Purity in Death

CHAPTER TWELVE

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. Pricking 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."

"You talked to the vics, to their parents?"

"Yeah." He blew out a breath. "It was tough. Sex crimes are always dicey, but when it's minors… You know how it is?"

"Yeah." She'd been a minor. And when she'd been in that hospital bed, broken, she'd read in the eyes of the cop who'd tried to talk to her what she was reading in Dwier's now. A weary pity.

"Any of the family members strike you as the type to go after Fitzhugh? Anyone talk about seeking revenge outside the law?"

"You blame them?"

"This isn't about my personal feelings or yours, it's about an investigation. Fitzhugh was executed, so was George, so were the others. It's my job to find out who's pulling the switch."

"I wouldn't want your job." He snagged the second beer. "Nobody who worked the Fitzhugh case, or the George, is going to cry any tears over this."

"I'm not asking for tears, I'm asking for information. I'm asking a fellow officer to reach out."

He brooded into the beer, then took the first foamy sip. "I can't say as any of the vics or family members acted in any way you wouldn't expect. Most of these people were shattered. Kids he raped ran the gamut from embarrassed, scared, and guilty. Family that came in, filed the complaint, was torn to pieces. Kid was shaking in his socks. But they wanted to do the right thing. They wanted him put away so he couldn't get his hands on the next kid."

"Can you give me a name?"

His gaze shifted to hers. There was no pity in it now. "Names are sealed. You know that."

"Child Services put a TRO on my warrant to open the sealeds. I've got a terrorist organization with technology superior to anything my experts have seen executing at will. There are connections between the victims, and I think one of those connections is their victims."

"I'm not giving you names. And I'll tell you straight, I hope they squash your warrant. I don't want to see those people pulled through this crap again. You've got a job to do, and word is you're good at it. I can't give you more help than I have. I appreciate the beer."

"Okay." She stood up, pulled out credits. "Do you know Clarissa Price at Children's Services?"

"Sure." Dwier reached for more pretzels. "She repped some of the vics from these cases. If you're thinking of finessing names from her, you're wasting your time. She won't shake."

"Dedicated type?"

"You bet."

"Dedicated enough to go outside the system if she doesn't like how it's working?"

His eyes stayed flat. "If I had to say, I'd say she's by-the-book. Not everybody always likes the way it reads, but it's the book. Until a better one gets written anyway. Let me ask you something."

"Sure."

"Murder cops are different. Anybody on the job knows that. But doesn't it stick in your craw to be working for scum like this?"

"I don't pick the dead I stand for, Dwier. They pick me. Good luck in court tomorrow."

She walked out, then simply sat in her vehicle. There was quite a bit sticking in her craw, she thought. The latest was her instincts telling her that a man who'd been a pretty good cop had crossed a line along the way.

If Dwier wasn't already a member of Purity, he was a prime candidate for application.

When Eve walked back into the house, Mira was coming down the stairs.

"Eve. I thought I'd miss you."

"Did we have a consult scheduled?"

"No, though I did drop off the profile you'd wanted." Mira stopped at the base of the steps, one pretty hand on the gleaming wood of the banister. Her warm brown hair was a soft wave around a soft, feminine face. Her mouth was a pale creamy rose, her eyes a clear summer blue.

Her suit had a fluid drape and was the color of sunflowers. It was, Eve supposed, stylish in some classic sense, and was matched with Mira's favored pearls.

She looked perfect, essentially female, utterly comforting. And was one of the top criminal profilers in the country as well as the psychiatric specialist attached to the NYPSD.

"Thanks, but you didn't have to go out of your way."

"I was coming by anyway. I wanted to see McNab."

"Oh." Instantly Eve's hands sought her pockets. "Well."

"I wonder if I might speak with you for a few minutes. There's that lovely garden terrace off the parlor. I'd love to sit outside."

"Ah." Eve's mind strained toward her office, toward her work. "Sure. Fine."

"Would you care for some refreshment, Doctor?" Summerset lurked at the edge of the foyer. "Some tea? Perhaps some wine."

"Thank you. I'd love a glass of wine."

Before she could comment, Mira slid an arm through Eve's and walked toward the parlor. "I know you have work. I promise not to keep you long. You've had a difficult day. The media conference couldn't have been pleasant for you."

"That's a master understatement." Eve opened the terrace doors, stepped out.

Like everything of Roarke's, the spot was beautifully planned and executed.

The terrace itself was constructed of stones, various shapes, sizes, tones all smoothed into a fluid curve that blended into garden paths. There were two glass and iron tables set among pots where flowers flooded or dwarf trees speared. Beyond the curve, gardens exploded with summer.

