And maybe he was just a fucking lunatic.
But the Urbans were an angle, yes they were. Mira’s profile had indicated he was mature, even nine years back. Male, likely Caucasian, she remembered, between the ages of thirty-five and sixty.
So go high-end, and yeah, he could’ve seen some of the wars as a young man.
She sat again and, adding in new speculations, ran probabilities.
While they ran, she plugged in the disc Summerset had brought in. “Computer, display results, wall screen two.”
Acknowledged. Working…
As they began to scroll, her jaw simply dropped. “Well, Jesus. Jesus.” There were hundreds of names. Maybe hundreds of hundreds.
She couldn’t complain that Summerset wasn’t efficient. The names were grouped according to where they worked, where they lived. Apparently, there were just one hell of a lot of women with brown hair between twenty-eight and thirty-three who worked in some capacity for Roarke Enterprises.
“Talk about a big, honking octopus.”
She was going to need a whole bunch of coffee.
R oarke’s private office was streamlined and spacious, with a dazzling view of the city through privacy screens. The wide U-shaped console commanded equipment as sophisticated and extensive as any the government could claim.
He should know, he held several government contracts.
And he knew, however artful the equipment, successful hacking depended on the operator’s skill. And patience.
He ran his own employee files first. However numerous they were, it was still a simple matter. As was the search he implemented to locate any male employees who worked or had worked for him who had traveled to the other murder locations or taken personal leave during that time frame.
As it ran he generated a list of major competitors. He would, subsequently, search through those companies he didn’t consider genuine competition. But he’d start at the top.
Any company, organization, or individual who was, in actuality, competitive would have-as he did-layers and layers of security on their internal files. And each would need to be peeled back with considerable care.
He sat at the console where the controls shimmered or flashed like jewels. His sleeves were pushed up, his hair tied back.
He started with companies with offices or interests in one or more of the locations.
And began to peel.
As he worked, he talked to himself, to the machines, to the layers that tried to foil him. As time passed, his curses became more Irish, his accent more pronounced, and layers melted away.
He took a break for coffee and to scan the results of his initial search.
He had no employee who fit all the requirements. But, he noted, there were some who’d been in at least two of the locations or on leave during the time of the murders.
They’d be worth a closer look.
He shifted back and forth between tasks, to keep himself sharp. He wormed his way through security blocks, picked his way through data. Ordered search, cross match, analysis so his equipment hummed in a dozen voices.
At some point he got up for yet another pot of coffee, and glanced at the time.
Four-sixteen a.m.
Cursing, he sat back, scrubbed his hands over his face. Hardly a wonder he was losing his edge. And Eve, he knew, would be asleep at her desk. If she’d decided to call it a night, she would have come by to check his progress first.
Instead, she’d work herself into the ground, and as he was doing exactly the same, he had no room to fight with her about it.
Nearly half-four, he thought. Gia Rossi might already be dead, or praying to all the gods death would come soon.
Roarke closed his eyes a moment, and though he knew the guilt was useless, let it run through him. He was too tired for the anger.
“Copy document C to disc, save all data. Ah, continue current run, copy and save when complete. Operator will be off-line.”
Acknowledged.
Before he left, he put in a call to Dublin.
“Good morning to you, Brian.”
His old mate’s wide face creased with a surprised smile. “Well now, if it isn’t the man himself. Which side of the pond would you be on?”
“The Yank side. It’s a bit early on your side of it for me to be calling a publican. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“You didn’t, no. I’m just having my tea. How is our Lieutenant Darling?”
“She’s well, thanks. Would you be alone there?”
“I would be, more’s the pity. I’ve no enchanting woman to warm the sheets with me at the moment, as you do.”
“I’m sorry for that. Brian, I’m looking for a torturer.”
“Is that so?” Only the mildest surprise showed in Brian’s eyes. “And are you too delicate these days to be after taking care of such matters yourself?”
“I was always too delicate for this, and so were you. He’s done over twenty women in the last decade, late twenties, early thirties, all of them. And all of them with brown hair, light skin. The last was found only yesterday. She worked for me.”
“Ah,” Brian said. “Well.”
“Another is missing-that’s part of his method-and she was mine as well.”
Brian sucked air through his nose. “Were you diddling with them, on the side, like?”
“No. He’d be older than we are, that’s how they’re profiling him. At least a decade older if not more. He’s very skilled. He travels. He must have enough of the ready to afford a place, a private place, to do this work. If he’s a professional, he takes this busman’s holiday every year or two. There’s no sex involved. No rape. He takes, binds, tortures, kills, cleanses. And he times how long each lasts under it.”
“I haven’t heard of anyone like this. Nasty business.” Brian pulled on his ear. “I can make some inquiries, tap a few shoulders.”
“I’d be grateful if you would.”
“I’ll be in touch if and when,” Brian told him. “Meanwhile, give Lieutenant Darling a sweet kiss from me, and tell her I’m only waiting for her to throw your worthless ass aside and come into my waiting embrace.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
After he’d ended the transmission, Roarke took the discs he’d generated and, with the machines still humming, left the office.
He found Eve where he’d expected to. Her head was on her desk, pillowed on her forearm. He noted the murder boards, the pair of them, the discs, the handwritten notes, the comp-generated ones.
The half cup of coffee, not quite cold-and the cat curled in her sleep chair.
He moved to Eve, lifted her out of the chair. She muttered some complaint, stirred, and shifted.
“What?”
“Bed,” he said as he carried her toward the elevator.
“Time is it? Jeez.” She rubbed at her eyes. “I must’ve conked.”
“Not for long, your coffee was still warm. We need to shut down, both of us.”
“Briefing at eight.” Her voice slurred with fatigue. “Need to be up by six. Need to organize first. I didn’t-”
“Fine, fine.” He stepped out of the elevator into the bedroom. “Go back to sleep, six will come soon enough.”
“You get anything?”
“Still running.” He set her on the bed, seeing no reason she couldn’t sleep in her sweats. Apparently neither did she as she crawled under the duvet as she was.
“Is there any data I can use? Anything I can work in?”
“We’ll see in the morning.” He stripped off his shirt, his pants, slid into bed with her.
“If there’s any-”
“Quiet.” He drew her against him, brushed her lips with his. “Sleep.”
He heard her sigh once-it might’ve been annoyance. But by the time the sigh was done, she was under.
7
IT WAS SO UNUSUAL FOR HIM NOT TO BE UP before her that Eve just stared into the Celtic blue eyes when he woke her by stroking her hair.
“You think of something?”
“Apparently, I inevitably think of something when I’m in bed with my wife.”