by J. D. Robb
“While I agree, I doubt very much if this is the work of one programmer. The one thing we are sure of is this took superior programming knowledge as well as medical. Neurological.”
“They’d need a team,” Feeney agreed. “A first-class lab, equipment, and deep pockets. Isolation chamber.”
“How much do you know, at this point, about how it works?”
“Eyes and ears,” Jamie said as he swiveled from one unit to another, tapping keys. “Light and sound.”
“Light and sound.”
“Spectrum and frequency. You go on, pull up a nice game of World Domination to piss a little time away, and what happens is, you’re getting bombarded with light and sound, stuff your eyes and ears can’t register on a regular level. You know how they’ve got those whistles for dogs people can’t hear?”
“Yeah, I know how it works.”
“Okay, well, as far as I can tell, that’s the idea with this virus. We haven’t clocked onto the spectrum pattern or the frequencies, but we will. The beauty is, the virus runs through the system, but it doesn’t make the computer sick, doesn’t screw up any of the programs on it, or any the operator might upload after. It all just cruises along, without a hitch.”
“And kills the operator,” Eve concluded.
“Kills him dead,” Jamie agreed. “We’re working on how long it takes, but it needs at least an hour, maybe two to transfer the infection into the old gray matter.”
“We haven’t confirmed that,” Feeney reminded him.
“The first shield failed,” McNab added. “But it held long enough that we were able to pull out data that’ll help us refine the next one.”
“How long?” Eve demanded.
“We can put together another experimental in maybe two hours.” McNab shrugged his good shoulder. “Longer if we have to wait until we break the code.”
“Man, it is dense.” Jamie picked up his Pepsi, slurped. “You break through one tier, and there’re six more popping out. I’m going to run a short cut on an alternate unit, see if I can sneak through.”
“Do that. And, Jamie.” Roarke touched a hand to the boy’s shoulder. “We’ll need you to bunk here until we’ve cut through all this.”
“Frig-o.” He rolled his chair to another workstation, and hunkered down.
“Okay, let me give you the status, then we can all go back to work.” Eve waited until attention focused on her. “You.” She pointed at Jamie. “You’re a drone. Be a drone.”
He muttered, curled his lip, but turned back to his monitor.
“The ME’s findings to date concur with your theory of audio and visual points of attack. He also reports that once the virus begins to spread, it is, most likely, irreversible. The latest victim, Mary Ellen George, was, according to witness reports, asymptomatic as early as eight days ago. After that point, we’ve found no one who had any contact with her.
“In analyzing the scene, I concluded that the victim, feeling unwell, took herself to bed, attempting to alleviate discomfort with over-the-counter. She blocked her incomings, pulled down the privacy shades and burrowed. She also took her laptop unit into bed with her, thereby certainly speeding the infection along with continued exposure.”
“Fitzhugh locked himself in, too,” Feeney offered.
“As did Cogburn, until he was incited by his neighbor. In Halloway’s case, he was infected on the job but elected to hunker into your office. We’ll assume that seeking this sort of shelter or isolation is also symptomatic.”
“Programmed in,” Roarke said, “to decrease the chances of outside interference or injuries.”
“Agreed. Purity doesn’t want hysteria or condemnation from the survivors of innocent victims. It seeks out specific targets. It seeks out media attention. It’s playing God and politics.”
“A very volatile combination.”
“Bet your ass,” she said to Roarke. “Which forces the NYPSD to play the same combo. The mayor’s office and The Tower are spinning their dish to the media. Deputy Mayor Franco is the spearhead.”
“A good choice of symbols,” Roarke commented. “Attractive, intelligent, strong without being overbearing.”
“So you say,” Eve sneered.
“Symbolically speaking. By using her as spokesman rather than the mayor, it generates the impression this is not a crisis but a problem. By pushing you forward, it adds the element of competence and doggedness. The city is in good hands, caring hands. Female hands that, traditionally, tend and nurture as well as protect.”
“What a load of horseshit.”
