She happened to agree.
So, the murders could have been a cleanup operation. If Bissel and Kade had turned, and McCoy unwittingly knew too much, all three might have been terminated to protect some global security project. The Code Red was the obvious linchpin. The data units had been corrupted. What data needed to be eliminated? Or was the use of the worm simply a ploy to point toward the techno-terrorists?
The Doomsday Group. Assassinations, terminations, large- and small-scale destruction and loss of life through technological sabotage were their reasons for being. Kade and Bissel could have been playing both ends, or on assignment to infiltrate. They could have been targeted by the terrorists, taken out, and McCoy treated as collateral damage.
But then why weren’t they taking credit? Media play with a lot of bloody fist-pumping and skewed messages were a big part of the program for any terrorist group. There’d been enough time for an acknowledgment to have been leaked to the mainstream press.
In either case, why the frame on Ewing? Why-if either organization for reasons of its own wanted to keep the lid on the terminations-go to so much time and trouble to implicate Reva Ewing?
To slow, hamper, or eliminate her work on the extermination program, and utilize whatever data Bissel had gathered from his devices to create one first, in the HSO’s case, or to reformulate the worm to override the extermination, in Doomsday’s case.
Possible, and she wouldn’t close those doors. She’d run probabilities and give them a push.
But with either of those scenarios she still had Carter Bissel floating around like a goddamn dust mote. Had Kade recruited him with or without HSO sanction? With or without Blair Bissel’s knowledge?
And where the hell was he?
She tried to bring a picture of him into her mind, but it was blurry and kept dissolving in all the melting colors that swirled lazily in her brain.
She’d stopped hearing Mavis’s and Trina’s birdlike chatter at the edge of her focus, so there was only the gentle whoosh, like a heartbeat inside a womb.
Even as she realized the relaxation program had been reactivated, she sank under it.
In Roarke’s home computer lab, Feeney sat back at his station and pressed the heels of his hands hard against his aching eyes.
“You ought to take something for that eye-strain headache,” Roarke commented. “Before it blows on you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Feeney puffed air into his cheeks, let it out. “Don’t do as much geek work as I used to.” He studied the unit currently laid out in sections and small bits over his counter. “Got spoiled handing this sort of detail over to one of my young guns.”
He glanced over at Roarke’s station and was somewhat mollified to see the civilian’s progress was as slow and exacting as his own. “You got an estimate on when we might have one of these up and running again-working like this, just the two of us?”
“I figure sometime in the next decade if we’re lucky, into the fourth millennium if we’re not. This bitch is toasted.” Roarke shoved back, scowled at the burned-out guts of his current project. “We can replace, repair, reconfigure, and beat it with a hammer. We’ll retrieve data. I’m annoyed enough at the moment to make it my bloody life’s work. But Christ knows we could do it all faster and easier with a few more hands and brain cells. McNab’s good. He’s got the hands and the geek quotient to keep him at something like this for hours on end, but he won’t be enough.”
They sat in brooding silence for a moment, then eyed each other.
“You talk to her,” Roarke said.
“Oh no, I’m not married to her.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“It’s your setup here.”
“It’s an NYPSD investigation.”
“Like that means a damn to you. Okay, okay.” Feeney waved a hand before Roarke could speak again. “Let’s settle this like men.”
“Want to arm wrestle?”
Feeney let out a snort, then dug into his pocket. “We’ll flip a coin. You call it.”
Eve heard what sounded like flutes. For a moment she saw herself running naked through a flower-strewn meadow where small, winged creatures played long, reed-like instruments. Birds sang, the sun shone, and the sky was a perfect bowl of cerulean blue.
She woke with a start and said: “Gak.”
“Wow, Dallas, you were really out.”
Blinking, Eve focused on the figure spread out on the table beside her. She thought it was Mavis. It sounded like Mavis, but it was tough to make a positive ID when the form was covered with hot pink from shoulders to toes, the face coated with electric blue, and the hair plastered down with a mix of green, red, and purple.
She’d have said gak again, but it seemed redundant.
“You didn’t drool or anything,” Mavis assured her. “In case you were worried.”
“Let out a couple of sex moans.” Trina’s voice came from somewhere near her feet, and Eve froze.
“What are you doing?”
“My job. You’re all rinsed off. Blissed right through that part. Got your derma revitalizer rubbed in. Your man’s going to like this one. Going to finish up with your hair and face after I do your feet.”
“Do what to my feet?” Gingerly, Eve boosted herself on her elbows and looked down. “Oh my God! God almighty! You painted my toes.”
“Just a delux ped. It’s not a satanic ritual.”
“My toes are pink.”
“Yeah, I went conservative with you. Sun-kissed Coral. Nice with your skin tone. Your feet were a disgrace,” Trina added as she sprayed on sealer. “Good thing you were under VR while I was working on them.”
“How come she’s not under?” Eve demanded, pointing at Mavis.
“I get more out of it if I’m aware of the treatments. I like getting souped and rubbed and scrubbed down and painted. It’s the ult of ults for me. You hate it.”
“Mavis. If you know I hate it, why do you make me do this?”
Mavis smiled an electric blue smile. “’Cause it’s fun.”
Eve lifted a hand to rub her face, then gaped in shock as she saw her nails. “You painted my fingers. People will see them.”
“Neutral French job.” Trina walked back up, slid a finger over one of Eve’s eyebrows. “Need trimming. You oughta chill, Dallas.”
“Do you understand that I’m a cop? Do you understand that should I have to restrain a suspect and he gets a load of my shiny yet neutral French job, he’s going to break his neck laughing? Then I’ll be under IAB investigation for the death of a suspect at my hands.”
“I know you’re a cop.” Trina showed her teeth in a smile. The left eyetooth was decorated with a tiny green stud. “That’s why I threw in the little boob tat gratis.”
“Boob? Tattoo?” Eve sat up as if she’d been propelled out of a catapult. “Tattoo?”
“Just a temp. Came out really good.”
She was almost too horrified to look. To counter the fear, she took a handful of Trina’s glossy black hair, yanked her tormentor’s head down. If necessary, she would beat that head against the padded table until unconsciousness ensued. Ignoring Trina’s yelps and struggles, and Mavis’s giggling calls for peace, Eve tipped down her chin and looked at her breast.
There on the curve of the left was a painted replica of her badge, minutely detailed though it was no bigger than her own thumbnail. Her grip loosened a bit as she tilted her own head to read her name. And Trina escaped.
“Jesus, are you whacked? I said it was a temp.”
“Did you give me any hallucinogenic substance while I was under VR?”
“What?” Obviously steamed, Trina shook back her abused hair, folded her arms, and glowered at Mavis. “What is wrong with her? No, I didn’t give you anything. I’m a certified personal body and style consultant. I don’t have illegals on my menu. You ask me something like that, and-”