Divided in Death
J. D. Robb
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever.
-WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Marriage is a desperate thing.
-JOHN SELDEN
Killing was too good for him.
Death was an end, even a release. He'd go to hell, there was no
question in her mind, and there he would suffer eternal torment. She
wanted that for him-eventually. But for the time being, she wanted him
to suffer where she could watch.
Lying, cheating son of a bitch! She wanted him to snivel and beg and
plead and slither on his belly like the gutter rat he was. She wanted
him to bleed from the ears, to scream like a girl. She wanted to twist
his adulterous dick into knots while he shrieked for the mercy she'd
never give.
She wanted to pound her fists into his beautiful liar's face until it
was a pulpy, pustulated mass of blood and bone.
Then and only then, the dickless, faceless bastard could die. A slow,
withering, agonizing death.
Nobody, nobody cheated on Reva Ewing.
She had to pull over and stop the car in the breakdown lane of the
Queensboro Bridge until she calmed down enough to trust herself to
continue. Because someone had cheated on Reva Ewing. The man she'd
loved, the man she'd married, the man she'd believed in utterly was,
even now, making love to another woman.
Touching another woman, tasting her, using that skilled deceiver's
mouth, those clever cheating hands to drive another woman wild.
And not just any other woman. A friend. Someone else she'd loved and
trusted, believed in, counted on.
It wasn't just infuriating. It wasn't just painful to know her husband
and her friend were having an affair, and right under her oblivious
nose. It was embarrassing to discover herself a cliché. The
deceived wife, the clueless dolt who accepted and believed the
adulterer every time he said he had to work late, or had a dinner
meeting with a client, or was zipping out of town for a few days to
nail down, or hand-deliver, a commission.
Worse, Reva thought now as traffic whizzed by her car, that she of all
people had been so easily duped. She was a goddamn security expert.
She'd spent five years in the Secret Service and had guarded a
president before going into the private sector. Where were her
instincts, her eyes, her ears?
How could Blair have been coming home to her, night after night, fresh
from another woman and she not know?
Because she'd loved him, Reva admitted. Because she'd been happy,
deliriously happy to believe a man like Blair -with his sophistication
and amazing looks -had loved and wanted her.
He was so handsome, so talented, so smart. The elegant bohemian with
his dark silky hair and emerald-green eyes. She'd been sunk, she
thought now, the minute he'd turned those eyes on her, the instant he'd
sent her that killer smile. And six months later, they'd been married
and living in the big, secluded house in Queens.
Two years, she thought, two years she'd given him everything she had,
shared every piece of herself with him, and had loved him with every
cell of her body. And all the while he'd been playing her for a fool.
Well, now he'd pay. She dashed the tears from her cheeks, dug deep
again for her anger. Now, Blair Bissel was going to find out just what
she was made of.
She pulled back into traffic, and drove at a rapid clip to Manhattan's
Upper East Side.
* * *
The husband-stealing bitch, as Reva now thought of her former friend,
Felicity Kade, lived in a lovely converted brownstone near the north
corner of Central Park. Instead of reminding herself of all the time
she'd spent inside, at parties, casual evenings, at Felicity's famed
Sunday brunches, Reva concentrated on the security.
It was good. Felicity collected art and guarded that collection like a
dog guarded his meaty bone. The fact was, Reva had met her three years
before when she'd helped design and install Felicity's security system.
It would take an expert to gain entrance, and even then, there were
backups and fail-safes that would foil all but the crème de la
crème of burglars.
But when a woman made her living, her very good living, looking for
chinks in security, she could always find one. She'd come armed, with
two jammers, a beefed-up personal palm computer, an illegal police
master code, and a stunner she intended to slap right against Blair's
cheating balls.
After that, well, she wasn't quite sure what she'd do. She'd just play
the rest by ear.
She hefted her bag of tools, shoved the stunner in her back pocket, and
marched through the balmy September evening toward the front entrance.
She keyed in the first jammer as she walked, knowing she'd have thirty
seconds only once she'd locked it on the exterior panel. Numbers began
to flash on her handheld, and her heart began to race as she counted
off the time.
Three seconds before the alarm was set to trip, the first code scanned
onto her jammer. She let out the breath she'd held, glanced up at the
dark windows.
"Just keep doing what you're doing up there, you pair of slime," she
muttered as she set the second jammer. "I only need a few more minutes
here. Then we'll really party."
She heard the whiz of a car on the street behind her, and cursed softly
as it braked. A quick look back and she spotted a cab at the curb, and
the laughing couple in evening clothes who climbed out. Reva edged
closer to the door, deeper in the shadows. With a minidrill she removed
the side of the palm plate, noting that Felicity's house droid kept
even the screws spotless.
Interfacing her PPC with a hair-thin wire, she keyed in a bypass code,
waited the sweaty seconds for it to clear. Meticulously, she replaced
the panel, then used the second jammer on the voice box.
It took longer to clone, a full two minutes, but she felt a frisson of
excitement work through her fury when the last voice entry played back.
August Rembrandt.
Reva's lips twisted in a sneer as her false friend's voice murmured the
password. Reva had only to key in the cloned security numbers, then use
her tools to lift the last, manual lock.
She slipped inside, closed the door, and out of habit reset the
security.
Prepared for the house droid to appear, to request her business, she
held her stunner at the ready. He'd recognize her, of course, and that
would give her just enough time to fry his circuits and clear her way.
But the house stayed silent, and no droid stepped into the foyer. So,
they'd shut him down for the night, she thought grimly. So they could
have a little more privacy.
She could smell the roses Felicity always kept on the table in the
foyer-pink roses, replaced weekly. There was a low light burning beside
the vase, but Reva didn't need it. She knew her way, and walked
directly to the stairs to climb to the second floor. To the bedroom.
When she reached the landing she saw all she needed to bring her rage
back in full force. Tossed carelessly over the rail was Blair's light
leather jacket. It was the one she'd given him for his birthday the
previous spring. The one he'd hooked carelessly with his fingers over
his shoulder just that morning when he'd kissed his loving wife
goodbye, and told her how much he'd miss her, told her as he'd nuzzled
her neck how much he hated having to take even this quick out-of-town
trip.
Reva lifted the jacket, brought it to her face. She could smell him on
it, and the scent of him nearly tore her grief through her anger.
To stave it off, she took one of her tools out of her bag and quietly
shred the leather to ribbons. Then, tossing it on the floor, she ground
her heel into it before stepping away.
Face hot with temper, she set her bag down, took the stunner back out
of her pocket. As she approached the bedroom she saw the flicker of
light. Candles, she could even smell them now, some spicy female
perfume. And she could hear the low notes of music -something classic,
like the roses, like the scent of the candles.
It was all so Felicity, she thought furiously. All so female and
fragile and perfect. She'd have preferred something modern, something
today and gutsy for this altercation.
Give her Mavis Freestone kicking some serious musical ass, she thought.
But then it was easy to tune out the music with the buzzing of temper
and the ring of betrayal in her head. She toed the door wider with her
foot, eased in.
She could see the two figures huddled together under the silk and lace
of the coverlet. They'd fallen asleep, she thought bitterly. All cozy
and warm and loose from sex.
Their clothes were tossed over a chair, messily, as if they'd been in a
hurry to start. Seeing them, the tangle of clothes, broke her heart in
hundreds of pieces.
Bracing against it, she strode to the bed, gripped the stunner in her
hand. "Wake-up call, you piss-buckets."
And whipped the silk and lace cover away.
The blood. Oh my God, the blood. The sight of it all over flesh, all
over the sheets made her head spin. The sudden smell of it, of death,
mixed with the scents of flowers and candles, made her gag and stumble
back.
"Blair? Blair?"
She screamed once, shocking herself into action. Sucking in air to
scream again, she lunged forward.
Something, someone, slipped out of the shadows. She caught the
movement, and another smell-harsh, medicinal. It filled her throat, her
lungs.
She turned, to flee or defend she wasn't sure, and fought to swim
through air that had gone to water around her. But the power had
drained out of her limbs, numbing them seconds before her eyes rolled
back in her head.
And she collapsed in a heap beside the dead who had betrayed her.
Lieutenant Eve Dallas, one of New York's top cops, sprawled naked with
the blood beating in her ears and her heart pounding like an airjack.
She managed to wheeze in a breath, then gave it up.
Who needed air when the system was revving from the aftermath of truly
spectacular sex?
Beneath her, her husband lay warm and hard and still. The only movement
was the knock of his heart against hers. Until he lifted one of those
amazing hands and cruised it along her spine, from nape to butt.
"You want me to move," she mumbled, "you're out of luck."
"I'd say my luck's in."
She smiled in the dark. She loved hearing his voice, the way Ireland
shimmered through it. "Pretty good welcome-home, especially since you
were gone less than forty-eight hours."
"It certainly put a nice cap on a short trip to Florence."
"I didn't ask, did you stop off in Ireland to see your-" She hesitated
just a beat. It was still so odd to think of Roarke with family. "Your
family?"
"I did, yes. Had a nice few hours." He continued to stroke that hand,
up and down, up and down her back so that her heartbeat slowed and her
eyes began to droop. "It's very strange, isn't it?"
"I guess it will be, for a while yet."
"And how's the new detective?"
Eve snuggled in, thinking of her former aide and how she was handling
her recent promotion. "Peabody's good. Still finding her rhythm. We had
a family dispute gone sour. Two brothers mixing it up over inherited
property. Knocked the shit out of each other before one of them takes a
header down the steps and breaks his stupid neck. So the other brother
tries to mock it up like a bungled burglary. Tosses all this stuff they
were fighting over in a blanket, hauls it out to his car, shoves it in
the trunk. Like we're not going to look there."