“You know, it’s not.” Baxter spoke up. “Pain in the ass for you, Dallas, no question, but it’s a good angle. You both look good on-screen. Nice contrast. Like, I dunno, the warrior and the goddess. Then you’ve got Whitney, Tibble looking all sober and stern, a few comments from the mayor at his dignified best stating his absolute confidence in the NYPSD and the system, and people feel calm and don’t riot in the streets and fuck up traffic.”
“Maybe you missed your calling, Baxter. You should be in PR.”
“And give up this cushy job and the great salary?”
She laughed. “Horseshit or not, that’s the current game plan. And unless we get a substantial break soon, I’m going to end up on the morning shows hyping justice like it was the latest entertainment vid. If that happens, I’ll make all of you suffer beyond imagining.”
She turned for the door. “Peabody, with me.”
She waited until they were back in her office. “Don’t hover over McNab like that.”
“Sir?”
“You hover over him, you’re going to make him think you’re worried.”
“I am worried. The twenty-four—”
“Worry all you want, dump on me if you need to. But don’t let him see it. He’s starting to fray, and he’s trying hard not to show it. You try just as hard not to show it. If you need to vent, go out there on the kitchen terrace. Scream your lungs out.”
“Is that what you do?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I kick inanimate objects. Sometimes I jump Roarke and have jungle sex. The last,” she said after a beat, “is not an option for you.”
“But I think it would really make me feel better, and be a more productive member of the investigative team.”
“Good, humor is good. Get me coffee.”
“Yes, sir. Thanks. It’s going to be a minute on the coffee. I think I’ll try the terrace thing.”
Eve sat, began to thread her way through Mary Ellen George’s life.
The sealed files remained sealed. She’d gotten her warrant, and Child Services had immediately trumped it with a temporary restraining order. The TRO would hold her off until lawyers fought it out in court.
Days, she thought. Days lost. Unless she took another route.
Before she did, she’d try a more legitimate angle. For the third time that day, she put in a call to Detective Sergeant Thomas Dwier.
This time she tagged him instead of his voice mail.
“Sergeant, Lieutenant Dallas. I’ve been trying to tag you.”
“I’m in court.” He had a tough, lived-in face. “We’re on a fifteen. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“I’m primary on the Purity homicides. You hear about that?”
“Who hasn’t? You tapping me because of that asshole Fitzhugh?”
“I’m digging for what I can find. I’d like to pick your brain over it. You also were part of the team on Mary Ellen George.”
“Yeah, thought we had her solid, but she slithered. What’s the connection?”
“She’s dead.”
“So, the wheel goes round and round. Don’t know what I can tell you about either one of them that’s not in the files.”
“Why don’t I buy you a beer after court? I’m jammed up, Dwier. I could use some help.”
“Sure, what the hell. You know O’Malley’s off of Eighth on Twenty-third?”
“I’ll find it.”
“Should
be done here in an hour.”
“I’ll meet you at O’Malley’s.” She glanced at the time. “Seventeen hundred.”
“Should work. They’re calling us back. Later.”
She turned from the ’link as Peabody set a mug of coffee on the desk. “Better?”
“Yeah, I guess. Throat’s kinda sore. Your fridgie and your AutoChef are both out of Pepsi.”
“Jamie must drink it by the truckload. Tell Summerset, then—”
She broke off when a small tornado burst into her office.
Mavis Freestone moved fast. The two-inch platforms on her purple gel-sandals didn’t seem to affect speed or balance. She zoomed into Eve’s office, a blur of purple, pink, and possibly puce, all mixed together in a micro-skirt and tit tube that almost covered the essentials. Her hair was in what appeared to be a half-million braids that echoed the color theme.
She spun to the desk, around it—the squishy gel on her feet making little sproinging sounds—and caught Eve in a headlock embrace that cut off all oxygen to the brain.
Eve managed to glug, slap on the arms that pressed on her windpipe.
“This is the best day! The most totally mag day ever invented. I love you, Dallas.”
“Then why are you trying to kill me?”
