Purity in Death (8 page)

"Yeah, yeah. Take it wrong enough, it's permanent. He's twenty-fucking-six years old. You know that?"

It curdled in her belly. "No. I guess I didn't."

"His parents are in Scotland. Spend most summers there. They were set to head back, but he talked them out of it. I think part of him's afraid to have them see him like this. Part of him's afraid he's not going to come all the way back."

"We let him think like that- wethink like that-we're not helping him."

"I know it. I keep seeing Halloway, the way he looked when he went down." He let out a deep breath. "I had to talk to his family, too. Didn't know what the hell to say to them. And the goddamn reporters, and my squad-my kids."

"Feeney. You've been through a bad one. It's different than when it happens in the field. You should talk to the department shrink." She winced at the look he shot her. "I know how that sounds coming from me, too. But, damn it, you were a hostage, you had a weapon jammed at your throat by one of your own men. You watched him die. If that hasn't screwed with your head, what would? So you should talk to the shrink or . . . Mira. If it were me, I'd go to Mira. She'd keep it off the record if you asked her."

"I don't want to open my head or spill my guts." His voice went tight, wrapped with bands of insult and temper. "I need to work."

"Okay." Recognizing the signs as she'd seen them often enough in her own mirror, she backed off. "We're going to have plenty. I'd as soon work from here for the time being, if it's okay with you. But the first order of business is to rig some sort of shield or filter on that unit. Nobody touches it until we have it shielded."

"From what? How are we supposed to design the right shield when we don't know what it's supposed to block?"

"That's a problem. I expect you and the expert consultant, civilian, you've already requested will figure out something."

He nearly smiled. "Thought that might burn you a little. But you know damn well he's the best."

"Then put him to work, and get me a shield." She got to her feet. It felt awkward, but it also felt right to cross over to his chair, crouch down until their eyes were level.

"Go home, Feeney. Have a beer, be with your wife. She's a cop's wife, but she's not going to feel easy till she sees you. And you're not going to feel steady until you see her. I need you on this. I need you steady."

There was a lot more said between them that didn't take words. "Kids today," he said at length, "think they know every damn thing."

His hand closed over hers, squeezed once. Then he got up, walked out. Went home.

She sat where he'd sat for a moment, laid her hands where his had laid. Then she got up, walked to her desk. Went back to work.

She brought up Cogburn's data, then Halloway's personal file. She was halfway through a search for any connections when her 'link beeped.

"Dallas."

"Got one you're going to want to see." Baxter's face filled most of the screen, but she could see the movements, hear the sounds of a crime scene behind him.

"I'm on a priority, Baxter. I can't take another case. Handle it."

"You're going to want this. Vic's a fifty-three-year-old male. First glance it looks like somebody got in, attacked him. But you look closer, he did all the damage in here himself. Including slitting his own throat."

"I don't have time for-"

"A lot of premortem bleeding. Ears and nose. And take a look at this."

He turned. She caught glimpses of a spacious room, thoroughly trashed. Then the desk unit that lay screen-up on the floor.

ABSOLUTE PURITY ACHIEVED

"Don't let anyone touch that unit. I'm on my way."

She was halfway out the door when she swore, strode back to the desk to hunt up a memo.

"Listen," she spoke into it as she crossed into Roarke's office. "I got tagged. Related death. I'll be back . . . when I get back. Sorry."

She tossed the memo on his console, then bolted.

***

Chadwick Fitzhugh had lived, and lived well, in a two-level condominium on the Upper East Side. His profession was, primarily, being the solitary male of the fourth-generation Fitzhughs, which meant he socialized smoothly, looked snappy in a dinner suit, played a mean game of polo, and could, if pressed, discuss stock options.

The family business was money, in all its many forms. And the Fitzhughs had plenty of it.

His hobbies were travel, fashion, gambling, and seducing young boys.

Baxter filled her in on the basic data while Eve studied the bloody mess that was now Chadwick Fitzhugh.

"Name popped on the data search. Known pedophile. Trolled the clubs, surfed the chat rooms," Baxter stated.