The derision in her tone had him chuckling. Eve rolled off and
stretched.
"Anyway, it was pretty much connect the big, pulsing red dots, so I put
Peabody on as primary. After she started breathing again, she did fine.
Sweepers were already sucking up evidence, but she takes this jerk in
the kitchen, sits down with him all sympathetic-used all that family
business she knows so well. Had him babbling out a confession in about
ten minutes. Got him on Man Two."
"Good for her."
"It'll help build her confidence." She stretched again. "We could use a
few more walks in the meadow like that one after the summer we put in."
"You might take a few days off. We could walk in a real meadow."
"Give me a couple of weeks with her. I want to make sure she finds her
feet before I let her solo."
"That's a date, then. Oh, your . . . enthusiastic welcome, while much
appreciated, drove this right out of my mind." He got out of bed,
calling for the lights at ten percent.
In their subtle glow, she could watch him step off the wide platform
where the bed stood, move toward the small bag he'd taken with him.
Watching him move, graceful as some lean, elegant cat, gave her such
pleasure.
Was that kind of grace innate, she wondered, or had he learned it
dodging cops and picking pockets as a child on the streets of Dublin?
However it had come to him, it had served him well, as that clever boy,
and as the clever man who'd built an empire out of guts and guile and a
wily kind of genius.
When he turned, and she saw his face in that shadowed light, it blew
straight through her. The staggering love, the breathless wonder that
he should be hers -that anything so beautiful should be hers.
He looked like a work of art, one carved by some brilliant sorcerer.
The keen bones of his face, the generous mouth that was sensual magic.
Those eyes, that wild Celtic blue, that could still make her throat
ache when they looked at her. And that miraculous canvas was framed by
black silk that swept nearly to his shoulders, and continually made her
fingers itch to touch it.
They'd been married more than a year, and there were times, unexpected
times, when just looking at him could stop her heart.
He came back to sit beside her, cupped her chin in his hand, brushed
his thumb over the little dent in its center. "Darling Eve, so still
and quiet in the dark." He touched his lips to her brow. "I've brought
you a present."
She blinked, and immediately edged back. It made him smile, this
habitual reaction of hers to gifts. Just as the uneasy look she gave
the long, narrow box in his hand made him grin.
"It won't bite you," he promised.
"You weren't even gone two days. There has to be some sort of time
requirement for bringing back presents."
"I missed you after two minutes."
"You're saying that to soften me up."
"Doesn't make it less true. Open the box, Eve, then say: 'Thank you,
Roarke.'"
She rolled her eyes, but she opened the box.
It was a bracelet, a kind of cuff with a pattern of minute diamond
shapes etched into the gold to give it sparkle. In the center was a
stone-and as it was blood-red, she assumed it was a ruby-big as her
thumb and smooth to the touch.
It looked old, and important, in that priceless antique way that made
her stomach jitter.
"Roarke-"
"You forgot the thank-you part."
"Roarke," she said again. "You're going to tell me this once belonged
to some Italian countess or-"
"Princess," he supplied, and took the bracelet from her to slip it onto
her wrist. "Sixteenth century. Now it belongs to a queen."
"Oh, please."
"Okay, that was laying it on a bit thick. Looks good on you, though."
"It'd look good on a tree stump." She wasn't much on glitters, despite
the fact that the man heaped them on her at every opportunity. But this
one had . . . something, she thought as she lifted her arm and turned
her wrist so the stone and etching caught and scattered light. "What if
I lose it, or break it?"
"That would be a shame. But until you do, I enjoy seeing it on you. If
it makes you feel any better, my aunt Sinead seemed equally flustered
by the necklace I bought her."
"She struck me as a sensible woman."
He tugged a lock of Eve's hair. "The women in my life are sensible,
enough to indulge me as giving them gifts brings me such pleasure."
"That's a slick way to box it in. It's beautiful." And she had to
admit, at least privately, that she liked the way it slid fluidly over
her skin. "I can't wear this to work."
"I don't suppose so. Then again, I like the way it looks on you now.
When you're wearing nothing else."
"Don't get any ideas, ace. I'm on shift in-six hours," she calculated
after a glance at the time.
Because she recognized the gleam in his eye, she narrowed her own. But
the token protest she intended to give was interrupted by the bedside
'link.
"That's your signal." She nodded toward the 'link, then rolled off the
bed. "At least when somebody calls you at two in the morning, nobody's
dead."
She wandered off into the bathroom as she heard him block video, and
answer.
She took her time, then as an afterthought snagged the robe off the
back of the door in case he'd reinstated the video on the 'link.
She was belting it as she went back in, and saw he was up and at his
closet. "Who was it?"
"Caro."
"You've got to go now? At two in the morning?" His tone, just the way
he'd said his admin's name, had the skin on her neck prickling.
"What is it?"
"Eve." He pulled out a shirt to go with the trousers he'd hastily put
on. "I need a favor. A very large favor."
Not from his wife, she thought. But from his cop. "What is it?"
"One of my employees." He dragged on the shirt, but his eyes stayed on
Eve. "She's in trouble. Considerable trouble. Someone is dead, after
all."
"One of your employees kill someone, Roarke?"
"No." Since she continued to stand where she was, he moved to her
closet, took out clothes. "She's confused and panicked, and Caro says
somewhat incoherent. These are not traits one associates with Reva. She
works in Security. Design and installation, primarily. She's solid as
stone. She was with the Secret Service for a number of years, and isn't
a woman who shakes easily."
"You're not telling me what happened."
"She found her husband and her friend in bed at the friend's apartment.
Dead. Already dead, Eve."
"And finding two dead bodies, she contacted your administrative
assistant instead of the police."
"No." He pushed the clothes he'd chosen into Eve's hands. "She
contacted her mother."
Eve stared at him, cursed softly, then began to dress. "I have to call
this in."
"I'm asking you to wait, until you see for yourself, until you talk to
Reva." He laid his hands on hers, held them there until she looked back
at him again. "Eve, I'm asking you, please, wait that long. You don't
have to call in what you haven't seen with your own eyes. I know this
woman. I've known her mother more than a dozen years, and trust her to
the level I trust very few. They need your help. I need it."
She picked up her weapon harness, strapped it on. "Then let's get
there. Fast."
* * *
It was a clear night with the heaviness that had dogged the summer of
2059 lightening toward the crispness of the coming fall. Traffic was
light, and the short drive required little skill or concentration on
Roarke's part. He judged by his wife's silence that she'd closed in.
She asked no questions as she wanted no more information, nothing that
would influence her from her own impressions of what she would see and
hear and feel.
Her narrow, angular face was set, the long golden-brown eyes cop-flat.
Unreadable even to him. The wide mouth that had been hot and soft
against his only a short time before was firm and tight-lipped.
He parked on the street, in an illegal spot, and flicked the ON DUTY
light in her vehicle before she could do so herself.
She said nothing, but stepped onto the sidewalk and stood, tall and
lanky, her shaggy brown hair still mussed from lovemaking.
He crossed to her, gently combed his own fingers through her hair to
order it, as well as he could. "Thank you for this."
"You don't want to thank me yet. Prime digs," she commented with a nod
toward the brownstone. Before she could mount the steps, the door
opened.
There was Caro, her shiny white hair like a silvery halo around her
head. Without that, Eve might not have recognized Roarke's dignified
and efficient admin in the pale woman wearing a smart red jacket over
blue cotton pajamas.
"Thank God. Thank God. Thank you for coming so quickly." She reached
out with a visibly trembling hand and gripped Roarke's. "I didn't know
quite what to do."
"You did just right," Roarke told her, and drew her in.
Eve heard her stifle a sob, let go with a sigh. "Reva-she's not well,
not well at all. I have her in the living area. I didn't go upstairs."
Caro eased away from Roarke, straightened her shoulders. "I didn't
think I should. I haven't touched anything, Lieutenant, except a glass
out of the kitchen. I got Reva a glass of water, but I only touched the
glass, and the bottle. Oh, and the handle of the friggie. I-"
"It's all right. Why don't you go sit with your daughter? Roarke, stay
with them."
"You'll be all right with Reva for a few minutes, won't you?" he asked
Caro. "I'll go with the lieutenant." Ignoring the flash of irritation
over Eve's face, he gave Caro's shoulder a comforting rub. "I won't be
long."
"She said -Reva said it was horrible. And now she just sits there, and
doesn't say anything at all."
"Keep her quiet," Eve advised. "Keep her down here." She started
upstairs. She glanced at the leather jacket, ripped to shreds and
tossed into a heap on the floor. "Did she tell you which room?"
"No. Just that Reva found them in the bed."
Eve glanced at the room on the right, another on the left. Then she
scented the blood. She continued down the hall, stopped at the doorway.
The two bodies were turned on their sides, facing each other. As if
they were telling secrets. Blood stained the sheets, the pillows, the
lacy cover that was tangled on the floor.
It stained the hilt and blade of the knife jabbed viciously into the
mattress.
She saw a black bag near the door, a high-end stunner on the floor near
the left side of the bed, a disordered pile of clothes heaped on a
chair. Candles, still lit and wafting fragrance. Music still playing in
soft, sexy notes.
"This is no walk in the meadow," she murmured. "Double homicide. I have
to call it in."
"Will you stand as primary?"
