won’t if you won’t,” he said. “So back to the rules?”
“Yeah, okay. Back to the rules.”
“So why’d you call, really?”
He heard her take a breath and release it. She always did that when she thought she was going to say something significant. Women.
“A girl’s got needs,” she said.
He couldn’t help himself; he laughed.
“It’s not funny,” she said, but he knew she was smiling, too. They amused each other these days, which was almost as good as the sex. Almost.
“You gotta say the words. I’m a cop. Cops love their rules. Besides, you know what a busy social life I have.”
She groaned, but then said the magic words. “Can you come over tonight?”
“Now we’re talking,” he said.
“Talking’s not what I had in mind.”
8
THREE MONTHS AFTER THE minimart case went off the tracks, Cam returned to his office from an interminable budget meeting and sent his notebook skidding across his desk and onto the floor, scattering papers like duckpins. Horace, recognizing the symptoms of bureaucratic overload, pretended to stare hard at his computer monitor, even though it wasn’t on. Cam swore out loud as he dropped into his chair. Kenny came in from next door, pulled up a straight-backed chair, and sat down in it backward, ready to hear Cam’s tale of fiscal woe.
“We lose?” he asked.
“We lost,” Cam said. “Narco-Vice got the augmentation money.” His phone rang. He picked it up and identified himself, listened for a moment, wrote down a string of letters and numbers on his blotter, and then hung up.
“That was Eddie Marsden over in Computer Crime,” he said to Kenny. “Says there’s something we need to see on some Web site. Here’s the Web address.” He turned his blotter around so Kenny could read it. Then Cam got up out of his chair so Kenny could get on Cam’s machine and find the Web site. Every time Cam tried to surf the Web, his machine would bring up a string of porn sites, which Kenny said meant somebody had been screwing around with his computer. Kenny rattled the keyboard and made the screen dance through several images before stopping at a totally black screen.
“Oh, great,” Cam said. “I recognize that. That’s what I usually get. This is a joke, right?”
“Don’t think so,” Kenny said. “Says it’s buffering a video.”
The screen remained totally blank. “Speak English,” Cam suggested. As far as he was concerned, buffering was what the cleaning crew did to the linoleum.
“Means it’s downloading a video stream from a Web site. Like a movie, or a TV clip.”
The screen remained black, but then Cam thought he could hear something coming from the computer’s speakers: a hissing sound, with a deep bass note underlying the hiss.
“Still buffering,” Kenny said, watching the screen. “It’s big, whatever it is. Eddie say where he got it?”
“He said it was an attachment on an e-mail from the Bureau’s Charlotte field office, but the Feebs say they didn’t send it. Whoa—what the hell is that?”
A picture was forming on the screen. The video camera was obviously sitting on a table, pointing across a long, narrow, darkened room. Perhaps ten feet away, a crudely hooded figure was sitting in what looked like a barber’s chair, or maybe it was a dentist’s chair. Whatever it was, it seemed to be made of shiny metal, with footrests, armrests, and a barely visible metal pedestal. There appeared to be metal clamps binding the figure’s forearms and bare feet to the structure of the chair, and there was a wide leather belt cinched around his middle. The deep humming sound grew louder, reminding Cam of one of those big pipes on a church organ. As the sound rose, another hooded figure appeared behind the one in the chair. Horace got up and came in to stand behind Cam’s desk when he heard that deep humming sound. The second figure had the physique of a man, and he was wearing a dark windbreaker and a hood that had vertical eye
“Yeah, okay. Back to the rules.”
“So why’d you call, really?”
He heard her take a breath and release it. She always did that when she thought she was going to say something significant. Women.
“A girl’s got needs,” she said.
He couldn’t help himself; he laughed.
“It’s not funny,” she said, but he knew she was smiling, too. They amused each other these days, which was almost as good as the sex. Almost.
“You gotta say the words. I’m a cop. Cops love their rules. Besides, you know what a busy social life I have.”
She groaned, but then said the magic words. “Can you come over tonight?”
“Now we’re talking,” he said.
“Talking’s not what I had in mind.”
8
THREE MONTHS AFTER THE minimart case went off the tracks, Cam returned to his office from an interminable budget meeting and sent his notebook skidding across his desk and onto the floor, scattering papers like duckpins. Horace, recognizing the symptoms of bureaucratic overload, pretended to stare hard at his computer monitor, even though it wasn’t on. Cam swore out loud as he dropped into his chair. Kenny came in from next door, pulled up a straight-backed chair, and sat down in it backward, ready to hear Cam’s tale of fiscal woe.
“We lose?” he asked.
“We lost,” Cam said. “Narco-Vice got the augmentation money.” His phone rang. He picked it up and identified himself, listened for a moment, wrote down a string of letters and numbers on his blotter, and then hung up.
“That was Eddie Marsden over in Computer Crime,” he said to Kenny. “Says there’s something we need to see on some Web site. Here’s the Web address.” He turned his blotter around so Kenny could read it. Then Cam got up out of his chair so Kenny could get on Cam’s machine and find the Web site. Every time Cam tried to surf the Web, his machine would bring up a string of porn sites, which Kenny said meant somebody had been screwing around with his computer. Kenny rattled the keyboard and made the screen dance through several images before stopping at a totally black screen.
“Oh, great,” Cam said. “I recognize that. That’s what I usually get. This is a joke, right?”
“Don’t think so,” Kenny said. “Says it’s buffering a video.”
The screen remained totally blank. “Speak English,” Cam suggested. As far as he was concerned, buffering was what the cleaning crew did to the linoleum.
“Means it’s downloading a video stream from a Web site. Like a movie, or a TV clip.”
The screen remained black, but then Cam thought he could hear something coming from the computer’s speakers: a hissing sound, with a deep bass note underlying the hiss.
“Still buffering,” Kenny said, watching the screen. “It’s big, whatever it is. Eddie say where he got it?”
“He said it was an attachment on an e-mail from the Bureau’s Charlotte field office, but the Feebs say they didn’t send it. Whoa—what the hell is that?”
A picture was forming on the screen. The video camera was obviously sitting on a table, pointing across a long, narrow, darkened room. Perhaps ten feet away, a crudely hooded figure was sitting in what looked like a barber’s chair, or maybe it was a dentist’s chair. Whatever it was, it seemed to be made of shiny metal, with footrests, armrests, and a barely visible metal pedestal. There appeared to be metal clamps binding the figure’s forearms and bare feet to the structure of the chair, and there was a wide leather belt cinched around his middle. The deep humming sound grew louder, reminding Cam of one of those big pipes on a church organ. As the sound rose, another hooded figure appeared behind the one in the chair. Horace got up and came in to stand behind Cam’s desk when he heard that deep humming sound. The second figure had the physique of a man, and he was wearing a dark windbreaker and a hood that had vertical eye
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