In Death 04 - Rapture in Death

sanctioned dose of uppers. The Alert All cleared the drag of fatigue and most of the cobwebs from her brain. She used the shower off her office, broke down and wrapped an ice bandage over her sore knee, and told herself she'd deal with the bruises later.
    It was six a.m. when she went back to the roof terrace. The console had been methodically taken apart. Wires, boards, chips, discs, drives, panels were arranged over the gleaming floor in what she could only assume were organized piles.
    In his elegant silk shirt and tailored slacks, Roarke sat cross-legged among them, diligently entering data in a logbook. He'd tied his hair back, she noted, to keep it from falling over his face. And that face was intense, focused, the dark blue eyes ridiculously alert for the hour.
    "I've got that," he muttered to Feeney. "Running the components now. I've seen something like this before. Something close. It's calibrating." He held the logbook out and under the kick panel of the console. "Have a look."
    A hand shot out, grabbed the logbook. "Yeah, this could do it. It could fucking do it. Suck my dick."
    "Irishmen have such a way with words."
    At Eve's dry tone, Feeney's head popped up. His hair stuck straight up, as if he'd shocked himself while fiddling with the electronics. His eyes were bright and wild. "Hey, Dallas. I think we just nailed it."
    "What took you so long?"
    "What a kidder." Feeney's head disappeared again.
    Eve exchanged a long, sober study with Roarke. "Good morning, Lieutenant."
    "You're not here," she said as she walked past him. "I don't see you here. What have you got, Feeney?"
    "Got a lot of options on this baby," he began, and popped up again to settle in the molded chair of the console. "Lotsa doodads, and they are impressive. But the one we had to dig deep to find, under layers of some pretty hunky security, is the honey."
    He ran his hands over the console again, stroking fingers over the smooth surface that now topped empty guts. "The designer would have made a hell of an E-detective. Most of the guys under me can't do what he can. Creativity, see." He wagged a finger at her. "It's not just formulas and boards. Creativity turns the corner into an open field. This guy's walked that field. He fucking owns it. And this is what he'd call his crowning glory."
    He offered the logbook, knowing she'd scowl over the codes and components. "So?"
    "It took some art to get down to that. He had it locked under his private pass, his voice pattern, his palm print. Some layers of fail safe, too. Nearly blew ourselves up about an hour ago, right, Roarke?"
    Roarke rose and tucked his hands in his pockets. "I never doubted you for an instant, Captain."
    "Like hell." In tune with his man, Feeney grinned. "If you weren't saying your prayers, boyo, I was saying mine. Still, I can't think of many others I'd be pleased to be blown to hell with."
    "The feeling's nearly mutual."
    "If you two have finished your little male bonding dance, would you care to explain what the hell I'm supposed to be looking at here?"
    "It's a scanner. The most intricate I've seen outside of Testing."
    "Testing?"
    It was a procedure every cop dreaded, and one every cop faced whenever they were forced to set their weapon on maximum for termination.
    "Even though every member of NYPSD's brain pattern is on record, a scan's taken during Testing. Search for damage, flaws, any abnormalities that might have contributed to the use of maximum force. That scan's compared with the last taken, then the subject is taken on a couple of VR rides that use the data downloaded from the scan. Nasty business."
    Feeney had only faced it once and hoped never to go through the process again.
    "And he's managed to duplicate or simulate that process?" Eve asked.
    "I'd say he's improved on it on a couple of levels." Feeney gestured toward the stack of discs. "That's a lot of brain wave patterns. Shouldn't be too difficult to compare them with the victims' and identify."
    Her pattern would be on one, she thought. Her mind, on disc. "Tidy," she said half to herself.
    "Brilliant, really. And potentially deadly. Our boy's got some spiffy twists on mood sets. They're all tied into musical patterns, you know, notes and chords. He picks the tune, see, then enhances what you'd call the tone of it, to pump along the target's reaction, their state of mind say, their unconscious impulses."
    "So he uses it to get into their head, deep. The subconscious."
    "Got a lot of medical technology