"I'll stand," she agreed. "But if your friend did this, that's not
going to be a favor."
"She didn't."
He stepped back while Eve drew out her communicator.
"I need you to take Caro in another room," she told him when she was
finished. "Not the kitchen," she added with another glance at the
knife. "There must be a den or a library or something like that down
there. Try not to touch anything. I need to question-what was it? Reva?"
"Reva Ewing, yes."
"I need to question her, and I don't want you or her mother around when
I do. You want to help her," she said before he could speak, "let's
keep this as much by the book as we can from this point. You said she's
security."
"Yes."
"Since she's one of yours I don't have to ask if she's good."
"She is. Very good."
"And he was her husband?"
Roarke looked back at the bed. "He was. Blair Bissel, an artist of some
debatable talent. Works-worked in metal. That's one of his, I believe."
He gestured toward a tall, seemingly jumbled series of metal tubes and
blocks that stood in the corner of the room.
"And people pay for that?" She shook her head. "Takes all kinds. I'm
going to ask you more about her later, but I want to get to her first,
then take a closer look at the scene here. How long have they had
marital problems?" Eve asked as she started down the hall again.
"I wasn't aware they had any."
"Well, they're over now. Keep Caro tucked away," she ordered, then
walked to the living area to get her first look at Reva Ewing.
Caro sat with her arm around a woman in her early thirties. She had
dark hair, cut short in a style nearly as careless as Eve's. She looked
to have a small, compact body, the athletic sort that showed off well
in the black T-shirt and jeans she wore.
Her skin was icy-white, her eyes a kind of sooty gray that was nearly
black with shock. Her lips were colorless, a bit on the thin side. As
Eve stepped closer, those eyes flicked up, stared blindly. They were
red-rimmed and puffy, and showed none of the sharp intelligence Eve
assumed she owned.
"Ms. Ewing, I'm Lieutenant Dallas."
She continued to stare, but there was a faint movement of her head, as
much shudder as nod.
"I need to ask you some questions. Your mother's going to go with
Roarke while we talk."
"Oh, couldn't I stay with her?" Caro's arm tightened on Reva's
shoulders. "I won't interfere, I promise, but-"
"Caro." Roarke moved to stand beside her, reached down and took her
hand. "It's better this way." Gently, he drew Caro to her feet. "Better
for Reva. You can trust Eve."
"Yes, I know. It's just . . ." She looked back as Roarke led her from
the room. "I'll be right here. Reva, I'm right here."
"Ms. Ewing." Eve sat across from her, set her recorder on the table
between them. And saw Reva's gaze fix on it. "I'm going to record this.
I'm going to read you your rights, then ask you some questions. Do you
understand?"
"Blair's dead. I saw. They're dead. Blair and Felicity."
"Ms. Ewing, you have the right to remain silent." Eve walked through
the revised Miranda, and Reva closed her eyes.
"Oh God, oh God. It's real. It's not some horrible dream. It's real."
"Tell me what happened here tonight."
"I don't know." A tear dribbled down her cheek. "I don't know what
happened."
"Was your husband sexually involved with Felicity?"
"I don't understand it. I don't understand. I thought he loved me." Her
eyes locked on Eve's. "I didn't believe it at first. How could I? Blair
and Felicity. My husband and my friend. But then I could see it, could
see all the signs I missed, all the clues, all the mistakes-those
little mistakes they both made."
"How long have you known?"
"Just tonight. Just tonight." Her breath shuddered in and out as she
used a balled fist to wipe at the tears on her cheeks. "He was supposed
to be out of town until tomorrow. A client, a new commission. But he
was here, with her. I came, and I saw . . ."
"You came here tonight to confront them?"
"I was so angry. They'd made a fool out of me, and I was so angry. They
broke my heart, and I was so sad. Then they were dead. All that blood.
All the blood."
"Did you kill them, Reva?"
"No!" Her whole body jerked at the question. "No, no, no! I wanted to
hurt them. I wanted them to pay. But I didn't . . . I couldn't have. I
don't know what happened."
"Tell me what you do know."
"I drove over. We have a house in Queens. Blair wanted a house, and he
didn't want to live in Manhattan where we both worked. Someplace
private and away, that's what he said. Someplace just ours."
Her voice broke on the words so that she covered her face with her
hands. "I'm sorry. It all seems impossible. It seems I'll wake up any
minute and none of this will have happened."
There was some blood on her shirt. None on her hands, on her arms, her
face. Eve noted it down among her observations and waited for Reva to
compose herself and go on.
"I was furious, and I knew just what I wanted to do. I'd designed the
security here, so I knew how to get in. I broke in."
She dashed a tear off her cheek. "I didn't want to give them time to
prepare, so I broke in, and I went upstairs, to her bedroom."
"Did you have a weapon?"
"No . . . Well, I had a stunner. My SS issue, reconfigured. It won't go
over minimum power, so I can carry it with a civilian license. I was .
. ." She heaved a breath. "I was going to give him a jolt with it. On
the balls."
"And did you?"
"No." She covered her face with her hands. "I can't remember clearly.
It's like this smear over my brain."
"You tear up the leather jacket?"
"Yeah." She sighed now. "I saw it hanging over the rail. I gave him
that goddamn jacket, and seeing it just made me crazy. I took out my
minidrill and went to work on it. Petty, I know it was petty, but I was
so angry."
"Doesn't seem petty to me," Eve said, keeping her tone mild and just a
little sympathetic. "Husband's cheating on you with your pal, you'd
want to get some of your own back."
"That's the way I felt. Then I saw them in the bed, together. And I saw
them -dead. The blood. I've never seen so much blood. She screamed -no,
no, I screamed. I must've screamed."
She rubbed a hand over her throat, as if she could still feel the sound
ripping through it. "Then I passed out-I think. I smelled something.
The blood, but something. Something else, and I passed out. I don't
know how long."
She reached for the glass of water, drank deeply. "I woke up, and I
felt fuzzy and sick and strange. Then I saw them, on the bed. I saw
them again and I crawled out. I couldn't seem to stand up, so I crawled
out, to the bathroom and got sick. I called my mother. I don't know why
exactly. I should've called the police, but I called Mom. I wasn't
thinking straight."
"Did you come here tonight with the intention of killing your husband
and your friend?"
"No. I came here with the intention of pitching a royal fit.
Lieutenant, I'm going to be sick again. I need to-"
She clutched her stomach, then sprang up and ran. Eve was on her heels
when Reva flung open a door and dived into a powder room. Dropping to
her knees, she was hideously ill.
"Burns," she managed, and gratefully took the damp cloth Eve offered.
"Burns my throat."
"You take any illegals tonight, Reva?"
"I don't do illegals." She mopped the cloth over her face. "Believe me,
you're raised by Caro, screened by the Secret Service, then Roarke, you
don't screw around." Exhaustion in every line of her body, she leaned
back against the wall. "Lieutenant, I've never killed anyone. I carried
a weapon when I stood for the President, and once took a hit for her.
I've got a temper, and when I'm riding on it, I can be rash. Whoever
did that to Blair, to Felicity, wasn't rash. They had to be crazy.
Fucking out of their minds. I couldn't have done it.
I couldn't have."
Eve crouched down so they were eye-to-eye. "Why do you sound like
you're trying to convince yourself of that, Reva, as much as me?"
Her lips trembled, her eyes swam with fresh tears. "Because I can't
remember. I just can't remember." She covered her face with her hands,
and wept.
Eve left her long enough to get Caro. "I want you to sit with her," Eve
instructed. "I'm going to put a guard with you momentarily. That's
procedure."
"Are you arresting her?"
"I haven't made that determination. She's cooperating, and that's going
to help. It'd be best if you bring her in here, keep her in this room
until I come back."
"All right. Thank you."
"I've got to get my field kit out of the car."
"I'll get it." Roarke walked out with her. "What do you think?"
"I'm not thinking anything until I secure and examine the scene."
"Lieutenant, you're always thinking."
"Let me do my job. You want to help? Direct my partner and the CSU
upstairs when they arrive. Until then, you need to back off or you'll
just muck up the works."
"Tell me one thing. Should I advise Reva to contact a lawyer?"
"You put me in a hell of a fix." She snatched the field kit from him.
"I'm a cop. Let me go be a cop. You figure out the rest. Goddamn it to
hell and back again."
She stomped upstairs. Breaking open the kit, she yanked out a can of
Seal-It and coated her hands and boots. Then, fixing a recorder on her
lapel, she re-entered the crime scene and got to work.
She'd progressed to the bodies themselves when she heard the creak of a
floorboard. She whirled, ready to snap at the intruder, and bit back
the oath when she spotted Peabody.
She was going to have to get used to her former aide's lack of
clomping. The new detective no longer wore the hard-soled cop shoes of
uniform, but cushy airsneaks that were all but soundless. And just, in
Eve's opinion, a little spooky.
She had them, apparently, in every color of the rainbow, including the
mustard-yellow she wore now to match her jacket. Despite them, and the
straight-legged black pants and scoop-necked top, she managed to look
pressed and polished and cop-like. Her square face was sober and
concerned, and framed by her standard 'do, the straight bowl cut that
seemed to suit her dark hair.
"It's insult on injury to buy it naked," Peabody said.
"And embarrassing on top of it to buy it naked with another woman's
husband, or a woman not your wife."
"Is that what we've got? Dispatch wasn't big on details."
"I didn't give them details. Dead guy is Roarke's admin's son-in-law,
and right at the moment, her daughter's prime suspect."
