Missing in Death edahr-36 Read online

  Eve ate slowly. "Did she target you? Have you been a target?"

  "No. It's generally believed I'm more useful alive than dead, even to competitors or . . . interested parties. I'm able to fund the R and D, the science, the manufacturing, and others may hope to steal it. Nothing to steal if you cut off the head."

  "That's a comfort."

  He reached across for her hand. "I watch out for myself, Lieutenant. Now, depending on the source, your victim is given credit, so to speak, for anywhere from fifty to two hundred and fifty deaths. Some were in the game, some were just in the way."

  "You couldn't find her." Eve watched him as she ate. "You thought she killed three of your people, so you'd have tried."

  "No, I couldn't find her. She went under, considerably under. I thought she might be dead, having failed to secure what she was hired for." He studied the wine in his glass. "Apparently I was wrong."

  "Until now. It's unlikely she was on that ferry to sightsee."

  "Very. It might've been a meet or a target, but odds are it was business."

  "Double cross. But someone like this, experienced, how does she get caught off guard and taken out? Someone she knew? Someone she trusted or underestimated maybe? Another spook? Another assassin?" She felt the frustration rising again, like flood water behind a dam. "Why so freaking public?"

  "I couldn't begin to guess. Tell me what you think about this smudge, this flash of light."

  She blew out a breath. "I left a message for Mira, asking her about the possibility of mass hypnosis. And that sounds crazy when I hear myself say it out loud. Not as crazy as vortexes or invisibility cloaks, but in that mix of nuts. Still, we've dealt with mind manipulation before. The tiny burn in the cortex found in autopsy after suicides, manipulated by your pal Reeanna Ott."

  "Hardly my pal, as it turned out." But he nodded to show they were on the same page. "Manipulation, in that case, done through audio."

  "So, a possible manipulation done optically," Eve finished. "One that affects memory. But it has to do more. I can almost swallow people wouldn't remember seeing someone haul out a dead body, but I have to figure they wouldn't just let him by in the first place. And Carolee, whether she was conscious or unconscious, her kid wouldn't have just stood where he was, would he, if he saw her come out? So, maybe we're dealing with a device that can manipulate behavior, or sight, and memory? That's a big jump. Mass hypnosis suddenly doesn't sound so crazy."

  "There have been rumors, underground and through the tech world, of a device in development. A kind of stunner."

  "Ah. Got one of those." Eve tapped the weapon at her side she'd yet to take off.

  "Not your conventional stunner, but one that renders the target incapacitated through an optical signal rather than the nervous system. It sends a signal, through light, that shuts down certain basic functions. Essentially, in a theory not that far from your mass hypnosis, it puts the target into a kind of trance. Hocus Pocus." He lifted his wineglass in half salute. "It's often referred to as that, which made me think of it when you used the term. The rumors are largely dismissed, but not entirely."

  "We're talking dozens of people," Eve argued. "Potentially hundreds."

  "And the idea this device exists, and has a possibility for that sort of range, is . . . fascinating. And used as a weapon? Devastating."

  Eve pushed up from the table to pace. "I hate this kind of shit. Why can't it just be regular bad guy crap? You've got money, I want it, I kill you. You've been screwing my wife, it pisses me off, I cut out your heart. No, I've got to worry about disappearing bodies and weapons designed to turn the lights out on masses of people. Crap."

  "It's an ever-changing world," Roarke said lightly.

  She snorted. "How much credence do you and your R and D people put into this device?"

  "Enough to be working on something similar - and a counter-device. Though both are still in the theoretical stages. I'm getting the data for you," he added, gesturing toward the console.

  She sat again, drummed her fingers on the table. "Okay, say this device exists, and was used today. Say its existence speaks to why Buckley was on that ferry, either with the device in her possession or with the hopes to make that so. It still doesn't explain why she was murdered in the way she was, or why her body was taken off the ferry. Stealing or obtaining the device, even killing Buckley to get it, that's business. Basically exsanguinating her and taking what's left? That's personal."

