“Her age has nothing to do with it.”
“What then?”
“You feel put out by my feelings for her, this transference that Moira brings out in me.”
“You’d know more about these emotional issues than I would. I have to admit I’m in the dark when it comes to most psychological goings-on.”
“I want you to know it doesn’t take away from the feelings that I have for you.” Oh, boy. Did he just say what he thought he said?
“Go on.”
Trapped. Trapped by my own doing, and it’s too late to do an about-face. “C’mon, Margaret. You know how I feel about you.”
“I feel like I’ve just been asked to dance on a patch of thin ice. You have feelings for me?”
“Of course I do.” He felt his face become flushed. His having feelings for Margaret had always raised guilt, but confessing to those feelings was something else. “I’m just not in a position where I can act on those feelings.”
“But they’re there?”
“Oh, they’re there, all right.” Driscoll’s heart began to race as a stillness overtook the small room.
“Oh, boy. Where do we go from here?”
“You do understand my position. I mean, I’m still married to Colette.”
“How do you manage to do it?”
“Do what?”
“Sit with those feelings, knowing how I feel about you.”
A sad smile formed on Driscoll’s face. He fought back the urge to hold her hand.
A knock sounded on Driscoll’s door, interrupting their intimacy. Detective Thomlinson stuck his head inside, letting the tumult enter from the outer office of the Command Center.
“Somebody’s birthday out there? What’s all the hubbub?” said Driscoll.
“There’s a teenage girl outside. Says she has an appointment with you, Lieutenant. She’s dressed like a Times Square hooker! You’d better hurry. There’s no tellin’ what these johns’ll do.”
“You really know how to pick ’em,” Margaret snickered as Driscoll darted for the door.
A huddle had formed in the squad room, encircling the young teen, who was clad in a flesh-toned tube top and black miniskirt. Driscoll elbowed his way in. The circle dispersed.
“Come with me!” Driscoll snapped, escorting Moira into his office and slamming the door.
“Why are you dressed like…like-?”
“Too flashy?”
“See if this fits,” Margaret said, tossing Moira her jacket.
“I’m really sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll dress more appropriately next time.”
“Next time? There’ll be no next time.”
“OK, I screwed up. But, can’t I just have a go with my computer before I-”
“Ya got two minutes.”
Moira sat down and opened her satellite-supported laptop, where her fleeting fingers danced across the keyboard. The screen sizzled with codes, numbers, logarithms, and equations. Within seconds, Moira had entered the nebulous zone of hacking.
“Lieutenant, did you know the FBI is also investigating these crimes?”
“They follow all serial cases,” said Margaret.
“You tapped into the FBI’s in-house files?” said Driscoll, incredulous.
“Impossible,” said Margaret.
“No. Moria has accessed their private files. And, from the looks of it, they’re keeping a very close eye on our investigation.”
“Would you like a hard copy?” Moira asked. “I gotta act quickly before they’re on to us.”
“Go ahead.”
“Done. We’re out.”
“Get away clean?” asked Margaret.
“Just like a bar of Ivory.”
“I should report you for this,” said Driscoll gravely.
“Sometimes I get carried away,” Moira pouted. “I need a strong hand to keep me on the straight and narrow.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” said Margaret.
“Young lady, you really know your way around a keyboard.” Driscoll grinned and shook the girl’s hand.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Just so you know my heart’s in the right place, tonight’s demonstration is on the house. But next time it’s gonna cost ya.”
“How much?”
“Fifty dollars an hour. And I guarantee satisfaction.”
“What’re gonna do with all the dough?”
“Have you priced a motherboard lately?”
“Oh, John,” Margaret groaned. “We’ve got a technogeek on our hands.”
“On that note, I’m outa here,” said Moira. “Time for you two to hit the keys.”
“What now?” asked Margaret.
“Your homework. I’m sure your crew of technicians have already scoured the Internet highways and byways, but it might be a good idea to do your own search. Your instincts may lead you to something they overlooked. It can’t hurt. Remember, you guys will have to stay one step ahead of the G-men, or they’ll be the ones cracking your case. Hasta la vista!” she added as she slipped out the door.”
“So, where do we start?” Margaret asked.
“There’s a great big World Wide Web out there, and you and I are gonna surf it.”
“I’m no surfer, John. I don’t even like getting my feet wet.”
The door opened, and Moira stuck her head inside. “Don’t waste your time in the FBI files, Lieutenant. They haven’t a clue in the case.”
The door slammed shut.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” said Margaret.
Driscoll cleared his throat and turned his attention to Margaret. “You OK with all that we said earlier?” he asked.
“I’m fine. It’s nice to know we share the same feelings.”
“You understand that I can’t act on those feelings, right?”
“Right.”
“So can we put those feelings aside for a moment and get down to the business of catching this bastard?”
“You bet. But I’ll need a little help getting started. I’m not that computer savvy.”
“All right, then,” Driscoll said, flexing his fingers over the keyboard. “Here at the Command Center we use Netscape as our Internet browser. That’s that little icon on the screen with the ship’s steering wheel. I’m clicking on it, see? Now we got search instruments: Lycos, Yahoo, Gopher, and lots more. We’re gonna use them to look up everything we can find on every detail of the case. Now, type ‘bones’ in the search line…OK, now click ‘Search’…That’s it…There’s your list of everything on the Internet dealing with bones. Just click the mouse on those topics you want to know more about. Keep going down the list. You find something that may be a lead, give me a holler. I’ll be doing the same thing over here with ‘Gaelic’…Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Then let’s start surfing.”
Hours later they had downloaded volumes of data on bones, Gaelic, torture, sadism, and abductions, had printed reams of pages, and had amassed vast quantities of information. None of it pointed to any one suspect or in any particular direction. Their search was a strain on both the head and back.
Margaret pushed back her chair and glanced at the wall clock. It was 1:48 A.M.
“Jesus, I’m starving,” she grumbled. “How ’bout Indonesian?”
Driscoll’s stomach rebelled. “You want me to eat food where they load everything with chunky peanut butter? That’s not for me. I’ll pass.”
“What then?” Margaret said, arms outstretched, caught in midyawn.
“You’re the one who’s hungry.”
“Yeah. And you ain’t helpin’. You’re supposed to suggest the place.” Margaret’s head was cradled in her palms, her elbows on her knees. Her body signaled exhaustion.
“How ’bout my house? There’s a new dish I’ve been dabbling with, and I’ve almost got it right.” The notion brought a smile to Driscoll’s face.
“You cook?” Margaret’s blue eyes were riveted to his, and Driscoll wasn’t immune to what those eyes conveyed. Her gaze spoke volumes, and those volumes begged for a romantic relationship with him. Driscoll wasn’t blind to that, and he certainly wasn’t blind to the woman’s beauty and charm. There was no question about it. Margaret was a very desirable woman. This would be so much easier if he were single. He knew Colette would never awaken from her coma, so it could be argued that he was already single. The man trembled at the thought. Reason took hold. He was a married man. He’d have to maintain a platonic relationship with Margaret. But every instinct he had said he couldn’t. What was he to do?