Purity in Death

CHAPTER NINE

Jamie was working hard to act cool. Everything he wanted in his life had fallen so unexpectedly into his lap he was terrified he'd do something to blow it away again. As far as Jamie was concerned electronics made the world go around. There was only one thing he wanted more than to work with them. That was to work with them as a cop.

Thanks to Roarke, he was getting that chance. Sort of. And on a homicide investigation that was baffling the premium ult cop.

It didn't get better.

Well, it would've been better if he'd had a badge and rank. But tech assist to the expert consultant was an air-boot in the door.

He was going to make it count.

He dug on working with Feeney, that was for sure. Uncle Feen was the total e-cop, with all kinds of stories about shit that went on before therewas an EDD.

And McNab was totally iced. He talked a lot of trash, but he knew his 'Ironies. Jamie thought he was pure hero stuff now that he'd been wounded in the line. Here he was half-frozen and pushing on with the job.

That's what cops did.

That's what Dallas did. Nothing stopped her. No matter what, she stood up. Like she had for his grandfather, and for Alice.

It still hurt, thinking about his sister. He knew his mother was never going to get over it, not all the way over it. Maybe you weren't supposed to.

Sometimes when he looked back to everything that had happened last fall, it was like a dream. Especially the end of it. All the smoke and the fire in that horrible room where that bastard Alban had taken Dallas after he'd drugged her.

Smoke and fire and blood, and the bitch Selina lying dead on the floor. Roarke and Alban fighting like wild dogs, and Dallas yelling at him to get the knife, get the knife to cut her loose from where Alban had strapped her naked to some kind of altar.

He'd cut the bonds, but he'd felt cold. Cold all over in spite of the smoke. And naked, still groggy from the drugs, Dallas had leaped right off the slab onto Alban's back.

Dreamy, it was all so weird and dreamy. He'd seen Roarke's fist fly up, knock Alban unconscious. He'd heard the sirens coming, he'd heard Roarke and Dallas talking-not words, just sounds. The fire crackling, the smoke stinging.

And the knife in his hand.

She'd shouted when she'd seen what he was going to do. But it was too late. She couldn't have stopped him. He couldn't have stopped himself.

The bastard who had killed his family was dead, and his blood hot on Jamie's hands.

He couldn't remember actually doing it. Not the moment, not the instant when he'd plunged the blade into Alban's heart. It was like some time blip, and he couldn't remember.

But it had happened. It hadn't been a dream. And Dallas had told Feeney and Peabody and the other cops who burst in that Alban had been killed during the struggle. She'd grabbed the ritual knife from him, put her own prints on the handle, and lied.

Because she'd stood for him, too.

"Jamie. Stay focused."

He blinked, blushed, and hunched his shoulders at Roarke's brisk order. "Yeah, sure. Right."

He was working on a virus simulation, his third since they'd started.

"These sims aren't going to generate hard data without results of a diagnostic on one of the infected units."

"So you've said, in a variety of ways, six or eight times already."

Jamie swiveled away from his workstation. Behind him Roarke worked on filter construction. He was doing most of the programming manually, with fast flicks and taps of his fingers. In Jamie's estimation, any e-man worth his chips had to be able to do manual as well as voice and should know when one method suited the job better than the other.

Roarke was the ultra mag e-man.

"It'd take me five minutes, tops, to run a diagnostic," Jamie continued.

"No."

"Give me ten and I can locate and isolate the virus."

"No."

"Without an identification on-"

He broke off when Roarke held up a hand and shut his mouth.

He finished the sim, input the resulting data, then started the next program. He let it run on auto as he got up to dig out a tube of Pepsi from the full-sized cooler.

"I'll have one of those," Roarke said without looking around.

Jamie pulled out a second tube. Across the room Feeney and McNab worked on filter analysis. Jamie had never been in a house that boasted its own fully equipped e-lab.

Then again, he'd never been in any other house like this one. What it didn't have, hadn't been invented.

The floor was a steel gray tile. The walls were a pale green and covered with screens. The light came from sky windows, a half a dozen of them, all tinted to cut the glare and heat that could play havoc with the equipment.

