In Death 25 - Creation in Death

that.”
    When he left, she went to her desk, added the Urban Wars data to her notes, then continued to jot down her speculations.
    Soldier, medic, doctor. Maybe someone who lost a family member or lover…No, no, she didn’t like that one. Why would he torture and desecrate the symbol, you could say, of anyone who’d mattered to him? Then again, if a loved one had been tortured, killed, identified in that manner, this just might be payback or some twisted re-creation.
    Maybe he’d been tortured, survived it. Tortured by a female with brown hair, within the age span.
    Or maybe he’d been the torturer.
    She rose, paced. Then why wait decades to re-create? Did some event trigger it? Or had he been experimenting all along, until he found the method that suited him?
    And maybe he was just a fucking lunatic.
    But the Urbans were an angle, yes they were. Mira’s profile had indicated he was mature, even nine years back. Male, likely Caucasian, she remembered, between the ages of thirty-five and sixty.
    So go high-end, and yeah, he could’ve seen some of the wars as a young man.
    She sat again and, adding in new speculations, ran probabilities.
    While they ran, she plugged in the disc Summerset had brought in. “Computer, display results, wall screen two.”
    Acknowledged. Working…
    As they began to scroll, her jaw simply dropped. “Well, Jesus. Jesus.” There were hundreds of names. Maybe hundreds of hundreds.
    She couldn’t complain that Summerset wasn’t efficient. The names were grouped according to where they worked, where they lived. Apparently, there were just one hell of a lot of women with brown hair between twenty-eight and thirty-three who worked in some capacity for Roarke Enterprises.
    “Talk about a big, honking octopus.”
    She was going to need a whole bunch of coffee.
     
    R oarke’s private office was streamlined and spacious, with a dazzling view of the city through privacy screens. The wide U-shaped console commanded equipment as sophisticated and extensive as any the government could claim.
    He should know, he held several government contracts.
    And he knew, however artful the equipment, successful hacking depended on the operator’s skill. And patience.
    He ran his own employee files first. However numerous they were, it was still a simple matter. As was the search he implemented to locate any male employees who worked or had worked for him who had traveled to the other murder locations or taken personal leave during that time frame.
    As it ran he generated a list of major competitors. He would, subsequently, search through those companies he didn’t consider genuine competition. But he’d start at the top.
    Any company, organization, or individual who was, in actuality, competitive would have—as he did—layers and layers of security on their internal files. And each would need to be peeled back with considerable care.
    He sat at the console where the controls shimmered or flashed like jewels. His sleeves were pushed up, his hair tied back.
    He started with companies with offices or interests in one or more of the locations.
    And began to peel.
    As he worked, he talked to himself, to the machines, to the layers that tried to foil him. As time passed, his curses became more Irish, his accent more pronounced, and layers melted away.
    He took a break for coffee and to scan the results of his initial search.
    He had no employee who fit all the requirements. But, he noted, there were some who’d been in at least two of the locations or on leave during the time of the murders.
    They’d be worth a closer look.
    He shifted back and forth between tasks, to keep himself sharp. He wormed his way through security blocks, picked his way through data. Ordered search, cross match, analysis so his equipment hummed in a dozen voices.
    At some point he got up for yet another pot of coffee, and glanced at the time.
    Four-sixteen a.m.
    Cursing, he sat back, scrubbed his hands over his face. Hardly a wonder he was losing his edge. And Eve, he knew, would be asleep at her desk. If she’d decided to call it a night, she would have come by to check his progress first.
    Instead, she’d work herself into the ground, and as he was doing exactly the same, he had no room to fight with her about it.
    Nearly half-four, he thought. Gia Rossi might already be dead, or praying to all the gods death would come soon.
    Roarke closed his eyes a moment, and though he knew the guilt was useless, let it run through