Rapture in Death

"I gave your regrets to our guests," he told her and helped himself to another brandy. "I explained that you'd been called to duty suddenly. I had much sympathy on living with a cop."

"I tried to tell you it was a bad deal."

He only smiled, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "It placated Mavis. She's hoping you'll get in touch tomorrow."

"I will. I'll need to explain things. Did she ask about Barrow?"

"I told her he was… indisposed. Rather abruptly." He didn't touch her. He wanted to, but he wasn't quite ready. "You're hurting, Eve. I can see it."

"You pinch my nose again, and I'll flatten you. Feeney and I have a lot of work here, and I have to be sharp. I'm not fragile, Roarke." The message was in her eyes, asking him to put it aside. "Get used to it."

"Not yet." He put down his brandy, slipped his hands into his pockets. "I could help there," he said, inclining his head toward Feeney.

"It's police business. You're not authorized to touch that unit."

When he only shifted his eyes back to hers with some of the old humor in them, she let out a huge sigh. "It's up to Feeney," she snapped. "He outranks me, and if he wants your fingers in his pie, it's his deal. I don't want to know about it. I've got reports to put together."

She started out, irritation in every body line. "Eve." When she stopped and scowled over her shoulder at him, he shook his head. "Nothing." He lifted his shoulders, feeling helpless. "Nothing," he said again.

"Put it to bed, goddamn it. You're pissing me off." She stalked out, nearly making him smile.

"I love you, too," he murmured, then wandered toward Feeney. "What have we here?"

"Brings tears to my eyes, I swear it. It's beautiful, brilliant. I tell you the guy's a genius. Certified. Come here and take a look at this image board. Just look at it."

Roarke slipped off his jacket, hunkered down, and went to work.

She never went to bed. For once, Eve buried her prejudice and took her sanctioned dose of uppers. The Alert All cleared the drag of fatigue and most of the cobwebs from her brain. She used the shower off her office, broke down and wrapped an ice bandage over her sore knee, and told herself she'd deal with the bruises later.

It was six a.m. when she went back to the roof terrace. The console had been methodically taken apart. Wires, boards, chips, discs, drives, panels were arranged over the gleaming floor in what she could only assume were organized piles.

In his elegant silk shirt and tailored slacks, Roarke sat cross-legged among them, diligently entering data in a logbook. He'd tied his hair back, she noted, to keep it from falling over his face. And that face was intense, focused, the dark blue eyes ridiculously alert for the hour.

"I've got that," he muttered to Feeney. "Ru

A hand shot out, grabbed the logbook. "Yeah, this could do it. It could fucking do it. Suck my dick."

"Irishmen have such a way with words."

At Eve's dry tone, Feeney's head popped up. His hair stuck straight up, as if he'd shocked himself while fiddling with the electronics. His eyes were bright and wild. "Hey, Dallas. I think we just nailed it."

"What took you so long?"

"What a kidder." Feeney's head disappeared again.

Eve exchanged a long, sober study with Roarke. "Good morning, Lieutenant."

"You're not here," she said as she walked past him. "I don't see you here. What have you got, Feeney?"

"Got a lot of options on this baby," he began, and popped up again to settle in the molded chair of the console. "Lotsa doodads, and they are impressive. But the one we had to dig deep to find, under layers of some pretty hunky security, is the honey."

He ran his hands over the console again, stroking fingers over the smooth surface that now topped empty guts. "The designer would have made a hell of an E-detective. Most of the guys under me can't do what he can. Creativity, see." He wagged a finger at her. "It's not just formulas and boards. Creativity turns the corner into an open field. This guy's walked that field. He fucking owns it. And this is what he'd call his crowning glory."

He offered the logbook, knowing she'd scowl over the codes and components. "So?"

"It took some art to get down to that. He had it locked under his private pass, his voice pattern, his palm print. Some layers of fail safe, too. Nearly blew ourselves up about an hour ago, right, Roarke?"

Roarke rose and tucked his hands in his pockets. "I never doubted you for an instant, Captain."

"Like hell." In tune with his man, Feeney gri

"The feeling's nearly mutual."

"If you two have finished your little male bonding dance, would you care to explain what the hell I'm supposed to be looking at here?"

"It's a sca

"Testing?"

It was a procedure every cop dreaded, and one every cop faced whenever they were forced to set their weapon on maximum for termination.

"Even though every member of NYPSD's brain pattern is on record, a scan's taken during Testing. Search for damage, flaws, any abnormalities that might have contributed to the use of maximum force. That scan's compared with the last taken, then the subject is taken on a couple of VR rides that use the data downloaded from the scan. Nasty business."

Feeney had only faced it once and hoped never to go through the process again.

"And he's managed to duplicate or simulate that process?" Eve asked.

"I'd say he's improved on it on a couple of levels." Feeney gestured toward the stack of discs. "That's a lot of brain wave patterns. Shouldn't be too difficult to compare them with the victims' and identify."

Her pattern would be on one, she thought. Her mind, on disc. "Tidy," she said half to herself.

"Brilliant, really. And potentially deadly. Our boy's got some spiffy twists on mood sets. They're all tied into musical patterns, you know, notes and chords. He picks the tune, see, then enhances what you'd call the tone of it, to pump along the target's reaction, their state of mind say, their unconscious impulses."

"So he uses it to get into their head, deep. The subconscious."

"Got a lot of medical technology I'm not real familiar with, but I'd say that's about it. Heavy into sexual urges," Feeney added. "That's our boy's specialty. I've got a little more breakdown to do, but I'd say he could program the brain pattern, set the mood enhance, and give the target mind a nice hefty push."

"Off a ledge?" she demanded.

"That's tricky, Dallas. Where I'm at here is enhancement, suggestive shit. Sure, if somebody was leaning toward the ledge, thinking about going over, this might give them that last nudge. But to coerce a mind to act in a ma

"They jumped, choked, and bled to death," she reminded him impatiently. "Maybe we've all got suicidal urges buried in the subconscious. And this just brings them to the surface."

"You need Mira for that, not me. I'll keep digging." He smiled hopefully. "After breakfast?"

She forced down impatience. "After breakfast. I appreciate the long night, Feeney, and the quick work. But I needed the best."

"And you got it. The guy you decided to link yourself up with isn't half bad, either, as a tech. I'd make a decent E-man out of him if he'd give up the drudgery of his lifestyle."