"He liked them between fourteen and sixteen. Pattern was to buy them alcohol, Zoner, whatever worked, lure them up here, with the promise of more. Then he'd pull out the toys. Into bondage. He'd do them, whether they were willing or not. Looks like he took vids if his homemade stash is any indication. Then he'd give them some cash, pat them on the head, and tell them if they squawked about it, they'd be in more trouble than he would."

Baxter looked down at the body. "Mostly they believed him."

"If we know this, have record of this, at least one of the kids squawked."

"Yeah, he got reported four times over the last two years." Baxter pulled out a pack of gum from the pocket of his on-duty suit, offered it. "In New York anyway," he continued while he and Eve chewed spearmint contemplatively. "Got charged. Family money and lots of high-dollar lawyers stepped in and made it all go away. Nothing stuck to this creep. World's a better place without him."

Eve grunted and fitting on microgoggles, examined the throat wound. It gaped like a wide, screaming mouth. "No visible hesitation marks."

"When you gotta go, you gotta go."

With a sealed finger, she turned Fitzhugh's head. His ear canal was thick with blood. "Surfed the chat rooms?"

"I got the statement here in the file from one of the complaints. That's how he roped this one kid anyway. Looked for young boys going through a sexual identity crisis, or those just playing around. Got a playpen upstairs. Room's done in black leather. You got your cuffs, your whips, your ball gags, butt plugs, and various mechanical devices. First-class vid setup."

He tucked his notebook away. "How it looked was he had some kid in here who went bonkers on him. Place is pretty smashed up, and he's got quite the potpourri of illegals around here. But security discs don't show anyone coming in here or going out for the last three days. Not even the dead guy."

"Who called it in?"

"Sister. Lives down on St. Thomas. Guess you've been to the islands plenty now," he added. "Blue water, white sand, mostly naked women. Wouldn't mind trading this heat for some of that."

He gave a wistful sigh, then crouched down beside Eve, careful to keep his cuffs out of the blood. "So anyway, bro here was supposed to fly down today. Big family party or some shit. Doesn't show, she gets worried, gives him a call. He answered-screaming at her, cursing, nose bleeding like a tap. She figured he was hurt, being attacked, and called it in."

"I'm going to need to talk to her, get a formal statement." With her hands braced on her thighs, Eve looked over at Baxter. "I have to take this one away from you."

"Yeah." He huffed out a breath, pushed to his feet. "Figured. Everybody knows what went down in EDD today." He looked around, frowned at the computer screen. "What the hell's going on?"

"I'm putting together a team to find out." She straightened. "You want in on that?"

He looked back at her. "I want in."

"Then you're in. I need copies of the security discs, Fitzhugh's file, sister's name and location. We talk to neighbors, family, known associates. See if we can determine when Fitzhugh got . . . infected." She scratched her head. "We need to review his personal vid collection."

"Oh yeah, that's my idea of a good time. Watching some creep pork little boys."

"Maybe one of those little boys has been playing with computer programs. This unit needs to be transported to my home office."

"We working this out of your digs?" He brightened immediately. "Solid."

"Nobody messes with it. No search, no scan. It gets shut down and stays shut down until I say otherwise. Same goes for any of the data centers in this place." She looked around. "We're going through this place top to bottom. See if he put anything on hard copy. He gets bagged, sent to Morris, with a red flag."

"Got it. Hey, where's your shadow?"

"My shadow?"

"The inestimable Peabody. She's looking pretty good these days."

"A knothole in an oak tree looks good to you, Baxter."

"Only after a very long, very hard day. How come you didn't bring her in on this?"

"She's in, she's just . . . She's with McNab."

His humor faded. "How's he doing?"

"He's okay. Awake, coherent, good attitude. He's . . ." She shoved her hands in her pockets. "He's having a little trouble with his right side."

"What do you mean, trouble?" But he knew. Every cop knew. "Ah, shit, Dallas. Goddamn it. Temporary, right? It's just temporary."

"Yeah, they're saying that."

They stood for a moment, in silence. "Let's get to work here," she ordered.