  "I wouldn't argue, but business and personal often overlap."

  "Okay." She lifted her hands and swiped them in the air as if clearing a board. "Why remove the body? Maybe to prove the hit, if it's hired. Maybe because you're a sick fuck. Or maybe to buy time. I like that one because it's weirdly logical. It stalls the identification process. We have to depend on a DNA search and match. And then, we get what appears to be an innocuous vic, corn-f ed Iowa-born female consultant. Maybe, given some time, we'd dig under that, have some questions. But the bigger puzzler would remain, at least initially, how rather than who, since we had the who."

  "But, because I wanted to spend a bit more time with my wife, I happened to be there when she was identified."

  "Yeah. You recognized her, and that's a variable the killer couldn't have factored in."

  "Logical enough," Roarke agreed. "But buy time for what?"

  "To get away, to deliver the device and/or the body. To destroy the body, certainly to get the hell away from the scene. This spy stuff doesn't work like the job. It's convoluted, covered with gray areas and underlying motivations. But when you wipe away all of that, you've still got a killer, a victim, a motive. We cross off random, because no possible way. It wasn't impulse."

  "Because?" He knew the answer, or thought he did, but he loved watching her work.

  "The sign on the door, the getaway. It was vicious - all that spatter. A pro wouldn't have wasted time with that. Cut the throat, skewer the heart, hit the big artery in the thigh. Pick one and move on. But blood doesn't lie, and the spatter clearly says this was slice, hack, rip."

  The light softened as they spoke, and he wondered how many couples might sit in the evening light over a meal and talk of blood spatter and exsanguination.

  Precious few, he supposed.

  "Are you sure none of the blood was the killer's?"

  She nodded. It was a good question, she thought, and only one of the reasons she liked bouncing a case around with him. "Reports just in, taking samples of every area of spatter, and several from the pool, confirm it all belonged to Buckley."

  "Then she was caught seriously off guard."

  "I'll say. So, specific target, specific location and time, personal and professional connections. Add one more element, and I think it matters. Whoever killed Buckley didn't kill Carolee Grogan when it would've been easier, more expedient and even to his or her advantage to do so."

  "Leaving her body behind. More confusion," Roarke agreed. "A longer identification time on the blood pool. A killer with a heart?"

  She tossed back the rest of her wine. "It's more that a lot of people with a heart kill."

  "My cynical darling."

  She rolled her eyes. "Let's see what we've got so far." She jerked a thumb toward the console.

  Roarke walked back behind the command center, sat. Then, smiling at Eve, patted his knee.

  "Please."

  "And thank you," he said, grabbing her and tugging her down. "There now, this is cozy."

  "It's murder."

  "Yes, yes, on a daily basis. Now, see here, we're through several levels on HSO, but then, I've been through that door before." He brushed his lips over her cheek. "And making some progress on the others. They'll have done some code shifting and housekeeping since my last visits, but see there, we're rerouting with them."

  "I see a bunch of gibberish, numbers and symbols flashing by."

  "Exactly. Let's see if we can nudge it along." He reached around her, began tapping keys. "There are all sorts of tricks," he continued as t
he codes zipped by on the screens. "Realignments, firewalls, fail-safes, trapdoors and back-doors. But we keep updating along with them."

  "Why? Seriously, why do you need access to this stuff?"

  "Everyone needs a hobby. What we want here are eyes-only personnel files, their black ops consultants. And verification if the device rumored to exist does indeed exist. Eyes-only again, but the trick would be to find where it might be tucked and by whom. Ah well, bugger it. Let's try this way."

  Assuming from the oath and his increased tapping that he'd hit a snag, Eve wiggled away. "I'm getting coffee, and I'm going to run some data of my own."

  When his answer was a grunt, she knew playtime was over. It was time for serious work.

  Seven

  Using an auxiliary computer, Eve initiated her own search for any mention of a device such as Roarke had described. She found several articles on medical sites detailing the memory suppressive drugs and tools used during routine surgeries, others edging toward hypnotherapy in both medical studies and gaming.