“Sorry, sorry.” But she squeezed again until Eve’s ears began to ring. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Can’t.” Freed, Eve coughed, rubbed at her throat. “Even if I were physically able I’m buried here. I’ll call you when I surface.”
“I have to. It’s important. It’s like vital. Please, please, please.” She bounced as she begged, and the virulent mix of colors on the move made Eve dizzy.
“Two minutes. Talk fast.”
“It’s private. Sorry, Peabody, but . . . please!”
“Peabody, go find Summerset, tell him to hunt up a cargo plane full of Pepsi.”
“Close the door, okay. Would you? Thanks.” Still bouncing, Mavis linked her hands, held them between her small, barely restrained breasts. Her fingers winked and glowed with rings. On her left arm some sort of coil snaked from wrist to elbow. Eve wondered if the impression of it would be permanently stamped on her throat.
“Make it fast, Mavis.” Eve scooped back her hair, gulped down coffee. “I’m really pressed. Weren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”
“FreeStar One. Olympus Resort. Did a week gig at the Apollo Casino. It rocked. I just got back this morning.”
“Good. Great.” Eve shifted her gaze to her screen, began to process the data in her head. “We’ll get together when I’m clear. You can tell me all about it.”
“I’m knocked up.”
“Fine. We’ll cover that. We can—” Her brain simply went on hold, as if someone had flicked a switch that shut down all the circuits. When it clicked back, there seemed to be some sort of blip blanking out basic reasoning functions.
“What did you say?”
“I’m knocked up.” Mavis let out a snorting laugh, then slapped her hands over her mouth. Her eyes, as purple as her shoes today, danced like a pair of chorus girls.
“You’re . . . You . . .” Stunned into stammering, Eve stared at Mavis’s bare midriff, at the trio of belly dangles that sparkled from her navel. “You got something growing in there?”
Her hands still over her mouth, Mavis nodded rapidly. “A baby.” The laugh spurted through her fingers. “I’ve got a baby in there. Is that the ult? Is that beyond the beyond? Feel!” She snagged Eve’s hand and pressed it to her belly.
“Oh, Jesus. Maybe I shouldn’t touch it.”
“It’s okay, it’s all padded and everything. What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Cautious, Eve slid her hand away, tucked it behind her back. Logically she knew pregnancy wasn’t contagious, but all the same. “What do you think? I mean, are you . . . did you . . . Damn, I’m not processing yet. Was this, like, an accident?”
“No. We did it on purpose.” She scooted her tiny butt onto the desk, swung her pretty legs so the gel sandals bumped and squished against the wood. “We’ve been trying to procreate for a while. Me and Leonardo are really good at the process. We didn’t have any luck at first, but you know, try, try again. We tried a lot,” she said on another wild giggle.
“Are you sure you’re not just drunk?”
“No, totally pregs.” She patted her belly. “Embryo’s in and cooking.”
“Oh, God, don’t say embryo.” For some reason the word in combination with the squishy sound of the gel made Eve queasy.
“Come on, we all started out as one.”
“Maybe. But I don’t like to think about it.”
“I’m like totally focused on it now. But wait, because I’m getting ahead of myself. Anyhow, when I was at Olympus, I got this feeling maybe I was baking—I was whooshing in the mornings and—”
“Okay, skip that part, too.” Definitely queasy now, Eve realized, and made a mental note to sterilize the hand that had pressed against Mavis’s bare belly.
“Right, so I took a preg test and it was positive. Then, you know, I got worried I’d messed it up because I wanted it so much, so I took three more. Liftoff.”
She pushed off the desk, whirled around the room. “Then I went to the clinic up there, just to be more sure. I didn’t want to say anything to my honeydew until I was abso-poso. I’m six weeks into the deal.”
“Six weeks.”
“We’d tapped out pretty regular, so I figured I was just feeling off at first and I was kind of afraid to do the check because you get so bummed when it’s a no-go. But when the whooshing kept up—oh, sorry. I just knew something was up last week. I just went to the clinic here. Just one more check, you know, do an on planet deal. System’s go. I went home and I told Leonardo. He cried.”