Chapter 7

She found Roarke in his office when she got home. Since it was there, she picked up the coffee at his elbow and drank it straight down like water.

"Dead pedophile. Slit his own throat. Went nuts first, broke up his own fancy apartment. Morris is going to find severe intercranial pressure. The Purity message was on his machine."

"Just the one unit?"

"I don't know yet. I'm having all of them sent here. I've got to find out how those units were compromised. How that causes a human brain to essentially blow up."

"You don't say you have to find out why."

"Purity," she said and sat. "Clean out the dirt and make absolute purity. The world would be better off without them," she said aloud, thinking of Baxter's comment.

"A vigilante group with superior tech knowledge." He nodded. "Halloway was simply a casualty of war. Both of your victims preyed on children."

"Yeah, they were scum, of a particularly disgusting sort."

"But they're your scum now."

"You got it. I'm going to need to go through the known victims of my victims. Kids who might have strong tech skills. More likely, family members who do. Could be we'll find somebody who had a kid messed with by both Cogburn and Fitzhugh."

"Chadwick Fitzhugh?" Roarke picked up his coffee mug, scowled into it, then strode to the AutoChef. "Slimy puddle of piss."

"Hey, just because I drank your coffee, that's no reason for calling me names."

"Fitzhugh. Bloody smug bastard, buggering young boys. Someone ought to've taken a knife to his throat long before this."

"I take it you knew him."

"Well enough to find him revolting in every possible way."

There was a different tone, a different look than when Baxter had described Fitzhugh. A far more dangerous one in that icy control, that musical lilt.

"His family's old money," Roarke continued. "Very uppercrust and pedigreed. Too fine to do business with the likes of me. Though they have done," he added as he turned back. His face was cold now. Warrior cold. "Until this sneaking badger's favored form of entertainment got out and about. Then it was me who wouldn't do business with them. Even a Dublin alley rat's got to have standards."

"Not doing business with him is one thing. And three cheers for you there. Killing him's another."

"Cut his own throat, didn't he?" He took a swig of coffee. "More fitting to my mind if he'd cut off his own balls first. But life isn't always willing to be poetical."

She went cold now, too. As cold as the ice that settled in the pit of her stomach. "No one has the right to stand in judgment, to pull on an executioner's hood without due process."

"There are times, Lieutenant, I'm not so fond of that line of the law as you are. In fact, have the coffee. I think I'll have a drink to toast buggering Fitzhugh's demise."

She rose when he went to a cabinet, opened it, and perused wine bottles in the rack. "If that's your stand, you can't help me on this."

"That's my stand." He selected a good cabernet. An exceptionally good one. "But it doesn't mean I can't and won't help you. Don't ask me to be sorry he's dead, and I won't ask you to be glad of it."

They'd been on opposite sides before, she thought. But this was opposite sides on very, very shaky ground. "Whatever he did, whatever he was, someone murdered him. It's no different from lynching a man or standing him against the wall and blasting him to pieces. The law determines guilt and punishment."

"We're not going to march in file on this one, Eve. And consider this: With all those fine words you've just spoken, aren't you standing there right now, judging me?"

"I don't know." But her belly was beginning to churn. "But I do know I don't want to get this messed up with a personal thing between us."

"We can agree on that." He spoke briskly, as if they were debating differing views on what color to paint the parlor. "I'll do whatever I can to help you find who or what is doing this. Let that be enough."

Watching him drink, she worried it wouldn't be enough. "Do you think murdering him was right?"

"I think it's right he's dead. Is that enough differentiation for you, Lieutenant?"

She didn't know, and felt the ground tremble under her feet. "I've got to put reports together for the morning briefing."

So, he thought, they'd leave it there. For now. "You might call Peabody up to help you. She could use a distraction."

"How's McNab?"

"Settled in. A bit sulky as Summerset put him on light food rather than the steak dinner of his dreams. His attitude's cheerful, but straining around the edges. There's no feeling yet."

"It can take up to twenty-four hours. Usually it's back within one to three, but it . . . Hell."