And that equipment was so cutting-edge, the edge hadn't even been cut yet. There were a full dozen data and communication centers, including one of the RX5000Ks that he'd seen tested in R and D. It wasn't scheduled for release for three months, maybe six. There were three VR stations, a sim tube, a holo unit, with d and c capabilities, and a global and interstellar search-and-scan navigator he was itching to get his hands on.

He glanced toward his own screen, checked the status of his sim run, then sat beside Roarke. He scanned the codes jammed end to end over the screen, calculated.

"If you filter out the sound, blank all frequencies, you won't get the ID or source."

"You've missed something. Look again." Roarke continued to work while Jamie rearranged the codes in his head.

"Okay, okay, but if you flipped this equation, see? And this command. Then-"

"Wait." Roarke's eyes narrowed as he read his own program, considered the direction of Jamie's suggestions.

The boy was good.

"That's better. Yes, that's better yet." He made the adjustments, and with them in mind began on the next series of commands.

"Roarke."

"There's no point in asking me again. Answer's still no."

"Just listen, okay? You always say a guy should be able to make his pitch."

"Nothing more irritating than having your own words tossed back at you." But he stopped, sat back, and took the tube of Pepsi. "Pitch then."

"Okay. Without a diagnostic, with direct data from one of the infected units, we're blind. You can come up with filters, with shields, but no matter how good they are you can't be a hundred percent that they'll shut out the virus. If itis a virus, which we don't know without a diagnostic."

"We'll be a great deal more certain of operator safety once we have shields in place. If it's a subliminal, which is the highest probability, using either visual or audio to infect, I've dealt with something similar before and am constructing a series of shields to filter it out."

"Yeah, but similar isn't a hundred percent. So you're still going to be playing odds."

"Son, playing odds is a kind of religion to me."

Jamie grinned, and because he wasn't being dismissed, dug in. "Okay, odds are good, given the log time Detective Halloway had in when he first showed symptoms-and factoring in how long the other bad guy dudes were on-that it takes a couple hours, maybe more to hit the danger zone. Logically, Halloway had the brain eruption faster because he had all this time on at once. Straight computime instead of on and off, tasking, surfing, whatever. And he wasin the unit, not just working on it."

"And you think I haven't factored that in?"

"If you have, you know I'm right."

"Probably right. Probably is a lot to risk dying for."

"You'd increase success rate if you used the first of the completed filters before going in." Jamie had to fight the urge to wiggle in his seat because he knew he was making progress. "Kept log time to under ten minutes. Ran a medical on the operator while he's on to catch any neurological changes. You got equipment in here that can be rigged to do that."

And Roarke had been considering doing just that after he'd gotten the boy, and the cops, out of the way.

But perhaps there was a more straightforward method to it all.

"Do you see where I'm going with this filter here?" he asked Jamie.

"Yeah, I got it."

"Finish it," Roarke ordered, then got up to make his pitch to Feeney.

McNab was all for it. Perhaps, Roarke thought, it was an easier matter for youth to gamble with mortality.

"We can do sims, analyses, probabilities for weeks and not have it wrapped," McNab insisted. "The answers are in the infected units, and the only way to get at them is to get at them."

"We haven't put a full day in yet." Feeney knew he was meant to be the voice of reason, but he was itching to tear into one of the infected units. "The more tests and sims we run, the better our chances."

"I'll have a filter-the best I think we can hope for under these conditions-ready to be interfaced within the hour." Roarke glanced back toward Jamie. "We can run sims with it first, bombard one of the units with viruses and subliminals, and see how it holds up. At that point, I'd say it'll be time for a calculated risk."

Feeney dragged out his bag of candied almonds. "The primary won't go for it."

"The primary," Roarke said, coolly dismissing the love of his life, "isn't an e-man."

"No, she sure as hell isn't. Never could get her to have any respect for technology. We finish the filter, run the sims. If it holds up, we go in."

"I'll operate," McNab said quickly.

"No, you won't."