  She also found a scattering of fringe blogs raging about government mind control, enslaving of the masses and the ever-popular doomsday warnings. A nation of human droids, forced experimentation, personality theft and human breeding farms were on their top-ten list of predicted abominations. This led her to others claiming to have been abducted by aliens in league with the shadow forces of government.

  "I'm surprised the government has time to, you know, govern, when they're so busy working with aliens and their anal probes or pursuing their mission to turn the global population into mindless sex droids."

  "Hmm," Roarke said, "there's government, then there's government."

  She glanced over to where he sat, fingers flying, eyes intent. "You don't actually believe this crap? Alien invasions, secret bunkers in Antarctica for experimentation on human guinea pigs."

  He flicked his glance up. "Icove."

  "That was . . . Okay." Hard to argue when they'd both nearly been killed when dismantling a subversive and illegal human cloning organization. "But aliens?"

  "It's a big universe. You should get out in it more often."

  "I like one planet just fine."

  "In any case, I have your victim. No, don't get up." He waved her back. "I'll put it on-screen. Data, wall screen one. This is from HSO, but the data matches what I've got from the other sources."

  "Dana Buckley," Eve read. "With her three most common aliases. Same age as her current ID. But with the biographical data you had."

  "Now it lists her assets. The languages she spoke, her e-skill level, the weaponry she was cleared for. Included in her dossier is this list." He scrolled down. "Names, nationalities, ranks if applicable, dates."

  "Her hit list," Eve mumbled. "They know or believe she's killed these people, but they let her walk around."

  "Undoubtedly she killed some of those people for these agencies. They let her walk around until now because she's useful to them."

  Eve dealt with murder every day, yet this offended and disturbed her on some core level she wasn't sure she could articulate.

  "That's not how it's supposed to be. You can't just kill or order someone's death because it's expedient. We've managed to virtually outlaw torture and executions; if a cop terminates in the line, he has to go through testing to ensure it was ultimate force that was necessary. But there are still people, supposedly on our side, who would use someone like her to do their dirty work."

  "People who use someone like her rarely, if ever, get their hands dirty."

  "She was a psychopath. Look at her psych profile, for God's sake." Eve swung an arm at the screen. "She should've been put away, just like the person who did her needs to be put away."

  He watched her as she read the data on-screen. "You have less gray area than most."

  "You think this is acceptable? Jesus, read the list. Some of them are kids."

  "Collateral damage, I expect. And no," he added as she swung around, her eyes firing. "I don't think it's acceptable to kill for money, for the thrill or for expedience. There may be more gray in my world than yours when it comes to killing for a cause, but that's not what she did. It was profit and, I believe, for fun. And I suspect, if it had been Buckley standing in that room when Carolee walked in, those boys would be grieving for their mother tonight instead of cuddled up with her watching in-room movies."

  "Not all assassins are created equal?" Calmer, she angled her head as she studied the screen. "We need to look at this list, see if we can connect any of these names to someone in the same business. Someone skilled enough to get the drop on her."

  "I'll set it up. Meanwhile, there's interesting data on the device. This memo was issued two days ago." Again, he ordered the data on-screen.

  " 'The Lost delayed. Owl to commence new series of tests in Sector Twelve. Owl request for seventy-two and blackout approved.' " Eve puzzled over it a moment. "She's not Owl. Who'd code-name a female assassin - a young, attractive one - Owl?"

  "We can go over the earlier memos, but I'd say Owl would be in charge of the development of the device."

  "The Lost. You lose time, yourself, your memory of what happened when you're . . . gone. So, if this Owl or someone under him/her had it, maybe it was an exchange. No, no, it was a setup. It was planned. He had to have a way off the damn ferry, so none of it was spontaneous. Delayed? But if it was used, it was complete."

  "It wouldn't be the first time a member of the team decided to go free agent."