Eve caught herself rubbing a hand over her heart. “In a good way?”
“Oh yeah. He stopped everything and started right away designing—well not right away because we had to celebrate by re-enacting the conception program—but afterward he starting designing me preg clothes for when I get fat. I can’t wait. Can you imagine?”
“No. It’s something else that’s beyond my scope. You’re really happy?”
“Dallas, every morning when I wake up and puke, I’m so happy I could just . . .” She trailed off and burst into tears.
“Oh God. Oh jeez.” Eve sprang up, hurried over, then wasn’t quite sure what to do. She tried a hug, intending on keeping it light—just in case—but Mavis grabbed on hard.
“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, in my whole life. I had to tell Leonardo first, then you. Because you’re my best friend. We can tell everybody else now. I want to tell everybody. But I had to tell you first.”
“Okay, so you’re crying because you’re happy.”
“Yeah. It’s so iced. I can have mood swings whenever I want and without chemical assistance. No drinking, which sort of blows, but it’s not good for little Eve or Roarke.”
Eve pulled back so abruptly, Mavis almost doubled over with laughter. “We’re not really going to call the baby that. We’re just borrowing them for fun until they can tell us what equipment it’s got. You get to call those names for when you and Roarke—”
“Shut up. Don’t start down that road. I don’t want to hurt a pregnant woman.”
She only grinned. “We made a baby. Me and Leonardo made a baby. I’m going to be the best mommy, Dallas. I’m going to totally rock.”
“Yeah.” Eve ran her hand over the thick, colorful braids. “You will.”
Chapter 12
Eve was a lot steadier walking into a bar that smelled of cop than she was hugging a pregnant woman.
You knew what to expect at a cop bar—good, greasy food, alcohol without the frills, and people who made you for what you were the minute you walked in the door.
The lights were low. Conversations didn’t pause when she stepped inside, but she felt the subtle shifting of bodies. Then the flip back
to business as usual when they recognized her as one of their own.
She spotted Dwier at the end of the bar, already half-done with his first glass of beer and the shallow black bowl of pretzels in front of him.
She walked down, slid onto a stool beside him. It was apparent he’d staked a claim on it as every other seat in the joint was occupied.
“Detective Sergeant Dwier.” She held out a hand. “Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Metcha,” he said over his pretzels, then washed them down with a deep sip of beer.
“They spring you early from court?”
“Yeah. Supposed to get to me today. Didn’t. Now I gotta give them more time tomorrow. Fricking lawyers.”
“What’s the case?”
“Assault with deadly and theft.”
“Mugging?”
“Yeah. Guy mugs this suit coming out of a late meeting over on Lex. Gets his wrist piece, his wallet, wedding ring, and what all, then bashes him upside the head anyhow ’cause the guy asks him not to take the wedding ring. Got him cold hocking the wrist piece. Mope says, Oh hey, this? I found this on the street. Vic picks his face outta lineup, mope says, Mistaken identity. Got some bleeding heart PD who’s trying to push that. Claiming the vic, seeing as he got his brains rattled, can’t properly ID. Saying the wrist piece can’t be directly tied to the crime as it’s a common brand and style.”
“How’s it shaping up?”
“Shit.” He popped more pretzels, chomped down. “Waste of my time and the tax dollar. Mope’s got three priors. Figure they’d plead down if the PD wasn’t so green and stupid. You drinking?”
“Yeah, I’ll have a beer.” She signaled the bartender by holding up two fingers. “I appreciate you taking the time here, Dwier.”
“Don’t mind wasting it over a beer. You read the files. Data’s there.”
“Sometimes the files miss impressions.”
“You want my impression of Fitzhugh and George? They’d have to crawl up to reach scum level. Fitzhugh . . .” Dwier polished off the first beer. “Arrogant bastard. Never even broke a sweat when we hauled him in. Just sat there, smirking, hiding behind his high-dollar lawyers. Smart enough to keep his mouth shut, but you could see it in his eyes. He sat there thinking, You cops can’t touch me. Turned out he was right.”