The evening sun spilled pale gold onto the stones and through a trellis wild with vines and vivid blue blossoms.

"Such a charming spot." Mira took a seat at one of the tables. Sighed. "I'm afraid I'd find myself sitting out here every chance I got, daydreaming." She smiled. "Do you ever daydream, Eve?"

"I guess." She sat, wondered if she should read Dwier's file again. "Not so much, really."

"You should. It's good for you. When I was a girl, I used to curl up on the window seat in my father's library. I could dream away an afternoon if left to myself. He's a teacher. Did I ever tell you that? He met my mother when he sliced his hand cutting tomatoes for a sandwich. He's always been a bit clumsy. She was a young resident, doing her ER rotation. And he hit on her."

She laughed a little, lifted her face to the sun. The heat baked through her skin, into her bones. "So odd to think of that. And sweet. They're both semiretired now. They live in Connecticut with their ancient dog Spike and have a little vegetable garden so they can raise tomatoes."

"That's nice." And it was. It was also baffling.

"You're wondering why I'm telling you all this. Thank you, Summerset," she said when he set two glasses of wine and a small tray of canapes on the table. "How lovely."

"Enjoy. Just let me know if I can bring you anything else."

"No particular reason," she said to Eve when Summerset went back in the house. "I suppose the tranquility of this spot made me think of them, appreciate them. Not everyone has such a steady, undemanding childhood."

"I don't have time for a session," Eve began, but Mira covered her hand.

"I wasn't speaking only of you. The children who were damaged by these people will have a great deal to overcome. You understand that."

"And I'd understand killing what hurts you?"

"This is a different matter, and I wondered if you'd been able to separate it. What you did was done in pain and fear and immediacy. To protect yourself, to save yourself. What's being done here is cold, calculating, thorough. It's organized and it's pompous, for lack of a better word. This isn't self-defense. It's arrogance."

The tension in Eve's shoulders eased. "I was beginning to wonder if anyone else saw it. Starting to wonder if I was drawing a hard line on this because if I didn't, it made what happened with me the same."

"You killed to live. This group is living to kill."

"I'd like to see that on a goddamn media release." Eve lifted her glass, drank.

"Whoever formed the group, whoever holds the top position of authority, is intelligent, organized, and persuasive. Others would have to be brought in, recruited for the highly specialized technical positions. They understand the power of the media. They need public support."

"They're beating that drum pretty good."

"Yes, so far. I don't think this infection used to terminate is a coincidence. It's another symbol. Our children have been infected by these monsters. Now we infect them because the law could not, would not. The use of the wordguardian, another symbol. We'll protect you. You're safe now that we're here."

"How long before they expand their horizons?"

"Unchecked?" Mira picked up a small disc of bread and creamy cheese. "Groups tend to evolve. Successful groups tend to seek out other ways to use their skills and their influence. The child predator today, the acquitted killer tomorrow. The street thief, the chemi-head. If New York is to be pure, these infections must be eliminated."

"I think at least one cop's involved. A social worker. Some of the families the victim's messed with."

Mira nodded as if she'd expected nothing else. "Look for people with connections to your victims who hold high-level skills. Neurology, computer science, physics, sociology, psychiatry. And look for wealth. The research and equipment needed here would require heavy funding. You can expect another death and another statement very soon. They need to keep this story in the forefront. Purity is on a mission, Eve, and it's using our children to drive it."

"They'll have to put a spin on what happened with Halloway-with Feeney and McNab."

"Yes." Mira watched a hummingbird, iridescent as a jewel, dart in for a blossom with a blur of wings. "I'm sure it will be very well-written."

Eve ran her glass in small circles on the tabletop. "Roarke and I have gone around on this some. We're close to the same line, I guess, but not quite on the same side of it."

"I'd say that was a good thing."

Surprised, Eve looked up. "How?"

"You're not the same person, Eve, nor would either of you want to be. Seeing this from two sides would, I'd think, help keep you both honest. And interested."

"Maybe. We pissed each other off."

"Another part of marriage."

"It's a damn big slice of ours." But her shoulders relaxed a little. "Keep each other honest," she murmured. "Maybe. So… Did you talk to Feeney?"

"He isn't ready. He's handling himself well. The work heals him, as it does you."

"What about McNab?"

"I can't tell you specifics about what we discussed. It's confidential."

"Okay." Eve stared at the tangled vines and bold blue flowers. "Can you tell me… do you think I should cut him loose from duty on this? Roarke can get him into this Swiss clinic, one that specializes in this sort of injury, next week, but in the meantime, maybe he shouldn't be on the job. Maybe he should be with his family or something."