Peabody looked at the bed. "Looks like a messy situation just got
messier."
"Take the scene first, then I'll fill you in on the players. Stunner."
She lifted the sealed weapon. "Suspect claims-"
"Holy wow!"
"What? What?" Eve's free hand slammed onto the butt of her weapon.
"That." Reaching out, Peabody danced her fingers delicately over the
bracelet on Eve's wrist. "It's mag. I mean mondo mag, Dallas."
Mortified, Eve shoved the cuff under the sleeve of her jacket. She'd
forgotten she was wearing the bracelet. "Maybe we could concentrate on
the scene of the crime rather than my accessories."
"Sure, but that is some ultimate accessory. Is that big fat red stone a
ruby?"
"Peabody."
"Okay, okay." But she was going to get a closer look, when Dallas
wasn't paying attention. "Where were you?"
"Just playing around with evidence, amusing myself at a crime scene."
Peabody rolled her eyes. "Jeez, beat me with a stick."
"First chance," Eve agreed. "To continue. The suspect claims that she
brought a stunner with her, a reconfigured one that meets civilian
licensee requirements. This is not a reconfigured stunner, but a
military issue with full capabilities."
"Uh-huh."
"Succinct, as always."
"That's inscrutable detective-speak."
"Said weapon, which I've already tested for prints, has suspect's, and
only suspect's prints, all over it. As does the murder weapon." Eve
gestured to another sealed bag, and the bloody knife within. "The carry
bag over there holds electronic jammers and burglar tools, also loaded
with Reva Ewing's prints."
"Is she security-savvy?"
"Works in that capacity for Roarke Enterprises, and is a former member
of the Secret Service."
"From the setup, it appears that the suspect broke in, found her
husband noodling strange, and hacked away."
But she moved closer to the bed, the bodies. "No defensive wounds on
either vic, no signs of struggle. Somebody starts hacking away, most
people tend to object, at least a little."
"Hard to when you're stunned first."
With a fingertip, Eve indicated the small red dots between Blair's
shoulder-blades, the matching ones between Felicity's breasts.
"Him on the back, her on the front," Peabody noted.
"Yeah. I'd say they were in the middle of noodling strange. Killer
walks in behind, zaps him first, shoves him aside and zaps her before
she can more than peep. They were unconscious, or at least
incapacitated when the hacking began."
"Serious overkill," Peabody commented. "There must be a dozen wounds on
each of them."
"Eighteen for him, fourteen for her."
"Ouch."
"I'll say. No heart wounds, which is interesting. Makes more blood if
you don't hit the heart."
She studied the way it spread over the sheets, the light spatter on the
shade of the lamp beside the bed. Nasty work, she thought. Very nasty,
very messy.
"Also interesting that none of the holes in them struck the points
where the stunner left the burn marks. Suspect has some blood on her
clothes-not much, considering, but some. Hands and arms are clean."
"She'd have to wash up after something like this."
"You'd think. You'd think if she did, she'd have gotten rid of the
shirt, too. But people dumb down a lot of times after they hack a
couple people to death."
"Her mother's here," Peabody pointed out.
"Yeah. So maybe her mother washed her up some, but Caro strikes me as
more careful than that. Time of death is one-twelve A.M. We'll have EDD
check the security, see if we can determine when she bypassed and
entered. I need you to check the kitchen, see if the murder weapon came
from the premises, or if it was brought on scene."
She paused a moment. "You see what's left of the leather bomber jacket
on the floor down there?"
"Yeah. Looked like nice material."
"I want it tagged, too. Ewing says she tore it up with her minidrill.
Let's see if that matches."
"Huh. Why'd she use a drill if she had a knife. Ripping away with a
knife's got to be more satisfying and efficient."
"Yeah, there's a question. We'll also run both vics, see if we can find
anyone who'd want them dead besides the betrayed wife."
Hissing a breath out between her teeth, Peabody looked back at the
bodies. "If it's what it looks like, she'll make diminished capacity in
a walk."
"Let's find out what it is, not what it looks like."
"No. No, I didn't wash her hands or face." Caro sat, eyes level, face
composed. But her hands were knotted together in her lap, as if she
used them as a rope to anchor her body to the chair.
"I tried to touch as little as possible, and just keep her calm until
you got here."
"Caro." Eve kept her gaze focused on the woman's face, and tried to
ignore the fact-and the small kernel of resentment in her belly -that
Roarke remained in the room. At Caro's request. "There's a master bath
upstairs, off the main bedroom. There are indications, though the sink
was wiped down, that someone washed blood away."
"I didn't go upstairs. I give you my word."
Because she did, because Eve believed her, she realized Caro didn't
understand the implications of her statement. But from the change in
Roarke's posture, the subtle shifting to alert, Eve knew he did.
Because he remained silent, that kernel of resentment shrank a bit.
"There's blood on Reva's clothes," Eve said.
"Yes, I know. I saw . . ." And the understanding dawned in her eyes,
followed instantly by a barely controlled panic. "Lieutenant, if Reva
-if she used the washroom, it would've been while she was in shock. Not
to try to cover anything up. You have to believe that. She was in
shock."
Sick, certainly, Eve thought. Her prints were on the bowl and rim of
the toilet. Just as they'd be if she'd held on while being violently
ill. But not in the master bath. The evidence of her illness was in the
bath down the hall from the bedroom.
While the blood traces were in the master bath.
"How did you enter the premises, Caro?"
"How did I . . . oh." She brushed a hand over her face like a woman
brushing absently at a cobweb. "The door, the front door was unlocked.
It was open a little."
"Open?"
"Yes. Yes, the lock light was green, then I saw it wasn't quite closed,
so I just pushed it open and came in."
"And what was the situation when you entered?"
"Reva was sitting on the floor, in the foyer. Sitting there, in a ball,
shaking. She was barely coherent."
"But she'd been coherent enough when she contacted you for you to
understand Blair and Felicity were dead, and she -your daughter- was in
trouble."
"Yes. That is, I understood she needed me, and that Blair-Blair and
Felicity -were dead. She said: 'Mom. Mom, they're dead. Someone's
killed them.' She was crying, and her voice was hollow and strange. She
said she didn't know what to do, what should she do. I asked where she
was, and she told me. I can't remember exactly what she said, or I
said. But it's on my 'link at home. You'll hear for yourself." Her
voice tightened a little.
"Yes, we will."
"I realize that Reva, then I, should have contacted the police
immediately."
Caro smoothed a hand over the knees of her pajama pants, then simply
stared at them as if she'd just realized what she was wearing.
Her cheeks went a little pink, then she sighed. "I can only tell you
that both of us, both of us were . . . we weren't thinking clearly, and
only thought to contact the person we each trusted most."
"Were you aware that your son-in-law was unfaithful?"
"No. No, I was not." The words snapped out, with anger just behind
them. "And before you ask, I knew Felicity quite well, or thought I
did," Caro amended. "I considered her one of Reva's closest friends,
almost a sister. She was often in my home, as I was often in hers."
"Was she, Felicity, involved with other men?"
"She had a very active social life, and leaned toward artists." Her
mouth went grim as her thoughts veered, obviously, to her son-in-law.
"She used to joke that she wasn't ready to settle on any one style or
era -in men or in her art collection. She was, I thought, a clever
woman, with a great deal of style and humor. Reva is often so serious
and focused on her work. I thought . . . I believed Felicity was a good
friend for her, someone who brought out her more frivolous side."
"Who was Felicity seeing now?"
"I'm not sure. There was a man a few weeks ago. We were all here for
one of her Sunday brunches. He was a painter, I think." She closed her
eyes as if to focus. "Yes, a painter. His name was Fredo. She
introduced him as Fredo, and he struck me as very dramatic, very
foreign and intense. But a few weeks before that, there was another.
Thin and pale and brooding. And before that . . ."
She shrugged a shoulder. "She enjoyed men, and from all appearance
didn't develop relationships with any beyond the surface."
"Is there anyone else who might have had the access codes for this
residence?"
"I don't know of anyone. Felicity was very strict about her security.
She wouldn't employ any staff and kept only droids for domestic work.
She used to say people couldn't be trusted because they always trusted
the wrong people. I remember once I told her I found that very sad, and
she laughed, and reminded me if it wasn't true, my daughter wouldn't
have a job."
Eve saw Peabody come to the doorway, and rose. "Thank you. I'll need to
talk to you again, and I need your permission, on record, to take your
home 'links in for examination."
"You have it, and whatever else you need to clear this up. I want you
to know how much I appreciate you handling this personally. I know
you'll find the truth. Can I go to Reva now?"
"It would be better if you waited here, for a little while longer." She
shot a glance at Roarke, so that he understood she meant for him to do
the same.
In the hallway, she nodded a go-ahead to Peabody.
"Sweepers got blood out of the bathroom drain upstairs, and Ewing's
print on the bowl, though it had been wiped pretty carefully. The
murder weapon doesn't match the kitchen cutlery here. There's a pretty
fancy set, and nothing appears to be missing."
She consulted her notes. "Reactivated the house droid. It was shut down
at twenty-one thirty. Prior to that time, it records that Felicity was
at home with a companion. She'd programmed the droid not to give names
or details. We'll need to take it in to override."
"See to it, then. Any blood traces in the second bath upstairs?"
"None. Just Ewing's prints on the toilet."
"Okay. Let's give Ewing a second pass."
They moved together into the living area where a uniform baby-sat Reva.
The minute Eve stepped in, Reva surged to her feet. "Lieutenant. I'd
like to speak with you. Privately."