"Captain-"

"You're already on partial medical. Results'd be skewed." It was bullshit, Feeney thought, but he'd be damned if he put McNab on the hot seat. He wasn't losing two men in two days.

"I should get to do it." Jamie swiveled around. "It was my idea."

Roarke barely spared him a glance. "Since we both have to answer to your mother, I won't even acknowledge that bit of stupidity."

"I don't see why-"

"Have you finished that programming, Jamie?" Roarke asked.

"No, but-"

"Finish it." He turned back to Feeney. "I'd say it's down to you and me."

"Just me. I'm the badge."

"An e-man's an e-man, badge or no. We can argue about that, the fact you've got a badge, the fact it's my equipment we're using here. But why don't we settle the matter like Irishmen?"

Both amusement and challenge lit Feeney's face. "You want to fight, or you want to drink?"

Roarke laughed. "I was thinking of the other manner of settling things. Gambling." Roarke dug a coin out of his pocket. "Heads or tails?" he asked. "You call."

Eve considered Chief Tibble a good cop, for a suit.

He was tough, he was honest, and he had a very strong bullshit sensor. He played the politics of his job better than most, and generally kept the mayor and other city officials off the backs of the rank and file.

But when murder came through an item everyone in the city-every voter in the city-owned, when the media was in high gear and one cop took another hostage in Central, the politicians were going to get their swings in.

Deputy Mayor Jenna Franco was known to swing hard.

Eve hadn't dealt with her personally before, but she'd seen her around City Hall or on-screen. She had the hard polish of a woman who knew it was essential to look her best while doing the job in an arena where votes were often swayed because a candidate was attractive.

She was a small woman who made up for it with snappy-looking three-inch heels. She was a curvy woman who took advantage of what nature or her body sculptor gave her with spiffily tailored suits in bold colors. Today's was power red and matched with a chunky gold necklace and earrings that looked as if they weighed five pounds each.

It made Eve's lobes throb just to look at them.

She looked more like some pampered society matron on her way to a ladies' luncheon than a hard-scrabble politician. And the opponents who'd come to that conclusion had been left in her dust.

That was something Eve could respect.

The fact Peachtree had sent her in his stead said he respected her as well.

With her was Lee Chang, the media liaison. He was short, slim, perfectly groomed in a gray pinstriped suit with his straight black hair slicked back.

He had Asian blood, an Oxford education, and an ability to juggle and spin the facts with expediency until it sounded true.

Eve had never liked him, and the feeling was completely mutual.

"Lieutenant," Tibble began, "we have a problem."

"Yes, sir."

"First, I understand Detective McNab is recuperating from his injuries at your home."

"Yes, sir. We have a medical supervising him-" Though she wasn't sure how she'd explain Summerset if pressed. "We felt he'd be more comfortable in familiar surroundings rather than the hospital."

"And his status this afternoon?"

"There's been no change at this time."

"I see." Tibble remained seated at his desk. "You'll keep this office informed in that area."

"Yes, sir."

"And the status of your investigation."

"I'm pursuing possible connections to the victims that may lead to the identity of members of the group calling themselves The Purity Seekers. Captain Feeney and his e-team are working on devising a shield so that the infected units can be examined and analyzed with reasonable safety. Medical and laboratory tests continue to be run on the victims in an attempt to ascertain the nature and cause of the brain damage that resulted in their deaths."

"'Reasonable safety.'"Jenna Franco lifted a hand-not like someone asking permission to speak, but as one accustomed to being heard. "What, precisely, does that mean?"

"I'm not an e-man, Ms. Franco. That leg of this investigation is in Captain Feeney's hands. All efforts are concentrated on devising a shield for maximum safety to the operator."

"Lieutenant, we can't have another New York City police officer implode, and potentially kill or injure fellow officers or civilians. I can't go back to the mayor or the media with the term 'reasonable safety.'"

"Ms. Franco, police officers go on shift every morning with no more than reasonable safety."

"They don't usually fire on their squad room and take their commanding officer hostage."