"We'll look into specialists if need be. There's a clinic in Switzerland that's had great success in this area."

She nodded. Here, she thought, was a man who believed murder was, given the right circumstances, a viable option. Or, at least, the result of it something worthy of a personal toast. And he could, would, take the time, use his own money without hesitation, to help a friend.

"I'll see if Peabody wants to put some hours in."

***

It was closing in on two a.m. when she sent Peabody off to bed, and thought about heading toward her own. The door between her office and Roarke's was closed now. And the light over it indicated he was still in there.

Working, she thought. Very likely carving away at business he'd had scheduled for the next day. So he could clear his time for her.

She paced back and forth in front of the door. She wished she could tap someone else. Wished she had another source with half his skill and half his resources she could call on so that they could avoid picking their way over this boggy ground of opposing beliefs.

Picking their way hell. Neither of them had the patience to walk daintily. Some things were bound to get crushed underfoot.

She couldn't afford to worry about it.

She rapped briskly, pushed open the door. "Sorry, just letting you know I'm turning in. Briefing's at nine."

"Mmm-hmm." He continued to study the data on his monitor. "Counteroffer, four point six million, USD. Firm. Terms, ten percent escrowed on verbal agreement, forty on signing, remainder at settlement. Acceptance by . . ." He glanced at his wrist unit. ". . . noon tomorrow, Eastern, or negotiations are ended. Transmit."

He swiveled away, smiled at her. "I'll be along shortly."

"What are you buying?"

"Oh, just a little villa in Tuscany with a rather nice vineyard that's been mismanaged."

"Sounds like a lot of dough for a little villa and a mismanaged vineyard."

"Don't worry, darling. We can still afford those new curtains for the kitchen."

"You know, I don't have to pretend an interest in the stuff you do if you're going to crack wise when I do."

His smile only widened. "You're absolutely right. How rude of me. Would you like to see the cost projections for the rehab? Then there's the vintner's report and the financials from the-"

"Bite me."

"Can I take a raincheck on that? I'd really like to finish this up. If things go well, I think we might be able to squeeze out the coin for a new parlor sofa as well."

"I'm going to bed before I spring a rib laughing at all your funny jokes. Nine, ace. Sharp."

She swung away, then cursed viciously as her desk 'link beeped. "What now?"

She stormed across the room, snarled into the 'link. "Dallas. What?"

"Always such a pleasure to see your cheerful face, Dallas." Nadine Furst, on-air reporter for Channel 75 fluttered her lashes.

"No comment, Nadine. No fucking comment. Go away."

"Hold it, hold it! Don't cut me off. First, just let me say my feelings are crushed that you didn't notice I wasn't around for the excitement today. I just got back in town twenty minutes ago."

"And you called me at two in the morning to let me know you're home safe and sound?"

"Second," Nadine said coolly. "When going through my mail, messages, deliveries that accumulated during my absence, I came across this." She held up a disc. "The contents are very, very hot, and, I think, of professional interest to you."

"Somebody sends you a sex vid, call Vice."

"It's from a group calling themselves The Purity Seekers."

"Don't use your computer," Eve snapped. "Shut it down now. Don't touch it. Don't run that disc again. I'm on my way."

"Listen-"

But she broke transmission and raced for the door.

"I'll drive." Roarke ran down the steps beside her. "Don't argue. I might be able to find something on her machine or on the disc."

"I wasn't going to argue. I was going to tell you to pick one of your faster toys."

***

They made it to Nadine's apartment in under eight minutes. "Give the disc to Roarke," Eve demanded the instant Nadine opened the door. "I'm taking you to the nearest health center."

"Just a minute, just a damn minute." She shoved at Eve when Eve grabbed her arm. "The disc isn't infected. They made that clear. Stop dragging me! They want media exposure. They want the public to know their purpose."

Eve pulled back, shut down the image of seeing a friend die screaming. "They want you to air the disc?"

"It's text only. They want me to report. That's what I do." Nadine huffed out a breath, rubbed her arm where Eve's fingers had dug in. "I guess I should appreciate you worrying about my health, but this is going to bruise."

