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“Female.” Eyes cool, Eve rose to step closer to the screen. “Mid-twenties, tops, mixed race. She weighs a hundred pounds if she’s hauling a full field pack and wearing jump boots. No way this girl killed Howard, and hauled her up and into that bin. She’s a fucking toothpick.”
“Data junkie,” McNab said.
“A what?”
“Data junkie. They get off on data. Can’t get enough of the machine. Some of them hole up in some little room and have little to no actual contact with human beings. It’s all the machine. Others like to be around people, or have people around. They pick up some change sending and receiving, or doing reports—business, school, whatever. Anything that gives them a reason to deal with data.”
“Like EDD geeks,” Eve commented.
“Hey.” But Feeney’s lips twitched. “Data junkies rarely hold actual jobs. Or don’t keep them.” He drummed his fingers as he watched the screen. “Yeah, there you go. There’s a drop. See, the waitress dropped off a stack of discs. Waitress probably takes a cut—club might, too—of what the dj charges per transmission or per job.”
“It’s not illegal,” McNab added. “It’s like I say to you, hey, Dallas, can you send these transmissions for me—my unit’s down, or I’m squeezed for time, and I give you ten bucks for the time and trouble.”
“Or if you’re an illegals dealer, for instance, you dump discs on a junkie, transmissions are sent from any number of locations that can’t be traced back to you.”
McNab lifted his shoulders. “Yeah, there’s that. But who’s going to trust a junkie for serious business?”
Eve hissed out a breath. “The killer did. Let’s get her ID’d. We’ll still need to talk to her. Peabody, call the data club, see if anyone there can give us a name on their resident dj. Does she look at what she’s sending?”
“Sometimes they do, part of the thrill,” Feeney said. “You get peeks into other people’s lives or thoughts without having to deal with people.”
“I can get behind that part,” Eve grumbled.
“You can block the data from the sender,” McNab added. “If you want to keep something private. Still, a good dj could hack through a block. She’s not hacking though. She’s going through the disc stack too fast for that.”
“What happens to the discs when she’s done?”
“Waitress will pick them back up and give her a fresh supply if there is one. Done discs would go back on the bar, or a table specified for it. You pick it back up if you want it, or the club recycles. You’re supposed to label them,” he added. “If you want data generated or written, that request goes on a disc, and is set in another location. Fee’s higher for that. She’s just doing sends now.”
“He could’ve come in any time, dropped the disc off. Hung around for a drink, watched her send it off. Bides his time,” Eve said quietly. “Makes sure he stays in the crowd so he doesn’t show up on the security. A drink, a dance—might even be trolling for the next one—and he picks up the disc, puts it in his pocket, and strolls on out. Goes home, gets himself a good night’s sleep. I bet he slept just fine. And watches some screen so he can hear all about his fine work over morning coffee.”
“It was easy for him,” Feeney agreed. “It was all easy, straight down the line. He’ll be looking forward to doing it again.”
“We run the cameras, the enhancements, and the photographers in the three designated sectors. Check through any discarded discs the club hasn’t already cycled in case he didn’t pick it up. McNab, you hunt down the data junkie. You’d speak her language.”
“I’m on it.”
“I’m going back to the college, take a look at the Imaging class, try to reconstruct her last few hours. Then I need to take an hour’s personal time. Peabody, you’re with Feeney.”
Eve picked up the photographs. She wasn’t ready, not quite, to pin Rachel Howard to the dead board.
“I’ll be back by fourteen hundred.”
Chapter 6
It would’ve been different for Rachel, Eve thought as she stood in the back of the imaging lab and watched the workshop. It had been night, and there wouldn’t have been so many students. Still Rachel would have been at a work station, like many of these young people, refining, defining, adjusting, admiring, the images she’d transferred from reality to camera, from camera to screen.
What had she been thinking as she’d taken that last class? Had her mind been on her work, or had it wandered toward spending the night with her friends? Had she listened to Professor Browning, as some of the students were now? Or had she focused on her own work, her own world?
Maybe she’d flirted with one of the boys who worked nearby. There were mild flirtations going on—the body language, the eye contact, the occasional intimate whisper that made up the mating dance.
She’d liked to date, she’d liked to dance. She’d enjoyed being twenty. And she’d never be a day older.
She listened while Browning wrapped things up, outlined assignments, and she made sure the professor saw and acknowledged her as the class began to disperse.
They coupled up, Eve noted. Or grouped up, with a few solos winding through the cliques. That sort of thing hadn’t changed since her school days, she mused.
God, she’d hated school.
