID to get what he wants. Identity theft’s a profitable business if you’re talented.”
She rubbed her hands together as the idea took on weight. “You risk getting caught, but he’s willing to risk. He’s careful and keeps the risk low. Why work, or work very hard, when you can just take. It’s an angle. It’s a good one.”
Her desk ’link signaled even as they walked into her office. She charged for it, scanned the readout quickly. “Yancy, give me something good.”
“I had a second session with each of the wits. I had to give them, and me, a break between, but I know we need to push. I think I’ve got something, or something close. Lola’s more sure than Marta, but—”
“Show me.”
“Hold on. Neither of them saw his eyes, because of the shades. Those and the cap hid part of his face. I’ve projected the most likely, probability eighty-seven and change, for those features. Eyes, eyebrows, forehead. Marta got a glimpse of the forehead, the upper face when he pulled off the cap, but—”
“Show me,” Eve demanded.
“Coming through, on screen and hard copy, projected, and with cap and shades.”
She leaned over her unit, studied the images that popped in split screen. Roarke walked to the printouts sliding out its slot.
Young, she thought. Early to mid-twenties by her cop gauge. Caucasian male, with even, attractive, somewhat feminine features. Small, straight nose, full lips, soft eyes, a bit heavy-lidded. The face was oval, almost classically so, and the hair dark, shaggy, trendy.
She studied the image with it, where the features were obscured by the cap and shades. And nodded.
“You gave me good, Yancy.”
“If you’re confident with it, we can send it out.”
“No media. Team members only for now. He’s going to come to the vic’s memorial, odds are. I don’t want to alert him, scare him off. Get this to the other members, with a lock on it. I’m going to start an image search, see if I can ID the bastard.”
“Good luck.”
“You gave me more than luck. This could make the difference. Send it out, Yancy, and go home.”
“You can count on it.”
When Yancy signed off, Eve considered her options, then contacted Jamie.
“Hey, Dallas.”
“You’re going to have an image coming through,” she said without preamble. “Take it and get over to Columbia. I’m going to set it up for you. I want you to start using their imaging program, see if you can get me a match.”
“It’s him.”
“It’s what we’ve got. This is locked, Jamie. Nobody but you, or McNab if you need him. It doesn’t go to any of your e-pals.”
“I get it. I know. I’ll work it, Dallas.”
“I’ll get you cleared. Work good,” she said, then blew out a breath and once again contacted Peach Lapkoff.
“Well, Lieutenant, we’re getting to be best friends.”
“I apologize for interrupting your evening. We have an image, and I’m sending Jamie over to the university, as an expert consultant, civilian, to work with your imaging program.”
“Now?”
“Now. I need you to clear this, Dr. Lapkoff, and to keep it confidential. I can’t afford a leak.”
“I’ll take care of it personally.”
“You’re making my job easier.”
“My grandfather would expect no less.”
“She’s okay,” Eve mumbled as she broke transmission. “So.” She nodded at the images on screen. “There you are, fucker. Now who are you? Computer, initiate search and match, all data on individual in current images, begin with New York City residents.”
Acknowledged. Initiating . . .
“Auxiliary search, same images, same directive, for match with students listed in File Lapkoff-Columbia-C.”
Acknowledged. Initiating Auxiliary search . . .
“Could get lucky there, find him on the short list before Jamie’s halfway to Morningside Heights. Okay. Now when I get the data you’re running, I can add that into the mix and—”
He nudged her aside, tapped a quick series of keys. “It’s finished, a few minutes ago. And yes, we did an upgrade on that system the third week in March. You want a third search, with this data, I take it.”
“Affirmative.”
He ordered the task himself. “I’d say it’s time for more coffee, and I should take myself off to the lab to have mine.”
“We may not need—”
“That’s not the point, is it? I’m not going to let that git beat me. Carry on, Lieutenant, and so will I.”
She got her own coffee, then added both sketches to her board. As her computer worked, she circled the board and considered Roarke’s theory. Hacking or ID theft. A boy had to hone his craft, didn’t he? And a younger version of the man on her board might have made a couple of mistakes. Slipped a little as he learned all the ins and outs.
A little smudge on his juvenile record, she mused. We can add that in, yes, we can. We can add that possibility. Maybe back home, wherever the hell home was.
Sticks close to the truth, she recalled. He’d told Deena he’d had a little brush with the law over illegals. Maybe he’d had them with cyber crimes instead.