"He is with his family. By keeping him on the team, by continuing to value his input, his resources, you're helping him to cope. What you're doing for him right now is helping a great deal more than anything I can do. Roarke's made arrangements with the Jonas-Ludworg Clinic? How typical of him."

"It's a good place, right?"

"There is none better."

"Okay." She pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead. "That's good."

"You've had a lousy day, haven't you?"

"Oh, yeah."

"I hope some better news comes along."

"I got some news anyway." She dropped her hands. "Mavis is knocked up."

"Oh my God. Mavis was attacked?"

"No, it was Leonardo."

Mira clutched a hand to her breast. Shock radiated onto her face. "Leonardo? Leonardobeat Mavis?"

"Beat her? No, he banged her. You know, knocked her up." Confused, Eve shook her head, then began to laugh as the light dawned. "Sperm meets egg," she managed as she had her first genuine laugh of the day. "She's pregnant."

"Pregnant? Mavis is pregnant? Knocked up. Lord, I'd forgotten that term. Thisis news. Are they pleased?"

"Circling Pluto. He's already designing her fat clothes."

"Oh my. Won't that be a sight to see. When is she due?"

"Due for what? Oh, right. She said she should pop by March. She's writing a song about it. Knocked Up By Love."

"Sounds like another hit. They'll make wonderful and unique parents. How do you feel about it? Aunt Eve?"

There was a jolt, dead center of the belly. "I feel like if anybody calls me that, I'll have to hurt them. Even you."

With a laugh, Mira sat back. "This will all be fascinating to watch. If you speak with Mavis again before I do, be sure to give her my love and congratulations."

"Sure. No problem." Eve snuck another look at her wrist unit.

"And I can see you're anxious to get back to work. Would you mind if I just sat here a while longer, finished my wine?"

"No, go ahead. I've really got to get back to it."

"Good luck." When Eve went in, Mira sipped her wine, looked at the flowers and the bright, bright bird. And daydreamed a little.

Eve stopped by the lab first, then just backed out again. There was some discussion, debate, or argument going on in the sort of tech jargon that invariably gave her a headache.

Deciding they'd let her know something when they had something to let her know, she swung into the room Baxter was using as an office.

"What's the word?"

"I've got many names connected to one or more of the vics that are in the system. Cops, lawyers, Child Services, medicals, the handful of complainants that weren't sealed. Broke that down to names that popped on at least two of the vics and ran those. Just zipped the data to your unit. Our pal Nadine Furst covered the George trial. That putz Chang's down as media liaison."

"I guess that figures." She sat on the edge of his desk. "What's your gut?"

"That if we've got any family members involved, and we do, they're in the sealeds. You're stewing about it; you're carrying wounds over it; you want your privacy."

"Yeah, that's mine, too. And if you're going to talk to anyone about it, about what you're carrying, it's going to be somebody who was there with you. Somebody who knows and stood for you and yours."

"You're looking at Clarissa Price."

"And looking hard. You know anything about DS Dwier, out of the Sixteenth?"

"Nothing I didn't read in his file when he popped. Want me to ask around?"

"Yeah, quietly." She hesitated. "Does it bother you?"

"Looking at another badge?" Baxter puffed out his lean cheeks. "Yeah, some. It's supposed to bother us. Otherwise, we'd all be IAB, wouldn't we?"

"There you go. You can bend the line. You can even move it a little sometimes. But you can't break it. Break it, and you're not us anymore. You're them. Dwier broke it, Baxter. That's my gut."

She pushed off the desk, walked around the room. "You've used Trueheart a few times, right?"

"A couple. Good kid. Fresh as a daisy yet, but eager."

"If I brought him in on this, would you use him?"

"I've got no problem dumping some…" He sat back, cleared his throat. "You asking me to train him?"

"No, just… okay, yes. Sort of. You're second grade, so you qualify, and he could use somebody to work him, rub some of the dew off him without dulling the shine. Interested?"

"Maybe. I'll take him on this one-contingency. We'll see how we fit."

"Good." She started for the door, then stopped. "Baxter, why'd you transfer in from AntiCrime?"

"Couldn't get close enough to you, honey." He winked suggestively, and when she just stared blandly, shrugged. "Got restless. Wanted Homicide. Never a dull moment."

"You can say that again."

"Never a-"

"You're such a jerk," she replied. And turning ran straight into Roarke.

The man could move like a ghost.

"Sorry to break up this tender moment," he began. "But we've got a second shield ready. We're about to run it with one of the Fitzhugh units."

