J. Robb - Divided in Death

He’d given himself a lot of space here, too. And it looked like he needed it. There was metal everywhere, in long beams, short stacks, in piles of cubes and balls. The floor and the walls were covered in some sort of fireproof, reflective material that did double duty and mirrored back vague ghosts of the equipment and works-in-progress.

Tools that made Eve think of medieval torture devices lay on a long metal table. Tools that cut and snipped and bent, she assumed. And three large tanks fixed into rolling stands were in various positions around the room. From the attachments and hoses on each, she deduced they were filled with some sort of flammable gas and provided the heat used to weld or melt or whatever the hell people who made weird things out of metal did with fire.

Another wall was covered with sketches. Some looked to have been done by hand, others computer-generated. Since one matched the strange twists and spikes of a piece in the center of the room, she decided they were ideas or blueprints for his art.

He may have spent his off time diddling anything female, but it appeared he took his vocation seriously.

She skirted around the centered sculpture, and only then noted that there was a form of a hand, fingers spread as if desperately reaching, plunged out of the twist of metal.

She glanced back at the sketch, read the notation at the bottom.

ESCAPE FROM HELL

“Who buys this shit?” she wondered.

“Collectors,” Roarke supplied, eyeing a tall, obviously female form that was, apparently, giving birth to something not completely human. “Corporations and businesses that want to be seen as patrons of the arts.”

“Don’t tell me you have some of this?”

“Actually, I don’t. His work doesn’t… speak to me.”

“That’s something, anyway.” Turning her back on the sculpture, she walked to the data station set up at the far end of the room.

She glanced at the stack of beams. “How does he get the stuff in and out? No way some of this fits on the elevator.”

“There’s another lift to the roof. There.” He gestured to the east wall. “Installed at his own expense. “It’s triple the size of the standard freight elevator. There’s a copter pad on the roof, and he has pieces and equipment airlifted.”

She just looked at him. “Don’t tell me you own this place.”

“Partially.” He spoke absently as he wandered, studying metal forms. “It’s a conglomerate sort of thing.”

“You know, it gets embarrassing after a point.”

He lifted his eyebrows, all innocence. “Really? I can’t imagine why.”

“You wouldn’t. Which reminds me.” She shoved back her jacket sleeve and held out her arm so the bracelet glittered. “Take this thing, will you? I forgot I was wearing it when we headed out to the scene. Peabody keeps staring at it, and pretends she’s not staring at it. It’s freaking me out, and if I stuff it in my pocket or something, I’ll probably lose it.”

“You know,” he began as she unclasped it, “people tend to wear jewelry so other people will notice it. Admire it, even covet it.”

“Which is why people who hang baubles all over themselves end up getting mugged.”

“That’s a downside,” he agreed and slipped the bracelet into his pocket. “But life’s full of risks. I’ll consider holding this for you my little way of saving some poor, foolish street thief from ending up with your boot stomped on his throat.”

“Birds of a feather,” she murmured and made him grin.

She went to work on the computer, with the same results she’d gotten from Bissel’s home unit. “Why is an artist so damn careful and paranoid about his data?”

“Let me have a go at it, and let’s find out.”

She stepped back, did a walk through the studio to get a sense of Bissel’s style, and to give those magic hands of Roarke’s time to work.

There was a red-and-white bath off the main floor, complete with jet tub, drying tube, and the same sort of fancy towels Roarke favored. A bedroom had been set up as well. Small, she noted, but with all the comforts. Bissel had liked his comforts.

The gel mattress was thick and cushy, the cover slick and black and sexy. One wall was mirrored, and she thought of the entrance to his house, the master bed and bath.

Liked to look at himself, and to watch himself with women. Egoist, narcissist. Pampered and confident. There was a mini data and communication center near the bed, as blocked as the others.

Chewing it over, she moved to a narrow three-drawer chest and began riffling. Spare underwear, extra work clothes.

And ah, a locked bottom drawer. Roarke wasn’t the only one who could handle such things, she thought as she pulled out a pocketknife.

She attacked the old-fashioned lock, hacking happily away, and gave a grunt of satisfaction as it gave. She jerked open the drawer. And even her cynical, seen-it-all-and-then-some eyes popped wide.

“Holy jumping Jesus.”

She pawed through satin restraints, velvet whips, leather strap-ons, the connoisseur’s collection of dildos. There were vials of the illegal substance known as Rabbit, a bag she identified as Zeus, another of Erotica. There were gel balls, butt plugs, blindfolds, numerous battery-operated toys and devices, cock and nipple rings of all description.

And more. A great deal more she wasn’t entirely sure she could identify.

It appeared Bissel not only took his work seriously, but his games as well.

“The unit’s not blocked, Lieutenant. It’s…” Roarke trailed off as he stepped in and saw what Eve was examining. “Well, well, well, what have we here?”

“The goodie drawer of all goodie drawers. This dildo not only throbs, vibrates, expands, and comes equipped with hands-free feature, it sings a choice of five popular tunes.”

He crouched beside her. “You couldn’t have tried it out that quickly.”

“Pervert. I turned it on to see. He’s got some illegals sprinkled through here, too.”

“So I see. Oh, look, what fun. His and her VR. Maybe we could-” He started to reach for the matching goggles, and had his hand slapped away.

“No.”

“You’re so strict.” He walked his fingers along her knee. “Maybe you could be strict with me later.” Wiggling those eyebrows, he held up a pair of restraints. “We already have these.”

A quick check proved the restraints were indeed her own, lifted right off her person without her feeling a thing. She snatched them back. “Cut that out. And don’t touch anything in there. I mean it. I have to log this crap. Even the mother of all goodie drawers is no reason for a guy to passcode his computers, lock the drawer in an already secured area. He-”

“I said the unit wasn’t blocked.” He patted her knee and rose, resisting-though it was difficult-palming a couple of the goodies just for the fun of it. “It’s fried.”

“What the hell do you mean ‘fried’?”

“Fried, toasted, whacked, zapped, dead.”

“I know what fried means, I meant-damn it.” She sprang up, kicked the drawer closed. “When? Can you tell when? When and how?”

“I imagine so, given the right tools and a bit of time, but I can tell you this much just from this cursory exam: It was professionally and expertly fried.”

“What does that mean?”

“Simply, the main board was destroyed so that all data was corrupted. My first guess would be a very insidious worm, with specificity for this purpose. Likely contained on a disc, inserted into the drive, used to infect, then removed when the task was complete.”

“Can you tell if data was removed first?”

“Trickier, but we can certainly try.”

“How about retrieving anything? Digging in and finding what data was on there, uncorrupting?”