J. Robb - Creation In Death

“Civilians don’t need to know everything.”

“He takes great care in how he forms them, each number, each letter so precise. I’ve seen this before.”

Her eyes sharpened. “What do you mean?”

“Not this, not exactly this, but something similar. During the Urban Wars.”

“The torture methods?”

“No, no. Though, of course, there was plenty of that. Torture’s a classic means of eliciting information or dealing out punishment. Though it’s rarely so…tidy as this.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

He looked over at her. “You’re too young to have experienced the Urbans, or to remember the dregs of them that settled in some parts of Europe after they ended here. In any case, there were elements there, too, that civilians-so to speak-didn’t need to know.”

He had her full attention now. “Such as?”

“When I served as a medic, the injured and the dead would be brought in. Sometimes in piles, in pieces. We’d hold the dead, or those who succumbed to their injuries-for family members if such existed, and if the body could be identified. Or for burial or cremation. Those who didn’t have identification, or were beyond being identified, would be listed by number until disposal. We kept logs, listing them by any description possible, any personal effects, the location where they’d been killed, and so on. And we would write the number on them, and the date of their death, or as close as we could come to it.”

“Was that SOP?”

“It was what we did when I worked in London. There were other methods in other areas, and in some of the worst areas only mass burials and cremations without any record.”

She walked back over to the board, studied the carving. It wasn’t the same, she thought. But it was an angle.

“He knows their names,” she said. “The name’s not an issue. But the data’s important. It has to be recorded. The data’s what identifies them. The time is what names them for him. I need another board.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need another board. I don’t have enough room with one. We got anything around here that’ll work?”

“I imagine I can find what you need.”

“Good. Go do 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 him. He was too tired for the anger.

“Copy document C to disc, save all data. Ah, continue current run, copy and save when complete. Operator will be off-line.”

Acknowledged.

Before he left, he put in a call to Dublin.

“Good morning to you, Brian.”

His old mate’s wide face creased with a surprised smile. “Well now, if it isn’t the man himself. Which side of the pond would you be on?”

“The Yank side. It’s a bit early on your side of it for me to be calling a publican. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t, no. I’m just having my tea. How is our Lieutenant Darling?”

“She’s well, thanks. Would you be alone there?”

“I would be, more’s the pity. I’ve no enchanting woman to warm the sheets with me at the moment, as you do.”

“I’m sorry for that. Brian, I’m looking for a torturer.”

“Is that so?” Only the mildest surprise showed in Brian’s eyes. “And are you too delicate these days to be after taking care of such matters yourself?”