Eve gestured for the uniform to leave the room, and spoke without
looking at Peabody. "This is my partner, Detective Peabody. What would
you like to speak with us about, Ms. Ewing?"
Reva hesitated, then, when Eve sat, let out a resigned breath. "It's
just that my head's clearing up, and I've realized what sort of jam I'm
in. And the sort of jam I've put my mother in. She only came because I
was hysterical. I don't want any of the mess that's on me to rub off on
her."
"Don't worry about your mother. No one's looking to hurt her in this."
"Okay." Reva gave a short nod. "Okay, then."
"You said when you pulled back the covers, you saw the bodies, the
blood."
"Yes. I saw they were dead. I knew they were dead. Had to be."
"Where was the knife?"
"The knife?"
"The murder weapon. Where was it?"
"I don't know. I didn't see a knife. Just Blair and Felicity."
"Peabody, would you show Ms. Ewing the weapon we've taken into
evidence."
Peabody drew out the sealed knife, walked over to show it to Reva. "Do
you recognize this knife, Ms. Ewing?"
Reva stared at the smeared blade, the smeared handle, then lifted her
gaze, full of stunned confusion, to Eve's. "It's Blair's. It's one of
the set he bought last year, when he decided we should both take
cooking classes. I told him to go right ahead, but I'd stick with the
AutoChef or take-out. He actually took the classes, and did some
cooking now and then. This looks like one of his kitchen knives."
"Did you bring it with you tonight, Reva? Were you so angry that you
put it in your bag, maybe to threaten them, to scare them?"
"No." She took a step back from it. "No, I didn't bring it."
This time Eve held out an evidence bag. "Is this your stunner?"
"No." Reva's fingers curled into her palms. "That's a recent military
model. Mine's over six years old, a reconfigured Secret Service make.
That doesn't belong to me. I've never seen it before."
"Both this and the knife were used on the victims. Both this and the
knife have your fingerprints on them."
"This is crazy."
"The violence of the stabbings would have resulted in considerable
blood spatter. On your hands, your arms, your face, as well as your
clothes."
Dully now, Reva looked down at her hands, rubbed them gently together.
"I know there's blood on my shirt. I don't know . . . Maybe I touched
something up there. I don't remember. But I didn't kill them. I never
touched that knife, that stunner. There's no blood on my hands."
"There's blood in the bathroom drain, and your fingerprints are on the
sink."
"You think I washed my hands? You think I tried to clean up, cover up,
then called my mother?"
Eve could tell that Reva's head was clearing, and her temper was coming
back along with her coherency. Those dark eyes were hot, and her teeth
clamped together as her color came up. "What the hell do you think I
am? You think I'd rip my husband and my friend to pieces, to goddamn
pieces because they made a fool out of me? And if I did, I wouldn't
have the fucking sense to get rid of the murder weapon and cover
myself? For God's sake, they were dead. They were dead when I got here."
She pushed out of her chair as she spat out the words, and the anger so
alive on her face pushed her to whirl around the room. "What the hell
is going on? What the hell is this?"
"Why did you come here tonight, Reva?"
"To confront them, to shout and yell and maybe to knee Blair in the
balls. To slap Felicity in that gorgeous, lying face. To break
something and create one hell of an ugly scene."
"Why tonight?"
"Because I only found out tonight, goddamn it."
"How? How did you find out?"
Reva stopped, stared at Eve as if trying to understand some odd,
half-remembered language. "The package. Oh Jesus, the photographs and
the receipts. There was a package delivered to my house. I was already
in bed. It was early, just after eleven, but I was bored and went to
bed. I heard the bell from the gate. It irritated me. I couldn't think
who'd be coming by at eleven, but I went down. There was a package left
at the gate. I went out and got it."
"Did you see anyone?"
"No. Just the package, and being a suspicious sort, I ran a scanner
over it. I didn't expect a boomer," she said with a wry smile, "but,
it's habit. I got the all-clear and brought it in. I thought it was
from Blair. An I-already-miss-you present. He did that sort of
thing-silly, romantic . . ."
She trailed off, struggled as her eyes went shiny with tears. "I just
figured it was from him, and I opened it up. There were photographs, a
lot of surveillance-type shots of Blair with Felicity. Intimate,
unmistakable sort of photos of the two of them, and copies of receipts
from hotels and restaurants. Shit."
She pressed her fingers to her lips. "Receipts for jewelry and lingerie
he'd bought-and not for me. All from an account I didn't know he had.
And there were two discs-one of 'link calls between them, one of e-mail
text they'd exchanged. Love calls, love letters-very intimate and
graphic."
"There was nothing to indicate who'd send these things to you."
"No, and I didn't look or even wonder at the time. I was too shocked
and angry and hurt. The last transmission on the disc was the two of
them talking about how they were going to have two days together, right
here in her place while I thought he was out of town. They laughed at
me," she murmured. "Had a good laugh over how oblivious I was to what
was going on right under my nose. Some security expert who couldn't
even keep tabs on her own husband."
She sat again, heavily. "This doesn't make sense. It's just crazy. Who
would kill them, and set me up to take the fall?"
"Where's the package?" Eve asked her.
"In my ride. I brought it with me in case I softened up on the way
over, though there wasn't much chance of it. It's in the passenger seat
where I could see it."
"Peabody."
Reva waited until Peabody walked outside to retrieve the package. "It
doesn't make me look any less guilty. I get proof my husband's diddling
my best friend, find out they have a rendezvous tonight, and I come
over here, armed and ready. I walked right into this. I don't know how
or why I was set up. I don't know why you'd believe me when I tell you
I was set up. But that's the truth."
"I'm going to have to take you in. I'm going to have to charge you. The
charge is going to be Murder in the First, two counts." She watched
Reva's color drain. "I don't know you," Eve continued, "but I know your
mother, and I know Roarke. Neither of them are pushovers. They both
believe in you, so here's what I'm going to tell you. Off-record. Get a
lawyer. Get a damn good fleet of lawyers. And don't lie to me. Don't
lie to me about anything I might ask you. Those lawyers are good
enough, they'll have you out on bond first thing in the morning. Stay
clean, stay straight, and stay available to me. You hide something,
I'll find it, and that'll piss me off."
"I've got nothing to hide."
"You might think of something. If and when you do, think again. I want
you to volunteer for a Truth Test, third level. It's hell, it's
intrusive, and it can be painful, but if you've got nothing to hide and
you're being straight with me, you'll pass it. A third level will weigh
heavy on your side."
She closed her eyes, breathed deep. "I can handle third level."
Eve smiled thinly. "Don't go in with a chip on your shoulder. I've been
there, and it's going to flatten you. I can get a warrant to search
your house, your office, your vehicles, everything. But if you give me
permission to do so, on record, that's going to weigh, too."
"I'm putting a hell of a lot in your hands, Dallas."
"It's in them anyway."
* * *
She took Reva in, booked her. Due to the hour she could opt, without
breaking procedure, to continue their interview until morning. But she
still had work, and she still had Roarke.
She walked through the bullpen in Homicide where the scatter of
detectives on graveyard shift yawned their way through the last couple
of hours of work. As she expected, Roarke waited in her office.
"I need to speak with you," he began.
"Figured. Don't speak until I have coffee." She went directly to the
AutoChef, programmed a double serving, strong and black.
He stood where he was, only turned to stare out of her miserly window
at the fitful predawn traffic. As she drank, she could all but see
impatience and outrage snaking out of his skin like lightning bolts.
"I arranged it so Caro could have fifteen minutes with her. That's the
best I can do. Then you need to take Caro out of here, take her home,
settle her down. You'll know how."
"She's out of her mind with worry."
"I expect she is."
"You expect?" He turned around then, slowly. Slowly enough for her to
understand his temper was on its shortest, thinnest leash. "You've just
booked her only child for two first-degree murders. You have her
daughter in a cage."
"And did you think because you're fond of them, and I of you, I'd just
let her waltz into the night when I have her prints all over a murder
weapon? When I have her on the scene of a double murder and the victims
just happen to be her husband and her pal, both naked in bed? When she
fucking admits she broke in after learning he was sticking it to her
good pal Felicity?"
She took a deep gulp of the coffee, gestured toward him with the cup.
"Hey, maybe I should've pulled the religious-cop routine, and nudged
her out the door with the advice to go forth and sin no more."
"She didn't kill anyone. It's obvious Reva was set up, and that whoever
killed them marked her for it, planned it out and left her twisting in
the wind."
"I happen to agree with you."
"And locking her up only gives whoever did this time and opportunity
to-what?"
"I said I agree with you, about the setup. But not with what you didn't
quite finish saying there." She drank more coffee, slower this time,
letting it slide deliciously into her system. "I'm not giving whoever
did this the time and opportunity to get away. I'm giving them the time
and opportunity to think they'll get away -and keeping Reva safe in the
meantime. And following the pesky little letter of the law while I'm at
it. I'm doing my job, so get off my back."
He sat because he was suddenly tired, and because he, too, was sick
with worry over the mother, the daughter. Both of whom he considered
his responsibility. "You believed her."
"Yeah, I believed her. And I believe my own eyes."
"I'm sorry. I seem to be a little dull this morning. What did your own
eyes tell you?"
"That it was too staged. The scene. Like a vid set. Viciously murdered
naked couple, knife -from the prime suspect's own kitchen, sticking out
of the mattress. Blood in the bathroom drain, suspect's print on the
sink -one little spot she just happened to miss on the wipe-down. Her
prints all over the weapons, just in case the investigating officer
needs to be led by the fucking nose."