"Who won the coin toss?"

He smiled. "It was agreed, after some debate, that the initial operator would continue in that function. Do you want to observe from in here, or your office?"

"We'll use mine. It's bigger." She closed a hand over his wrist. "No heroics."

"I'd never qualify for hero status."

"I order a shutdown, you shut down." Her hand slipped down until their fingers linked. "You got that?"

"Loud and clear. You're in charge, Lieutenant."

Eve drank coffee because she wanted something to do with her hands. Feeney sat at her desk, manning a secondary unit they'd brought in as a control. If something went wrong in the lab, he could crash the system remotely.

Jamie hovered over him, so close they looked like one body with two heads.

"Why can't we do the whole thing remote?" Eve asked.

"You lose operator instinct," McNab told her. "You got him right there, at the infected unit. He can make judgment calls in a blink."

"Besides-ow." Jamie rubbed his belly where Feeney's elbow had landed.

"Besides what?" Eve demanded. "Don't pull this e-solidarity crap with me. McNab?"

"Okay, okay, in simple terms we can't be sure the shield will filter out the infection during an interface. It could, probably would, spread from one unit to another. We figure that's how it pumped into the eight units we hauled out of Fitzhugh's place. Infect one, infect all. Efficient, time-saving, and thorough. So if we try a remote, it could leak into the other unit, potentially through the whole system."

"We need more data to confirm," Jamie piped up. "Then we'll create a shield to handle that area. Priority was shielding the operator while he extracts the data. When you're dealing with a remote, and a multisystem network, the units have a language. They, like, talk to each other, right? The infected unit's got a different language, compatible, but different. Like, I dunno, Spanish and Portuguese or something."

"Okay." Eve nodded. "I get that. Keep going."

"Me and McNab, we're working on what you could call a translation deal. Then we can zap it in, run sims. We'll shield the whole system. We figure we'll be able to link to CompuGuard and shield the whole damn city."

"Getting ahead of yourself, Jamie. One thing at a time." Feeney glanced up at the wall screen where they could see Roarke attaching the sensors.

"Gonna run your medicals. You copy?"

"Yes."

"Medicals normal. You're good to go."

"Booting."

Eve never took her attention away from the screen. Roarke had tied his hair back as he often did when he was working. And his shirt was carelessly open. His hands were quick and steady as he slid the disc into its slot.

"Loading the filter. Estimate seventy-two seconds to upload on this unit. Loading Jamie's code breaker. Forty-five. Running diagnostic from point of last attempt. Multitasking with search and scan for any programs loaded within the last two weeks."

He was working manually, with those quick and steady hands, relaying his intentions in a voice that was brisk and cool, and beautiful.

"Disc and hard copy of data requested, as accessed. Upload complete. We're shielded. There now, Jamie. Fine job. Data's coming up readable. Here now, what's this? You see the data on monitor, Feeney?"

"Yeah, yeah, wait.Hmmm."

"What?" Eve shook McNab's good shoulder. "What are they talking about?"

"Ssh!" Such was his concentration, he didn't notice her jaw drop at his command as he drove his chair closer to the screen. "That is so total." Forgetting himself, he started to push himself up. And his dead hand slid off the arm of the chair.

For a moment, he simply froze, and Eve's throat filled at the look of shocked panic on his face. Then he adjusted the chair smoothly, bringing it to a different position so he was higher and straighter, with a better view of the monitor.

The room was full of jargon again, rapid questions, comments, observations as foreign to her as Greek.

"Somebody speak in English, damn it."

"It's bloody brilliant. I shouldn't have missed this on the first pass." Roarke reached over to another control, keyed in commands by feel. "Ah, bugger it. She's trying to fail-safe. Not yet, you bitch, I'm not done with you."

"Shield's breaking up," Feeney warned him.

"Shut down," Eve ordered. "Shut it down."

"It's still at ninety percent. Hold your jets there, Lieutenant."

Before she could repeat the order, Feeney interrupted. "He's all right yet, Dallas. Medicals are holding. Son of a bitch's pulse barely shows a blip. He must run on ice. Roarke, go to shell. Try the-"

"I'm in the flaming shell." His voice was a mutter, and Irish now as a shamrock. "And I've already tried that. Clever bastard. Look here, look at this. It's voice printed. Can't override manually. Fuck it, there she goes."

Eve saw his monitor erupt with jags of black and white. He flipped out data discs an instant before a nasty grinding sound came through the speakers, and a small, gray plume of smoke puffed out of the back of the machine.

"Toasted," Jamie said.