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“The vibe.”
“No bump on the vic,” Roarke repeated with a chuckle. “And you threatened rabbit food for comp jargon.”
“Jeez. Upon interviewing identified victims related to this matter, Detective Baxter found no connection to The Purity Seekers, nor felt any indication of connection from statements, attitude, or background checks.”
“I got it the first time, darling, but it’s such fun to hear you explain it to me in such official tones.”
“Moving on,” she continued. “The incident reports list interviews wit
h two additional minors. Records sealed.”
“It’ll take me a few minutes.”
“Yeah. I’ll get the coffee.”
“Let’s have some wine instead,” he said as he began to work on a keyboard. “I’d prefer not to get buzzed on caffeine.”
“I need to keep sharp.”
“Any sharper, you’d be drawing blood. Now this is interesting.”
“What?”
“There’s a secondary block on this file. That’s not usual for a standard seal. Damn good block, too. Well now.” He rolled his shoulders like a boxer about to enter the ring.
“When was it put on?” She hurried back to lean over his shoulder. “Can you tell when it was put on?”
“No talking.” He brushed her back, and continued to work one-handed. “Yes, indeed, I’ve seen your work before, haven’t I? You’re good, very, very good. But . . .”
“He gets to talk,” Eve grumbled and because watching the speed of his fingers flying over keys made her antsy, she went to get the wine.
“Got him.” Roarke sat back a moment, reached out a hand without glancing at her to take the glass of wine. “Wouldn’t have been quite that quick if I hadn’t already dealt with his work on those two units in the lab.”
Now, there’s a bump, she thought. “You’re sure of that?”
“A good compu-jock has a style. Take my word for it, the block was added by the tech who designed the virus. Or techs. I doubt this was the work of one.”
“Organized, thorough, and skilled.” Eve nodded. “And careful. Let’s see who they wanted to hide.”
“Screen Three. Display.”
“Devin Dukes,” Eve read. “Twelve at the time of the incident.” She scanned the data quickly to get to the meat. “Okay, Cogburn sold him some Jazz. Parents—Sylvia and Donald—turned it up, confronted the kid, pressed the right buttons, and got the story. Brought the kid in to make the complaint, and DS Dwier caught the case.”
“Might’ve been wiser to leave the cops out of it.”
She looked back, coolly. “Excuse me?”
“Just a thought. Dragging the boy into a cop shop, putting him in the system. Put his back up, wouldn’t it?”
“A crime had been committed.”
“Absolutely. I just wonder if it might have been simpler and cleaner to stand the kid on his head, so to speak, at home initially rather than having him surrounded by badges and reports.”
“We rarely torture minors these days. They break down so easy, it’s not much fun.”
“Torture has a different definition for a boy of twelve. But . . .” He shrugged his shoulders, elegantly. “That’s hardly to our point, is it? It seems a relatively small occurrence to go to such trouble to lock away.”
“Cogburn was brought in, ID’d, charged,” Eve continued. “But the parents had flushed the evidence. Cogburn maintained that he’d been drinking in a bar at the time the kid stated the buy went down. Bartender backs Cogburn. Probably bullshit. Places like that will back Jack The Ripper if Jack spreads enough grease. Dwier messed this up.”
