In Death 15 - Purity in Death

squad - my kids."
    "Feeney. You've been through a bad one. It's different than when it happens in the field. You should talk to the department shrink." She winced at the look he shot her. "I know how that sounds coming from me, too. But, damn it, you were a hostage, you had a weapon jammed at your throat by one of your own men. You watched him die. If that hasn't screwed with your head, what would? So you should talk to the shrink or . . . Mira. If it were me, I'd go to Mira. She'd keep it off the record if you asked her."
    "I don't want to open my head or spill my guts." His voice went tight, wrapped with bands of insult and temper. "I need to work."
    "Okay." Recognizing the signs as she'd seen them often enough in her own mirror, she backed off. "We're going to have plenty. I'd as soon work from here for the time being, if it's okay with you. But the first order of business is to rig some sort of shield or filter on that unit. Nobody touches it until we have it shielded."
    "From what? How are we supposed to design the right shield when we don't know what it's supposed to block?"
    "That's a problem. I expect you and the expert consultant, civilian, you've already requested will figure out something."
    He nearly smiled. "Thought that might burn you a little. But you know damn well he's the best."
    "Then put him to work, and get me a shield." She got to her feet. It felt awkward, but it also felt right to cross over to his chair, crouch down until their eyes were level.
    "Go home, Feeney. Have a beer, be with your wife. She's a cop's wife, but she's not going to feel easy till she sees you. And you're not going to feel steady until you see her. I need you on this. I need you steady."
    There was a lot more said between them that didn't take words. "Kids today," he said at length, "think they know every damn thing."
    His hand closed over hers, squeezed once. Then he got up, walked out. Went home.
    She sat where he'd sat for a moment, laid her hands where his had laid. Then she got up, walked to her desk. Went back to work.
    She brought up Cogburn's data, then Halloway's personal file. She was halfway through a search for any connections when her 'link beeped.
    "Dallas."
    "Got one you're going to want to see." Baxter's face filled most of the screen, but she could see the movements, hear the sounds of a crime scene behind him.
    "I'm on a priority, Baxter. I can't take another case. Handle it."
    "You're going to want this. Vic's a fifty-three-year-old male. First glance it looks like somebody got in, attacked him. But you look closer, he did all the damage in here himself. Including slitting his own throat."
    "I don't have time for-"
    "A lot of premortem bleeding. Ears and nose. And take a look at this."
    He turned. She caught glimpses of a spacious room, thoroughly trashed. Then the desk unit that lay screen-up on the floor.
    ABSOLUTE PURITY ACHIEVED
    "Don't let anyone touch that unit. I'm on my way."
    She was halfway out the door when she swore, strode back to the desk to hunt up a memo.
    "Listen," she spoke into it as she crossed into Roarke's office. "I got tagged. Related death. I'll be back . . . when I get back. Sorry."
    She tossed the memo on his console, then bolted.
    ***
    Chadwick Fitzhugh had lived, and lived well, in a two-level condominium on the Upper East Side. His profession was, primarily, being the solitary male of the fourth-generation Fitzhughs, which meant he socialized smoothly, looked snappy in a dinner suit, played a mean game of polo, and could, if pressed, discuss stock options.
    The family business was money, in all its many forms. And the Fitzhughs had plenty of it.
    His hobbies were travel, fashion, gambling, and seducing young boys.
    Baxter filled her in on the basic data while Eve studied the bloody mess that was now Chadwick Fitzhugh.
    "Name popped on the data search. Known pedophile. Trolled the clubs, surfed the chat rooms," Baxter stated.
    "He liked them between fourteen and sixteen. Pattern was to buy them alcohol, Zoner, whatever worked, lure them up here, with the promise of more. Then he'd pull out the toys. Into bondage. He'd do them, whether they were willing or not. Looks like he took vids if his homemade stash is any indication. Then he'd give them some cash, pat them on the head, and tell them if they squawked about it, they'd be in more trouble than he would."
    Baxter looked down at the body. "Mostly they believed him."
    "If we know this, have record of this, at least one of