Purity in Death (In Death #15)(31)

"I'm putting together a team to find out." She straightened. "You want in on that?"

He looked back at her. "I want in."

"Then you're in. I need copies of the security discs, Fitzhugh's file, sister's name and location. We talk to neighbors, family, known associates. See if we can determine when Fitzhugh got . . . infected." She scratched her head. "We need to review his personal vid collection."

"Oh yeah, that's my idea of a good time. Watching some creep pork little boys."

"Maybe one of those little boys has been playing with computer programs. This unit needs to be transported to my home office."

"We working this out of your digs?" He brightened immediately. "Solid."

"Nobody messes with it. No search, no scan. It gets shut down and stays shut down until I say otherwise. Same goes for any of the data centers in this place." She looked around. "We're going through this place top to bottom. See if he put anything on hard copy. He gets bagged, sent to Morris, with a red flag."

"Got it. Hey, where's your shadow?"

"My shadow?"

"The inestimable Peabody. She's looking pretty good these days."

"A knothole in an oak tree looks good to you, Baxter."

"Only after a very long, very hard day. How come you didn't bring her in on this?"

"She's in, she's just . . . She's with McNab."

His humor faded. "How's he doing?"

"He's okay. Awake, coherent, good attitude. He's . . ." She shoved her hands in her pockets. "He's having a little trouble with his right side."

"What do you mean, trouble?" But he knew. Every cop knew. "Ah, shit, Dallas. Goddamn it. Temporary, right? It's just temporary."

"Yeah, they're saying that."

They stood for a moment, in silence. "Let's get to work here," she ordered.

Chapter 7

She found Roarke in his office when she got home. Since it was there, she picked up the coffee at his elbow and drank it straight down like water.

"Dead pedophile. Slit his own throat. Went nuts first, broke up his own fancy apartment. Morris is going to find severe intercranial pressure. The Purity message was on his machine."

"Just the one unit?"

"I don't know yet. I'm having all of them sent here. I've got to find out how those units were compromised. How that causes a human brain to essentially blow up."

"You don't say you have to find out why."

"Purity," she said and sat. "Clean out the dirt and make absolute purity. The world would be better off without them," she said aloud, thinking of Baxter's comment.

"A vigilante group with superior tech knowledge." He nodded. "Halloway was simply a casualty of war. Both of your victims preyed on children."

"Yeah, they were scum, of a particularly disgusting sort."

"But they're your scum now."

"You got it. I'm going to need to go through the known victims of my victims. Kids who might have strong tech skills. More likely, family members who do. Could be we'll find somebody who had a kid messed with by both Cogburn and Fitzhugh."

"Chadwick Fitzhugh?" Roarke picked up his coffee mug, scowled into it, then strode to the AutoChef. "Slimy puddle of piss."

"Hey, just because I drank your coffee, that's no reason for calling me names."

"Fitzhugh. Bloody smug bastard, buggering young boys. Someone ought to've taken a knife to his throat long before this."

"I take it you knew him."

"Well enough to find him revolting in every possible way."

There was a different tone, a different look than when Baxter had described Fitzhugh. A far more dangerous one in that icy control, that musical lilt.

"His family's old money," Roarke continued. "Very uppercrust and pedigreed. Too fine to do business with the likes of me. Though they have done," he added as he turned back. His face was cold now. Warrior cold. "Until this sneaking badger's favored form of entertainment got out and about. Then it was me who wouldn't do business with them. Even a Dublin alley rat's got to have standards."

"Not doing business with him is one thing. And three cheers for you there. Killing him's another."

"Cut his own throat, didn't he?" He took a swig of coffee. "More fitting to my mind if he'd cut off his own balls first. But life isn't always willing to be poetical."

She went cold now, too. As cold as the ice that settled in the pit of her stomach. "No one has the right to stand in judgment, to pull on an executioner's hood without due process."

"There are times, Lieutenant, I'm not so fond of that line of the law as you are. In fact, have the coffee. I think I'll have a drink to toast buggering Fitzhugh's demise."

She rose when he went to a cabinet, opened it, and perused wine bottles in the rack. "If that's your stand, you can't help me on this."

"That's my stand." He selected a good cabernet. An exceptionally good one. "But it doesn't mean I can't and won't help you. Don't ask me to be sorry he's dead, and I won't ask you to be glad of it."