"Vanderhaven rabbits to Europe rather than face a routine interview. So…how many of them?" Eve murmured. "And when did it start? Why did it start? What's the motive? That's the hang-up here. What's the point? One rogue doctor who'd gone over the edge would be one thing. That's not what we've got. We've got a team, a group, and that group has ties to East Washington, maybe to the NYPSD. Weasels, anyway, in my department, maybe others. In health clinics. Somebody passing data. I need the why to find the who."
"Organs, human. No real money in them today. If not for profit," Roarke mused, "then for power."
"What kind of power can you get from stealing flawed organs out of street people?"
"A power trip," he said with a shrug. "I can, therefore I do. But if not for power, then for glory."
"Glory? Where's the glory?" Impatient, she began to prowl again. "They're useless. Diseased, dying, defective. Where's the glory factor?" Before he could speak, she held up a hand, eyes going to slits in concentration. "Wait, wait. What if they're not useless. If someone's figured out something that can be done with them."
"Or to them," Roarke suggested.
"To them." She turned back to him. "Every bit of data I've scanned says that all research points to the impracticality or impossibility of reconstruction or repair of seriously damaged organs. Artificial are cheap, efficient, and outlast the body. The major facilities we're dealing with haven't funded research in that area in years. Since Friend developed his implants."
"A better mousetrap," Roarke suggested. "Someone's always looking for better, quicker, cheaper, fancier. The one who invents it," he added gesturing with his wine. "Gets the glory—and the profit."
"How much do you make annually on the NewLife line?"
"I'll have to check. One minute." He shifted in his chair, called up another unit, and ordered a financial spread. "Hmmm, gross or net?"
"I don't know. Net, I guess."
"Just over three billion annually."
"Billion? Billion? Jesus, Roarke, how much money do you have?"
He glanced back at her, amused. "Oh, somewhat more than that, although this particular three billion isn't my personal take. One does have to feed the company, you know."
"Forget I asked, it just makes me nervous." She waved her hand and paced. "Okay, you take in three billion every year on the manufacture of the implants. When Friend developed it, he got plenty of glory. Tons of media, hype, awards, funding, whatever it is these guys get off on. He got it in truckloads. And he got a cut of the pie, too. It's his—what did you call it?—mousetrap. So…"
She trailed off, working it out in her head while Roarke watched her. It was, he thought, a delight to see her gears meshing. Oddly arousing, he mused, sipping his wine, and decided he would have to seduce her, in an entirely different manner, when they were finished for the night.
"So somebody, or a group of them, hits on a new technique, a new angle, using flawed organs. They've found, or nearly found, a way to buff them up and pop them back in. But where do you get them? You can't use the property of health clinics. It's tagged, logged, assigned. Donors and brokers would object to their body parts being used for something other than they've signed for. Big problems, bad press. Plus there are probably federal restrictions."
She stopped, shook her head. "So you kill for them? You murder people so you can experiment? It's a hell of a stretch."
"Is it?" Roarke toasted her. "Look at history. Those in power have habitually found nasty uses for those without it. And often, all too often, they claim it's for the greater good. You could have a group of highly skilled, educated, intelligent people who've decided they know what's best for humanity. Nothing, in my opinion, is more dangerous."
"And Bowers?"
"Casualties in the war on disease, in the quest for longevity. The quality of life for the many over the destruction of life for the few."
"If that's why," she said slowly, "the answer's in the lab. I'll need to find a way into Drake."
"I should be able to bring Drake to you, right here."
"That's a start." She blew out a breath, took her seat again. "Let's take a closer look at Young."
"Geek," Roarke said a few moments later when they scanned the data.
"What?"
"You really are behind on your retro-slang, Eve. What we have here is your classic techno-geek—what McNab might be without his charm, his affection for the ladies, and his interesting fashion sense."
"Oh, like most EDD guys. Got it. They'd rather spend time with a motherboard than breathe regular. Thirty-six, single, lives with his mother."
"Classic geekdom," Roarke explained. "Educationally, he excelled, except in social areas. President of the compu-tech club in high school."
"That would be a geek club."