  "Fake a delay so you could sell it, but you don't sell it. You walk away with whatever she had in that briefcase and the device. A twofer. If this is the last memo in the file, HSO isn't yet aware they have a problem."

  "Still another reason to take the body," Roarke pointed out. "Buys that time you spoke of. Maybe he had another offer. Or wants to renegotiate the fee, from a safe location."

  "It wasn't about money," Eve murmured. "not just about money. Buying time, yeah, that plays. She won't be identified, officially, to the media until tomorrow."

  "There's more. Photos of some of her work. Images on-screen, slide-show method," he ordered.

  She'd seen death, in all its forms, too many times to count. She watched it now, roll over the wall screen. Rent flesh, spilled blood, charred hulks.

  "Some of these, of course, were very bad people. Others, very bad people wanted out of the way. It appears she didn't discriminate. She followed the money. Some might argue whoever killed her did the world a favor."

  "And what makes him any better than her?" Eve demanded.

  He only shrugged, knowing on some points they would never agree. "Some would argue otherwise."

  "Yeah, some would. Let's find Owl." She pushed her hands through her hair. "And I have to figure out a logical way to explain how I came by anything we get out of this tonight."

  "The ever-popular anonymous source."

  "Yeah, that'll fool everybody who knows us."

  He initiated a series of searches, then studied her as she stood still watching death scroll by. "It's harder when the victim is abhorrent to you."

  Eve shook her head. "I'm not allowed to decide if a murder victim is worth standing for. I stand for them."

  He rose, went to her. "But it's harder when that victim has so many victims. So much blood on her hands."

  "It's harder," she admitted. "It can't always be an easy choice. It's just the only choice."

  "For you." He kissed her brow, then cupped her face, lifted it and laid his lips gently, softly, over hers.

  When she sighed and leaned into him, he hit the release on her weapon harness.

  "Working," she said against his mouth.

  "I certainly hope so."

  She laughed when he tugged the harness off her shoulders. "No, I've got work."

  "Searches will take a while." He circled her, reaching out to press a control on his console. The bed slid out of the panel in the wall.

  "And you figure sex will cheer me up?"

  "I
'm hoping it's a side benefit to cheering me up."

  He circled again, then launched them both toward the bed. She hit with a breathless thump, bounced and, what the hell, let herself be pinned under him.

  "Rough stuff."

  He grinned. "If you like."

  He yanked her shirt over her head, let it fly as he lowered his mouth, with a hint of teeth to her breast.

  She arched, urging him on. The violence here, so full of heat and hope, helped erase all those images of blood and loss. And helped her remember that no matter how they might differ on an issue, even an ideology, there was, always, love.

  And lust.

  She could take - a handful of that black silk hair, a ripple of muscle as she dragged at his shirt in turn. She could feel the pound of her heart and his as they rolled over the bed in a battle they would both win.

  He made her laugh, made her breath catch. He made her skin shimmer and her blood swim. And when she wrapped around him, found his mouth with hers again, she could taste the flood of love and lust and longing.

  So strong, so sweet. Her body moved under his, over his, agile and quick. The hum of the work that would draw them both back drowned under the thrum of his own pulse when his hands swept over her. Curve and angle, soft and firm. Wet and warm.

  She arched again, rising up where he drove her, to break, then to gather again. Open for more, for him.

  When he filled her, when they rose and fell, rose and fell, to break together, it gave her not only pleasure. It gave her peace.

  Curled against him, warm and naked and replete, it occurred to her Peabody had been right again. After-sex snuggles were very, very good.

  "You should sleep." He spoke quietly, stroking her back. "It's late, and there's no urgency on this one."

  "I don't know. Isn't there?" She thought how lovely it would be to just close her eyes, to drift away with the scent of him all over her. "Closing the case, maybe that's not so urgent on a technical level. But if the killer did have this thing, this weapon, and still has it, ready to sell it to God knows, doesn't that make finding him, stopping him, part of the job, too?"