She let the computer continue its search and sat with her PPC to run criminal, focus on juvenile offenses, with the data she’d accrued from Roarke and Columbia.
It didn’t surprise her to find so many. The cop in her was more surprised when anyone got through life without a smudge or a bump or a bust.
She began the laborious process of scanning, eliminating, separating into possibles. Once again, she lost track of time, and nearly bobbled her third mug of coffee when her ’link signaled.
“Dallas.” Jamie’s face told her what she wanted to hear. “I’ve got him. I think I’ve got him. It’s a ninety-seven-point-three probability match. It’s from five years back, and he only had a semester and a half in but—”
“Send him to me. On screen, now,” she ordered when the transmission hummed.” She stared at the ID photo. “Good work, Jamie. Shut everything down there, wipe the search.”
“It’s him, isn’t it? It’s the bastard who killed Deena.”
She looked into Jamie’s tired and furious eyes. “You did good work,” she repeated. “We’ll brief in the morning. Go home. Get some sleep.”
She knew he wanted to argue, it was clear on his face. But he pulled it in. “Yes, sir.”
She cut transmission then turned back to the screen to study another young, attractive face.
“Hello, Darrin Pauley. You son of a bitch.”
In the lab, Roarke finessed, twisted, prodded. He’d grabbed the amorphous tail of the ghost and was fighting to hold it. “Do you see it?” he demanded.
On a wall screen, Feeney’s eyes were narrowed to slits. “I’ve got eyes, don’t I? You need to recalibrate the bypass, then—”
“I’m bloody well doing that.” Roarke swiveled to another comp, keyed in another code.
“I can box it from here.” On another screen, McNab paced. “If we ride the back end from here—”
“Keep working the enhance,” Feeney snapped. “I’ve got it.”
“Roarke.”
“Not now!” the order shot out at Eve from Roarke, and from the two males on the wall screens.
“Jesus, wall of geek,” she muttered. Then saw the other image, a shadow on shadows.
“You’re pulling him out.”
“We’ve got him, but by our bleeding fingernails. Quiet. If we can’t lock this, we’ll have to do it all again.”
As she watched, the screen began to blur with white dots. She heard McNab say, “No! Damn it, no! It’s another strain. Jesus.”
“Not this time,” Roarke snapped. “The pattern’s there. Reverse the code, every other sequence.”
Eve could see the light sheen of sweat on Feeney’s face, hear the steely determination in Roarke’s voice.
The dots on screen faded.
<
br /> “We did it!” McNab cried out.
“Not quite yet,” Roarke’s voice eased slightly. “But we bloody well will.”
She didn’t know what they were doing, but the shadow on screen shimmered so she feared it would vanish. Then it steadied, stilled.
“Locked!” McNab called. “We locked the bastard. Rocking-freaking-A.” He leaped up into a victory dance.
“Christ.” Roarke leaned back. “I could use a pint.”
“I’m damn well having one. Good work, every damn one of us,” Feeney said.
“Ah . . . is that it?” As Eve gestured to the shadow, every eye, on screen or in the room, turned a jaundiced look on her.
“We broke through the virus,” Roarke told her. “We pieced together this image from distorted pixels. We performed a bloody miracle. And no, that’s not it. That’s it for now.”
“We’ll start enhancing, defining, cleaning it up,” Feeney told her, then took a long pull from a bottle of brew. “It’s going to take hours, maybe a day, but it’s there, and we can pull it out. And while we’re doing that, we’ve got the sequence and coding locked down to get the rest of it. We’ll be able to give you the little son of a bitch walking right in the door.”
“That’ll be a cap on it. Meanwhile, thanks to Jamie, I’ve got a name, and a point of origin. Darrin Pauley, age twenty-three. Data claims he lives in Sundown, Alabama, south of Mobile, with his father, Vincent Pauley. I’ve got no connection to either Pauley with MacMasters—yet, but he fits right down to his shy smile.”
“He’s no more in Alabama than my ass is,” Feeney put in.
“No, but his father is. I ran him, and he’s gainfully employed, living with his wife and twelve-year-old daughter, in Sundown.”
“Could be a blind,” Feeney suggested.
“Could, but the family resemblance is striking. He needs to be interviewed, now, and face-to-face.”
Roarke glanced at the equipment he’d begun to enjoy again. “I suppose we’re going to Alabama this evening.”