Rapture in Death

"You're missing the big picture," he insisted. "Do you know what people would pay for this kind of capability? You can feel anything you want."

Eve opened the file Feeney had brought in. She tossed photos out, faceup. "What did they feel, Jess?" She pushed the morgue shots of four deaths at him. "What was the last thing you made them feel so that they killed themselves with smiles on their faces?"

He went white as death itself, eyes glazing before he managed to shut them. "No. No way. No." Doubling over, he retched out his health center breakfast.

"Let the record show the suspect is momentarily indisposed," Peabody said dryly. "Should I call for maintenance and a health aide, Lieutenant?"

"Christ, yes," Eve muttered as Jess continued to heave. "We'll break this interview at oh ten fifteen. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, record off."

"Great brain, weak stomach." Feeney went to the dispenser in the corner and poured a cup of water. "Here, boy, see if you can choke some of this down."

Jess's eyes watered. His stomach muscles were raw. Water sloshed in the cup so that Feeney had to guide it to his mouth. "You can't hang that on me," he managed. "You can't."

"We'll see about that." Eve stepped aside so that the incoming aide could cart him off to the infirmary. "I need some air," she muttered and walked out.

"Hold on, Dallas." Feeney hurried after her, leaving Peabody to direct maintenance and gather up the file. "We need to talk."

"My office is closer." She swore lightly as her knee throbbed. The ice bandage was wearing off and needed to be replaced. Her hip was murderous.

"Took a beating with that CEC hit yesterday, didn't you?" Feeney clucked sympathetically as she hobbled. "Been looked over yet?"

"Later. I've been pressed for time. Let's give the creep an hour to get his stomach back in place, then hit him again. He hasn't cried lawyer yet, but it's coming. Won't matter a damn once we match those brain patterns to the victims."

"That's the problem. Sit down," he advised when they stepped into her office. "Take a load off that leg."

"It's the knee, and sitting's making it stiffen up. What's the problem?" she asked and headed for the coffee.

"Nothing matches." He studied her mournfully when she turned. "Not one match in the whole lot. Plenty as yet unidentified, but I've got the prints on all victims, no autopsy scan on Devane, but I got the one from her last physical. There's no match, Dallas."

So she did sit, heavily. There was no need to ask if he was sure. Feeney was as thorough as a domestic droid searching for dust in corners. "Okay, he's got them someplace else. Did we get the warrant for his studio and quarters?"

"A team's going through it right now. I haven't gotten a report."

"He could have a lock box, some safe hole." She shut her eyes. "Shit, Feeney, why would he keep them when he was done with them? He's probably destroyed them. He's arrogant, but he's not stupid. They'd hang him and he'd know it."

"The possibility's high there. Then again, he could have kept them as souvenirs. It never fails to surprise me what people keep. That guy last year that cut up his wife? Kept her eyes, remember. In a damn music box."

"Yeah, I remember." Where had this headache come from? she wondered and rubbed uselessly at her temples to erase it. "So, maybe we'll get lucky. If we don't, we've got plenty now. And a good shot of breaking him."

"Here's the thing, Dallas." He sat on the edge of her desk, reached into his pocket for his bag of candied almonds. "It doesn't feel right."

"What do you mean, it doesn't feel right? We've got him cold."

"We've got him cold, all right. But not on murder." Thoughtfully, Feeney chewed a coated nut. "I can't resolve myself to it. The guy who designed that equipment is brilliant, twisted some sure, self-absorbed. The guy we just shook down is all of those things, and you can add childish. It is a game to him, one he wants to make a big profit on. But murder…"

"You're just in love with his console."

"That I am," he admitted without shame. "He's weak, Dallas, and not just his stomach. How's he going to make himself rich by killing people off?"

She arched a brow. "I guess you've never heard of murder for hire."

"That boy doesn't have the guts for it, or the steel." He ate another nut. "And where's the motive? Did he pick those people out of a hat? And there's this. What he's got requires proximity to tap the subconscious. You can't place him at any of the scenes."

"He said something about remote capabilities."

"Yeah, it had a fine one, but it wouldn't command this option. Not that I can figure."

She sat back, deflated. "You're not making my day here, Feeney."

"Just food for thought. If he's got a hand in it, he's got help. Or a more personal, portable unit."

"Could it be adjusted into VR goggles?"

The idea intrigued him, made his hangdog eyes gleam. "Can't say for sure. It'll take some time to work that out."

"I hope you've got the time. He's all I've got, Feeney. If I can't crack him, he's going to walk on the murders. Tucking him away for ten to twenty on what we've got doesn't do it for me." She huffed out a breath. "He'll go for a psych evaluation. He'll go for anything he thinks will buy him a shot. Maybe Mira can pin him."

"Send him over after the break," Feeney suggested. "Let her take him for a few hours, and do yourself a favor. Go home and get some sleep. You run on empty long enough, you drop."

"Maybe I will. I'll set it up, deal with Whitney. A couple hours off might clear my head. I must be missing something."

For once, Summerset wasn't hovering. Eve snuck in the house like a thief, limped her way upstairs. She left a trail of clothes on her way to the bed, and she sighed greedily when she fell on it.

Ten minutes later, she was on her back, staring at the ceiling. The aches were bad enough, she thought grumpily. But the stimulator she'd taken hours before hadn't worn off. It was passing, leaving her light-headed with fatigue, while her system still bubbled like a brew.

Sleep was not going to happen.

She found herself picking apart the pieces of the case, putting them back together. Each time the puzzle formed differently until it was a blurred jumble of facts and theories.

At this rate, she wouldn't be close to coherent when she met with Mira.

She considered indulging in a long, hot bath in lieu of sleep. Then, inspired, she popped up and grabbed a robe. She took the elevator, with the purpose of avoiding Summerset, and stepped up on the lower level into the garden path of the solarium. A session in the lagoon pool, she decided, was just the ticket.

She dumped the robe, padded naked to the dark water walled in genuine stone and framed with fragrant blooms. When she dipped a toe, she found it blissfully warm. She sat on the first step and set the control panel for jets and bubbles. As the water began to churn, she started to program music. With a quick grimace, she decided she wasn't in the mood for tunes.

She simply floated at first, grateful there was no one around to hear her whimpering as the pulsing water worked on her aches. She let herself breathe. Floral perfume. She let herself drift. Simple pleasures.

The conflict of fatigue and stimulation balanced out into relaxation. Drugs, she decided, were highly overrated. Water worked wonders. Turning over lazily, she began to swim, slowly at first while her muscles warmed and limbered. Then she put some kick into it, hoping to work off the excess of the stimulant and revive herself with natural exercise.

When the timer clicked and the water calmed, she continued with long, steady strokes, skimmed down to the glossy black bottom until she felt like an embryo in the womb, then broke the surface with a loud, satisfied groan.