"And you certainly don't. Should I apologize for doubting you?"
"You get a free one, seeing as it's five in the morning and we've put
in a long night." She felt generous enough to give him the coffee, and
program another mug for herself. "Classy frame job for the most part,
though. Whoever did it had to know your girl -what she does for a
living, how she reacts. Had to be dead-sure she'd rush over to her
pal's house with blood in her eye. That she'd bypass security. Might
have figured she'd just beat on the door first, but that she wouldn't
turn around and slink off home when nobody answered. But they missed a
few."
"Which were?"
"If she'd walked in with a big, nasty knife in her hand, she wouldn't
have dug into her bag of tricks for a minidrill to go at the jacket. If
she washed up, why'd she use the other upstairs bath to get sick? Why
leave her prints there? How come there's no blood in her hair? Spatter
hits the lamp, some of the wall, and to do what she did, she'd have
been right on top of them, but there's no spatter in her hair. She wash
that, too? Then why didn't the sweepers find any of her hair in the
bathroom drains?"
"You're very thorough."
"That's why they pay me the big bucks. Whoever did this knows her,
Roarke, and the victims. Wanted one or the other of them dead, maybe
both. Or maybe just want Reva Ewing doing life in a cage. That's a
puzzler."
She sat on the corner of her desk sipping her coffee. "I'm going to
turn her life inside out, and do the same job on the victims. At least
one of them is the key. Whoever did it surveilled the vics, got the
photos, the discs. Good quality. And they got into the house as slick
as Reva did, so security's no problem for them. Had a military-style
stunner. I need it analyzed yet, but I'm betting it's no black market
knockoff. They think the cop's going to step into that scene and gobble
all that shit right up, then go eat a fricking doughnut."
"Not my cop."
"Not any cop in this division or that cop deserves a boot up the ass,"
Eve said with feeling. "When something looks that perfect on the
surface, it never is down below. Whoever set this up was just a little
too creative. Maybe he figured she'd run. That when she woke up, she'd
panic and run. But she didn't. I'm having the medicals go over her, see
if she was knocked out, or given a dose of something that knocked her
out. She doesn't strike me as the fainting type."
"I wouldn't think so."
Still sipping, she looked at him over the rim of her mug. "You're going
to get in my face on this again?"
"I am, yes." He touched her arm, ran his hand down it, then let her go.
"Both Caro and Reva are important to me. I'll ask you to let me help.
If you refuse, I'll go around you. I'll be sorry for it, but I'll do
it. Caro isn't just an employee to me, Eve. She's asked me for help,
and she's never asked me for anything before. Not once in all the years
she's been with me. I can't step aside on this, not even for you."
She took another contemplative sip. "If you could step aside on this,
even for me, you wouldn't be the man I fell for in the first place,
would you?"
He set his coffee down, stepped over to frame her face in his hands.
"Remember this moment, won't you, the next time you're furious with me?
And I'll do the same." He lowered his head to press his lips to her
forehead. "I'll send you my files on both Caro and Reva, which contain
considerable personal data. And I'll get you more."
"That's a good start."
"Caro asked me to do so." He eased back. "I would've done it anyway,
but it's easier all around that she asked. You'll find, in your
dealings with her, she is scrupulous."
"How'd she get that way working for you?"
He grinned now. "A paradox, isn't it? You'll call Feeney in?"
"I'm going to need ace EDD men, so yeah, it'll be Feeney -and he'll
bring in McNab."
"I could help with the electronics."
"If Feeney wants you, he can have you. I'll clear it with the
commander. But you know it's going to be touchy, your connection to the
suspect. If I don't convince Commander Whitney this is a frame, he's
not going to go along, even unofficially."
"My money's on you."
"Let's take it a step at a time. Get Caro home."
"I will. I'm going to clear my calendar as much as possible until this
is finished."
"You paying for the lawyers?"
"She won't let me." A shadow of annoyance rippled over his face.
"Neither of them will budge in that particular area."
"One more. Did you and Reva ever tango?"
"Do you mean were we ever lovers? No."
"Good. Slightly less sticky that way. Clear out," she ordered. "I've
got to round up my partner and drive to Queens."
"Could I ask a question first?"
"Make it snappy."
"If you'd walked into that scene tonight, and there'd been no
connection, would you have looked at it the same way?"
"There was no connection when I walked onto the scene," she told him.
"That's how I could see it for what it was. I couldn't take you in with
me, not literally, not in my head. You'd've done the same."
"I like to think so."
"You would have. You know how to be cold when you have to be. I mean
that in a good way."
"I believe you do," he said with a half laugh.
"I did let you in a minute after I stepped out of it."
"Did you?"
"I thought: If Roarke had set this up, nobody would've seen the frame.
Whoever did it should've taken lessons."
This time he did laugh, and she was pleased to see some of the worry
warm out of his eyes. "Well now, that is high praise."
"Just calling them as I see them, and another reason I've agreed to use
you. I want to find out the how and why of a classy frame, I might as
well make use of somebody who'd know the hows and whys. Start thinking
about what Reva's working on for you-or what she has been working on,
or will be."
"I already am."
"See, just one more reason. You're going to want a bodyguard for Caro,
just in case. She'd prefer private to a cop."
"It's already done."
"And the reasons just keep on ticking. Beat it."
"Since you ask so nice." He kissed her first, a soft touch of mouth to
mouth. "Get something decent to eat," he called out as he left.
And though her gaze went to the ceiling tile where she was currently
hiding her candy stash, she didn't think that was quite what he had in
mind.
She was expecting a midlevel suburban house. The Ewing-Bissel place was
several steps up from mid. It was a very contemporary streamlined white
box-on-box behind a recycled-stone riot fence. Lots of one-way glass
and sharp angles.
The entrance area was that same recycled stone, tinted a strong red.
There were ornamental trees and shrubs growing out of large pots and
several odd metal sculptures she attributed to Blair Bissel.
But it struck her as cold, and more pretentious than gingerbread and
gilt.
"Ewing knows her security," Peabody commented after they'd dealt with
the layers of it just to get through the riot wall. "Fancy digs, too,
if you go for this kind of thing."
"You don't?"
"Uh-uh." Peabody grimaced as they walked over the red stone lawn. "This
kind of design makes me think of a prison, and I can't quite figure out
if it keeps people in, or keeps them out. And the art."
She stopped to study a squat metal shape with eight spindly legs and an
elongated triangular head, lined with sparkling teeth.
"We've got a lot of artists in the family," Peabody went on. "A couple
who work primarily in metals, and some of the stuff's odd. But it's . .
. interesting odd and usually kind of fun or poignant."
"Poignant metal."
"Yeah, really. But this, I guess it's a cross between a watchdog and a
spider. It's creepy, and a little mean. And what about that?"
She pointed to another sculpture. This, Eve saw when she wandered
closer, was of two figures, closely entwined. Male and female, which
was obvious when you saw the exaggerated length of the penis painted
royal purple. It was honed to a knifepoint at the end, and an inch away
from penetrating the female figure.
She was, Eve noted, bowed back in either passion or terror, the long
gleaming tendrils of her hair streaming back.
They were faceless, just form and feeling. And after a moment she
decided that feeling wasn't romantic, or even sexual. It was violent.
"I'd say he was probably talented, and even talent can be sick."
Because it made her uncomfortable, she turned away from the figures and
approached the door. Even with the codes and clearance Reva had
provided, it took some time and some trouble to access entry.
The door opened into a kind of atrium with tinted sky windows three
floors up, and slick ocean-blue tiles for the floor.
There was a fountain in the center of the space, burbling as the half
man, half fish figures that circled it vomited violently into the pool.
The walls were mirrored, tossing back their reflections dozens of
times. Rooms fanned off from this center, through wide, doorless
rectangles.
"This doesn't fit her," Eve said. "I'd say he picked the place and the
decor, and she went along."
Peabody looked up, studied the nightmarish bird sculptures hanging high
in the air. They looked like they were circling over a meal. "Would
you?"
"I don't fit where I live either."
"That's not true."
Eve shrugged, cautiously circled the fountain. "I didn't when I moved
into it. Okay, it's not like this. It's beautiful, and it's livable,
and it's, well, it's warm. But it was Roarke's place. It's still more
his than mine, and that's okay."
"She really loved him." The place gave Peabody the creeps, which she
didn't bother to hide. "If she could live here because he wanted it,
she had to really love him."
"That's my take," Eve agreed.
"I'll find the kitchen, verify the murder weapon was taken from here."
Eve nodded, and using the blueprint Reva had drawn for her, started
upstairs.
She'd been sleeping, Eve thought. Heard the gate bell. Got up, checked
the security screen. Saw the package.
She paused by a sheer window that looked down over a stone-and-metal
garden. Nothing living, she mused. Nothing real.
Got up, she continued, went down and out to retrieve the package. Took
a scanner, checked the contents for explosives. Careful, cautious woman.
Brought the package back inside.
Eve entered the master bedroom and saw the first signs of life in the
house. There were more mirrors, silvery panels of them on one wall,
more forming a double door. The bed, wide as a canyon, was unmade, with
a nightshirt tossed into a tangle over in one corner. One closet door
was open -Reva's closet, Eve noted after a glance.
She'd opened the package, sat on the bed when her legs gave out from
under her, Eve imagined. Looked at the photographs again and again
while her brain tried to compute the meaning. Studied the receipts.
