“Enhance image, segment thirty to forty-two.” And when the computer complied, Roarke nodded. “The little design on the cuff. The shirt’s handmade, on Bond Street, London. Finwyck’s. Computer, resume.”
He saw it through, saying nothing, showing nothing. If Eve had been a fanciful woman she’d have said she could feel the heat pumping off him, the rage of it. And how that rage cooled, chilled, iced until the air in the room crackled with it.
When it was done, he walked to the computer, ejected the disc, laid it on her desk. He took a moment, a moment only, to gather himself in again.
“I’m sorry I insisted on viewing that now, so that you felt obliged to watch it again. I’ll never fully understand how you stand it, how you cope with it, day after day. Death after death.”
“By telling myself I’ll stop him, that I’ll see to it he’s put somewhere so that he can never do it again.”
“It can’t be enough. It never could be.” He sipped the wine now, burying his grief and pity deep so that the cold fury held control. “His wrist unit was Swiss, which is to be expected. A multitask Rolex. I have one myself, as do thousands of others who insist on dependable accuracy in such matters. I can help you with that, as—”
“You own the factory.”
“And several of the major outlets that sell that model,” he finished. “And with the briefcase, and the shoes. The rest of the wardrobe will take more time, I assume, as they’ll insist on proper paperwork and warrants and what have you to release any customer data. London’s closed at this hour.”
“I’ll get on that in the morning. Get me what you can on the rest. I’m going to see what I can dig out on the Supreme Court judge.”
He nodded but stayed where he was, drinking his wine. “You have McNab checking on season tickets for the symphony and so on. If he runs into any snags, I can have that for you, and through proper channels, with a simple ’link call.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“As far as the black market on the porn and snuff discs, I still have contacts in that murky arena. Meaning I know people who know people and so on.”
“No. It gets out you’re looking in that muck, it could alert whoever’s supplying him that I’m looking.”
“I can cover that easily enough, but we’ll see how Ian does if you’d rather. My other equipment could cut through a great many layers without anyone being aware,” he reminded her.
“Not this round, Roarke. I use unregistered here, even to tickle out some data, and I’ve got no way to justify it to myself, no way to explain to the rest of the team how I came by it. By the book.”
“You’re the boss.” So saying, he carried his wine through the doorway into his own office.
Several blocks south, in his crowded, disordered downtown apartment, McNab huddled over his computer. Beside him, Peabody, down to her shirt and uniform pants, worked on one of his mini-units.
The man, she often thought, collects computers the way some men collect sport holos.
Working her way through the porn sites for names had begun to give her a headache, but she continued doggedly, concentrating on the titles and come-on, and the screen names of potential customers who took advantage of the thirty-second preview.
McNab’s theory was that Yost might cruise the labyrinth of sex sites available online, make his selections through previews. It was possible he ordered them on-screen and that would be the luckiest of breaks as he’d have to use an ID and credit number to do so. But even if he simply scanned the previews, he’d have logged on under a screen name.
Most were laughable and obvious. Bigkok, Cumlvr, Hornydog. She didn’t think Sylvester Yost would go for the crude or the foolish.
She sat back, rubbed her gritty eyes then began to root through her bag for a pain blocker.
Absently McNab reached over and rubbed her neck. “Want to take a break?”
“I just need to ditch the headache. Maybe stretch my legs.”
She rose, rolling her shoulders as she went to the kitchen for water.
He knew she’d broken a date
with Charles Monroe to work with him that night. McNab was darkly pleased that the suave LC had gotten the boot, even if it was for work. What he really wanted was to plant his own boot right in Monroe’s pretty face, and one of these days . . .
The action on the screen scrambled his thoughts. He goggled as two men and two women began to roll and writhe on the floor in a mass of naked bodies and impossibly flexible limbs.
“Holy Jesus.”
“What? What? Did you hit on something?” Peabody rushed back, leaned down to the screen, then with an oath rapped McNab over the head with the flat of her hand. “Damn it, stop jerking off. I thought you’d found . . .” She trailed off, stupefied. “Wow” was the best she could do.