"No, ma'am, and Detective Halloway's commanding officer is in charge of the team who is working with all possible speed to ensure that doesn't reoccur."

"If I may." Chang's hands remained neatly folded; his face continued to hold a warm and pleasant expression. "It could be said that the police are utilizing all resources in this investigation to identify the source of the alleged electronic infection. The media will, of course, consult electronic experts to help them formulate their questions and to generate discussion and debate on-screen. We will, naturally, do the same."

"And when we discuss and debate on-screen," Eve said tightly, "we give this terrorist group exactly what they want. Attention, screen time. Legitimacy."

"The discussion and debate and questions will take place regardless," Chang told her. "It's essential that we control the tone."

"What's essential is that Purity be stopped."

"That, Lieutenant, we can happily agree is your job, not mine."

"Lieutenant." Whitney didn't raise his voice, but the steel tone of command in it stopped whatever comment Eve was about to make. "The media machine is already rolling. We get on board, or it runs us down."

"Understood, Commander. My team and I will follow the departmental directives for media contact. We'll adhere to the official statement."

"That's not going to be enough," Franco put in. "You're a high-profile cop, Lieutenant, on a high-profile case. The head of EDD and another of your team members were directly involved in the debacle at Central yesterday."

"Deputy Mayor Franco, my lieutenant put her life on the line to defuse that situation."

"Exactly my point, Commander. And due to her key involvement, the public interest in her personal and professional life, we need her on-screen as often as can be managed."

"No."

"Lieutenant."

She forced herself to speak calmly when she turned at Tibble's voice. "No, sir, I will not take my time and energies away from an investigation to play department mouthpiece. I will not play a part in giving a group responsible for the death of a fellow officer and the possible paralysis of another the attention they seek. I should be out in the field now, not standing here debating the ramifications of the term 'reasonable safety.'"

"You've used the media when it's suited you, Lieutenant Dallas."

"Yes, sir. And when I have I've done so using my own words, not spouting off scripted pap. And my personal life is just that, and has nothing to do with this investigation."

"The expert civilian consultant on your team has a great deal to do with your personal life. Lieutenant," Tibble continued, "I sympathize with your position, and with your desire for privacy. But if we don't play this game well, Purity will not only get their media attention, but will continue to build support. Mr. Chang has the results of polls."

"Polls?" Eve couldn't keep the furious disgust out of her voice. "We took polls?"

"Two of the media services had polls generated before eleven this morning." Chang took a memo book from his pocket. "The mayor's office conducted its own, for internal purposes. When asked if they considered the group known as The Purity Seekers to be a terrorist organization, fifty-eight percent of the respondents saidno. When asked if they were concerned for their personal safety, forty-three percent respondedyes. Naturally, we would like to see both those numbers decrease."

"You amaze me," Eve murmured.

"The facts are these," Tibble said. "A strong majority of the public perceive this group exactly as they wish to be perceived. Additional polls show little to no sympathy for Cogburn and Fitzhugh, nor regret for the manner of their deaths. It's neither possible nor politically prudent to attempt to generate sympathy for those individuals. The system is what must be defended."

"And the system must have a face," Chang added. "It must be personalized."

"This is a fine line, Lieutenant," Tibble continued. "If this group is publicly damned with the wrong tone, there could be a panic. Businesses shutting down in fear of using their electronics. Individuals afraid to turn on their data centers. People flooding into health centers and emergency centers because they have a headache or a damn nosebleed."

"We need people and industry to remain calm and secure," Franco put in. "It's essential we show that we're controlling this situation."

"Purity hasn't, thus far, targeted anyone outside a specific profile," Eve began.

"Precisely." Franco nodded. "And that, Lieutenant Dallas, is the key message the mayor, all of us, want to send. The family in the downtown loft has no cause for alarm. The midtown cafe can continue business as usual. Purity's agenda does not include them."

"So far."

Franco's eyebrows lifted. "Do you have reason to believe otherwise?"

"I have reason to believe vigilantes grow to like their work. That power, unchecked, will corrupt its own agenda. That violence, given impunity and approval, breeds more."

"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."