"You'll live." And that was the point. "I need the disc."

Nadine arched one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows. Her attractive, foxy face was every bit as determined as Eve's. She was shorter than Eve, curvy, and no doubt softer. But when it came to a story she could do plenty of ass-kicking herself.

"You're not getting it."

"This is a homicide investigation."

"And it's a story. Freedom of the press, Dallas, you might have heard of it. The disc was mailed to me."

"I'll get a warrant to confiscate, and to dump your pretty ass in a cage if you withhold evidence and obstruct justice."

Nadine had to rise onto her toes to compensate for the difference in height, but she managed to push her face into Eve's.

"I'm not obstructing anything and you know it. I didn't have to contact you. I could have gone straight to air with this, so just shut down your thrusters, sister."

"Ladies. Ladies." Taking the risk all men fear, Roarke stepped between two snarling women. "Let's just take a deep breath. You both have valid points. It might settle things a bit if we took a look at the disc."

"There's no guarantee it's not infected. I can take it into quarantine."

"You know that's bull." Nadine shook back her streaky blonde mane of hair. "They've got no beef with me. They want what I can give them. Exposure to the public. If you'd read the text, you'll see exactly what I mean. Dallas, they've just gotten started."

"All right, let's take a look. And if we all start bleeding from the ears, hey, the joke's on us."

Nadine led the way through the living area into a large office space done in classy pastels and clean lines. She plopped down at a desk. "Run disc."

"I told you to shut the unit down."

"Just read the damn screen."

Dear Ms. Furst,

We are The Purity Seekers, and are contacting you due to our belief of your respect for the public welfare. We want to assure you that we admire your dedication to your work, and wish you no harm. This disc is clean. You have our word that no harm will come to you through us.

We seek only the purity of justice. A justice that is not, cannot always be served through the confines of law that too often is forced to ignore the victim and serve the criminal. Our police force, our courts, even our government often find their hands tied by the slippery rope of tangled laws designed to protect those who prey on the innocent.

We were formed, and are sworn to serve the innocent.

Some will find our means distressing. Some will find them frightening. No war can, or should be fought without distress or fear.

But most will find our means just and our ends a victory for all who have been lost in a system that no longer serves the common good.

By the time this message reaches you, the first execution will have taken place. Louis K. Cogburn was a blight on society, a man who corrupted and addicted our children. He hunted them on the playgrounds and the schoolyards and the parks of our city, luring those young and innocent bodies and minds with illegals.

He has been charged, he has been tried, he has been sentenced.

He has been executed.

Absolute Purity in the matter of Louis K. Cogburn has been achieved.

He was infected through a technology we have designed and developed. As his soul was blighted, so did we blight his brain, until death.

There is no danger to you, to the innocent, to
the public from this infection. We are not terrorists, but guardians who have vowed to serve our neighbors, whatever the cost.

Others have been tried, convicted, and sentenced. We will not stop seeking those who profit by and pleasure themselves on the grief and harm of others until Absolute Purity has been achieved in New York.

We ask you to inform the public of our message, of our goals, and to assure them that we work to protect and preserve the victim who the law cannot serve.

We hope to consider you our media liaison in this matter.

- The Purity Seekers.

"That's tidy, isn't it?" Eve commented. "Real tidy. They don't bother to mention Ralph Wooster, who got his brains bashed in, or Suzanne Cohen, who was beaten unconscious. No talk about a dead cop or one who may be paralyzed. Just how pure and true their goals are to serve the public. What are you going to do?"

"My job," Nadine told her.

"You're going to air this garbage."

"Yes, I'm going to air it. It's news, and it's my job to report the news."

"Nice bump to your ratings."

"I'm going to let that pass," Nadine said after a moment. "Because you've got a dead cop, and another-one I consider a friend-who's hurt. And I'm letting it pass because, yeah, this is going to be a nice bump to the ratings. You're here right now, reading this before I go on the air because I respect you, because you're someone else I consider a friend, and because I happen to believe justice doesn't have shortcuts. If you don't respect me and my purpose, then I've made a mistake."