Went to the data center across the room, loaded the discs.
Some pacing, Eve was sure. That's what she'd've done. Paced, cursed,
shed a few tears of rage. Tossed something breakable.
And she noted, with some satisfaction, the shards of glass in the far
corner.
Okay, then it's time for action. Dress, gather the tools. Work out the
plan in your head in between rages and more curses.
It took, what, an hour, an hour tops, from the time she opened the
package until she headed out.
Eve turned to the bedroom 'link, and replayed the transmissions for the
last twenty-four hours.
There was one from Felicity that was timed in at fourteen hundred.
Hi, Reev. I know you're at work, but I hate to bother you there. Just
wanted to let you know I've got a hot date tonight. Hoping we can get
together Friday or Saturday. I'll spill all the dirty deets. Be a good
girl while Blair's away. Or if you're not, tell me everything. Ciao!
Eve froze the visual and took a hard look at Felicity Kade. The
wealthy, stylish bombshell type, Eve mused. Blonde and rosy, with
ice-edged cheekbones and a full, seductive mouth. Eyes so deeply blue
they were nearly purple, with a tiny black mole at the outside tip of
the left.
Eve was willing to bet she'd paid plenty for the face.
She'd been covering herself with the transmission. Don't call me
tonight, I've got a hot one. It just happens to be your husband, but
what you don't know won't hurt me.
Or so she'd believed when she'd placed the bubbling call.
And there was a look in those eyes, a kind of live-wire excitement that
told Eve Blair Bissel had likely been with her already, just out of
range of the 'link.
And when he'd called home, at seventeen-twenty, Eve noted, he'd been
very careful to have nothing but his own face on screen. His eyes,
cat-green, were heavy. The smile, curve of that handsome mouth, was
weary, like his voice.
She could see why Reva had fallen for him, more so on the transmission
than in the ID still Eve had studied. You added that lazy animation to
the face, that slow, sexy voice, and you got a powerful punch.
Hey, baby. I was hoping you'd be home
by now. Should've called your pocket 'link. Pretty fuzzy with the
travel and time change. I'm going to shut down, so you won't be able to
reach me. I've just got to catch some serious zees. I'll try you again
as soon as I surface.
Miss me, baby. You know I'm missing
you.
Covered his ass, too, and gave himself a clear night to play with his
bed pal.
Still, it was careless. Reckless. At least it would've been if she'd
trusted him less. What if she'd tracked the transmission as Eve would
do. What if she'd gotten a wild hare and decided to transport herself
to where he'd said he'd be?
What if . . . a dozen things that often happened to blow up the secret
affair and leave the cheating spouse with his or her ass in the sling.
Instead he'd ended up dead. Because someone else had been tracking,
someone else had been watching and waiting for the right time and place.
But why?
"Matching set of cooking tools," Peabody reported as she walked in.
"Missing the bread knife."
"Would that be a bread knife in our evidence bag?"
"Yes, sir, it would. I also checked the log on the AutoChef. It looks
like Reva Ewing had a single serving of chicken piccata and a garden
salad at nineteen-thirty last night. Prior to that, there was a double
serving of wheat waffles and a pot of coffee at seven-thirty yesterday
morning."
"So they had breakfast together before he left on his fake business
trip and she went to work."
"Security logs also show Reva Ewing entering, alone, at
eighteen-twelve. And the gate bell sounding, as per her statement just
after twenty-three hundred. Her leaving to retrieve the package and
returning with it to the house after a scan also checks."
"You've been busy."
Peabody grinned. "We detectives do what we can."
"You're not going to be able to milk that much longer."
"I figure I've got at least a month to mention my detective status at
least three times a day. After that, I'm weaning myself."
"So noted. I want to take the security discs and the 'links to EDD. If
Reva's being set up, whoever's doing it knows as much about security as
she does."
"You said if. Do you have doubts?"
"There's always room for doubts."
"Okay, so I was thinking-and it doesn't really gel for me, but since
there's room . . . What if she set it up to look like a setup? It'd be
cold, and it'd be risky. But it'd be smart, too."
"Yeah, it would." Eve began to go through the desk drawers methodically.
"You already thought of it."
"Peabody, we lieutenants are always thinking."
"But you don't buy it."
"Look at it this way. If she did it, it's a dunk. The case fell whole
into our laps. Nothing to do but file the reports and wait for it to
come to trial. But if she's telling the truth, we've got a real, live
mystery on our hands. I just fucking love a mystery."
She took all the discs into evidence for viewing at Central, added memo
cubes, a PPC and what appeared to be a broken address book.
"Pick a dresser," Eve invited.
They searched the bedroom, moving from the contents of the dressers to
the contents of the closet. They turned up nothing of interest but for
what Peabody referred to as monkey-sex underwear.
They split up on the home offices, with Eve taking Blair's.
He had, she noted, the better end of the deal there. His was twice the
size of hers, and with a view of the stone garden-the garden she
assumed he'd wanted. There was also a long leather couch, the color of
light coffee, with a mirrored wall behind it, and an entertainment
center loaded with the latest toys.
It was, she thought, more a man-as-boy playroom than workspace. And
when she called up his data unit, she found it wasn't working at all.
She gave it a quick slap with the heel of her hand, which was her usual
way of dealing with recalcitrant machines. "I said, 'Computer, on,'"
she repeated and once again read in her name, rank, and badge number
for override of standard passcodes.
The screen stayed blank, the unit silent.
Interesting, she thought as she circled around it as she might a
sleeping animal. What did he have in there he didn't want his wife to
see?
Still watching the unit, she pulled out her communicator and tagged
Feeney at EDD.
His hound-dog face had been sun-kissed by his recent vacation in
Bimini. He'd only been back a couple of days, and Eve was hoping it
would fade soon. It was . . . disconcerting to see Feeney with a tan.
She wanted his hair to grow back, too. He'd shorn his wiry
ginger-and-gray mop painfully short while he'd been gone. It looked
like he was wearing a snug, fuzzy helmet.
When you added the post-holiday sparkle to his droopy brown eyes, it
was a study in mixed signals, and made her head hurt.
"Hey, kid."
"Hey. Did you get my request?"
"First thing. Already cleared the time and manpower for you."
"I got more. Dead guy's home unit. He must have it seriously
pass-coded. I can't get it on."
"Dallas, there are times you can't get your AutoChef on."
"That's a dirty lie." She poked the data unit with a finger. "I need a
pickup for this, and for a houseful of 'links and data centers. A
boatload of security discs I need studied and analyzed."
"I'll send out a team for pickup."
She waited a beat. "Just like that? I don't even get a token bitch?"
"I'm in too good a mood to bitch. The wife made me pancakes this
morning. Can't do enough for me. I'm a fricking hero with my whole
family. You flipped me that Bimini deal, Dallas, and I figure I'm going
to reap the rewards for the next six months. I owe you."
"Feeney, you look sort of scary when you smile like that. So cut it
out."
His grin only widened. "Can't help it. I'm a happy man."
"I've got enough EDD work on this one to keep you and a full team
buried for days."
"Sounds good." He almost sang it. "I'm ready for a real challenge. Guy
gets soft sitting on the beach sucking coconut juice all day."
This has to stop, was all she could think. And now. "Case is a slam,"
she said and showed her teeth. "And I've already booked the suspect on
two counts in the first. I'm using departmental time and money to pick
the case apart from the inside out."
"Sounds like fun," he said with a lilt in his voice. "Glad you called
me in."
"I could learn to hate you like this, Feeney." She rattled off the
address, and cut transmission as he began to hum.
"Do a favor for a friend," she muttered, "and it bites you on the ass.
Peabody!" She shouted it. "Tag all electronics for EDD pickup. Arrange
for two droids to guard the premises and seal it after EDD has come and
gone. And move it. We need to go check Bissel's gallery and studio."
"If we're partners now, how come I have to do all the tagging?" Peabody
shouted back. "And are we ever going to eat? We've already been on the
clock six hours, and my blood sugar's dropping. I can feel it."
"Just move your ass," Eve shot back, but she smiled. At least she still
worked with somebody who knew how to bitch.
* * *
Because she appreciated it, and she remembered she hadn't eaten since
the night before herself, she double-parked in front of a 24/7 and let
Peabody make the dash in for some to-go food.
They were both going to need to go off the clock for a couple of hours,
get some sleep. But she wanted to get a look at Blair's workspace and
get all the electronics and security discs in evidence first.
Because the only why she could think of equaled security. The only why
made Reva the real target. The killings took her out, deliberately.
Unless there was a personal reason to target her, and she'd explore
that angle, it was professional.
Any professional motive against Reva brushed a little too close for
comfort to Roarke. So she intended to move fast, and get as much locked
into Central as she could before moving on to the next stage.
Peabody hurried out again, carrying an enormous take-out bag.
"Got hoagies." With a grunt, she dropped back in the seat.
"What, for the whole squad?"
"And other provisions."
"Because we're going on safari?"
With some dignity, Peabody pulled out a tidily wrapped hoagie and
passed it to Eve. "Drinks, and a bag of soy chips, and a bag of dried
apricots-"
"Dried apricots, in case the rumor of the coming Armageddon is true."
"And some damn cookies." Peabody's face closed in on a scowl that was
edging toward pout. "I'm hungry, and when you're on a roll like this I
might not see food again until I'm a withered sack of bones. You don't
have to eat, you know." She made a fuss out of unwrapping her own
sandwich. "Nobody's holding a blaster to your head."
Eve peeked inside her sandwich and saw something that was pretending to
have come from a pig. It was good enough. "In the event of Armageddon,
I hope those cookies have some form of chocolate in them."
"Maybe." Slightly mollified when Eve drove one-handed and bit into her
sandwich, Peabody opened a tube of Pepsi and stuck it in the drink slot.
By the time Eve got to the Flatiron Building, Peabody had mowed her way
through the hoagie and a good portion of chips. As a result, both her
mood and her energy were up again.
"This is my favorite New York building," she said. "When I first moved
here, I took a day and went around taking pictures of the places I used
to read about. This was one of the top on my list. It's so yesterday,
you know. But here it is, still standing. The oldest remaining
skyscraper in the city."
Eve hadn't known that. Then again she didn't collect that sort of
trivia. She supposed she'd admired its unique triangular style now and
then, in an absent sort of way.
But for her, buildings simply were. People lived or worked in them, and
they took up space, gave the city shape.
She decided against trying Broadway for parking, as this section always
had a party going on. Instead she turned onto Twenty-third and crammed
her unit into a loading zone.
The next drop-off or pickup was going to bitch, but she flipped up her
ON DUTY sign, and climbed out.
"Bissel rented space on the top floor."
"Jesus, that's got to be prime."
Eve nodded as they walked toward an entrance door. "I glanced through
his financials, and he could afford it. Apparently that metal crap he
built went for big bucks. And he had his own gallery, bought and sold
art."
"His connection to Felicity Kade?"
"Apparently. She was a client, according to Reva. So she bought from
both Blair and Reva, and she's the one who persuaded Reva to come to
the art showing where Reva met Blair."
"Cozy."
With appreciation, Eve glanced at Peabody as they crossed the lobby.
"That's right. Too cozy for my liking, too. So why do you figure
Felicity puts her lover and her friend together?"
"Maybe they weren't lovers yet. Or maybe she didn't know they'd get
serious about each other."
"Maybe." Eve bypassed the security desk and used the code Reva had
given her to access the elevator to the top floor. Instead of the doors
opening, the computer gave a warning buzz.
You are not cleared for this elevator. Please return to the security
and/or information desk for instructions on how to access the public
entrance of Bissel Gallery. This elevator is for private use only.
"Maybe she gave you the wrong code," Peabody suggested.
"I don't think so."
Eve walked to the main security station. "Who used that elevator last?"
The young, prim woman in black curled her lip. "I beg your pardon?"
"Don't bother," Eve told her and slapped down her badge. "Just answer
the question."
"I'll need to verify your identification." With her nose still in the
air, she scanned Eve's badge, then slid over a palm plate. When Eve's
ID was verified, she tucked the palm plate away again. "Is this about
what happened to Mr. Bissel?"
Eve merely smiled. "I beg your pardon?"
The woman sniffed, then turned to her logbook. "Mr. Bissel himself was
the last to use that elevator. It goes directly to his studio. His
employees and clients use the one to the right. That will go to the
gallery."
"You have the code for the studio elevator."
"Of course. It's required that all tenants file their security and
passcodes with us."
"What is it?"
"I'm not permitted to give out that data, not without proper
authorization."
Eve wondered if stuffing her badge up the woman's snooty nose would
qualify as proper authorization. Instead, she shoved her own memo book
onto the desk, tapped the screen. "Is this it?"
Once again, the woman turned to her data unit, keyed in a complex
series of numbers. She glanced at her screen, then Eve's. "If you have
it, why are you bothering to ask me?"
"It doesn't work."
"Of course it works. You just didn't do it properly."
"Why don't you show me how to do it properly?"
Heaving a sigh, the woman gestured to a coworker. "Watch the station,"
she snapped, then clipped her way over to the elevators on hair-thin
heels.
She coded in, and when she got the same result as Eve, coded in again.
"I don't understand it. This is the proper code. It's registered.
Building security checks all passcodes twice a week."
"When was the last check?"
"Two days ago."
"How long will it take maintenance to bypass?"
"I have no idea."
"Is there access from the gallery to the studio?"
Obviously aggrieved, she marched back to her station, called up the
diagram for the top level. "There is. There's a security door between
them. I have the passcode for that."
"Which, I imagine, is about as much good as the one you have for the
elevator. Give it to me anyway."
Eve pulled out her pocket 'link as she walked to the gallery elevator.
"I need you at the Flatiron Building," she said the minute Roarke
answered. "Bissel Gallery, top floor. The security code for the direct
elevator to his studio has been changed, so I can't access it. I'm
going to try to get through the door between the gallery and the
studio, but I'm figuring I'll find the same block."
"Leave it be. If someone tampered with it, using the original code
could add another block. I'm on my way."
"What could Bissel have in his studio he didn't want his wife to see?"
Peabody wondered.
"Doesn't make sense." Eve shook her head. "Nothing in his file to
indicate he's that security-savvy. It takes savvy to alter a code
without building security sniffing it out. And a guy who risks an
affair with his wife's friend, all but under her nose? Why'd he do
that? For the sex, sure, but also for the thrill. Look what I can get
away with. Why does a man who goes for the thrill take such extensive
precautions with his home office unit, his art studio. What does one
have to do with the other?"
She stepped off the elevator, into a space filled with sculpture,
paintings, both static and animated. In the midst of the softly lighted
room, a woman sat on the floor, sobbing her heart out.
"Man," Eve said under her breath. "I hate when this happens. You take
her."
Pleased to have a concrete assignment, Peabody approached the woman,
crouched in front of her. "Miss."
"We're closed." She wailed into her own hands. "Due to a de-de-death."
"I'm Detective Peabody." Under the circumstances, she tried not to
display too much glee in being able to say just that. "This is my
partner, Lieutenant Dallas. We're investigating the deaths of Blair
Bissel and Felicity Kade."
"Blair!" She all but screamed it, and threw herself facedown on the
floor. "No, no, no, he can't be dead. I can't stand it."
"I'm sorry, this is a difficult time for you."
"I don't think I can go on! All the light, all the air's gone out of
the world."
"Oh, Jesus Christ." Since enough was enough, Eve stalked over, took the
woman by one arm and hauled her back to a sitting position. "I want
your name, your connection with Blair Bissel, and the reason you're
here."
"Ch-ch-ch-"
"Suck it in," Eve snapped. "Spit it out."
"Chloe McCoy. I run the gallery. And I'm here, I'm here, because . . ."
She crossed her arms over her heart, as if she were trying to hold it
inside her. "We loved each other."
Barely old enough to buy a drink in a legit bar, Eve gauged. Her face
was ravaged, swollen and splotchy, with huge brown eyes still busily
pumping out the tears. Her hair was ink-black and tumbled over her
shoulders, over a pair of young and perky breasts shown off in a snug
black shirt.
"You had an intimate relationship with Bissel."
"We were in love!" She threw out her arms, then wrapped them tightly
around her own body. "We were soul mates. Destined for each other from
our first breaths. We were-"
"Did you fuck him, Chloe?"
The crudeness did what Eve had hoped, and the tears magically dried up.
"How dare you? How dare you demean something so beautiful?" She threw
up her chin, and though it trembled, it stayed so high it nearly
pointed at the ceiling. "Yes, we were lovers. Now that he's dead, my
soul is dead, too. How could she do it? That horrible, horrible woman?
How could she turn out the light on someone so good, so true, so
perfect."
"So good and true he was sleeping with her friend and one of his
employees?" Eve said pleasantly.
"His marriage was over." Chloe turned her head away, stared at the
wall. "It was just a matter of time until it was legally ended, and
we'd be together in the sunlight, instead of in shadows."
"How old are you?"
"I'm twenty-one, but age means nothing." She closed her hand over a
heart-shaped pendant around her throat. "I'm as old as time now, as old
as grief."
"When's the last time you saw Blair?"
"Yesterday morning. We met here." She brushed her free hand over her
brow while she stroked the little gold heart. "To say a sweet goodbye
before he had to go on his trip."
"That would be his trip uptown where he snuggled in with Felicity Kade
for a couple days?"
"That isn't true." Her puffy eyes took on a mutinous expression. "I
don't know what happened, what that horrible woman made it appear, but
Blair certainly wasn't involved that way with Ms. Kade. She was a
client, and no more."
"Uh-huh" was the kindest response Eve could think of. "How long have
you worked here?"
"Eight months. The most vital eight months of my life. I only started
to live when-"
"Did his wife come here?"
"Rarely." Chloe pressed her lips together. "She pretended an interest
in his work, in public. But in private she was critical, and was
draining his energies. Of course, she had no problem spending the money
he made from the sweat of his soul."
"Is that so? He tell you that?"
"He told me everything." She beat her breast, her hand fisted around
the locket. Heart tapped against heart. "There were no secrets between
us."
"So you have the passcode into his studio."
She opened her mouth, firmed it again before speaking. "No. An artist
such as Blair needs his privacy. I would never intrude. Naturally, he
would open the door when he wanted to share something with me."
"Right. So you wouldn't know if he ever had visitors in there."
"He worked alone. It was necessary for his creativity."
Dupe, Eve thought. Foolish, gullible, and probably no more than a
casual toy for Bissel. She started to turn as the elevator opened
again, and Chloe flung her arms around Eve's legs.
"Please, please! You must let me see him. You must let me say goodbye
to my heart. Let me go to him. Let me touch his face one last time! You
must. You must give me that much."
Eve saw Roarke quirk a brow in a kind of amused horror. Bending, Eve
peeled Chloe off her shins.
"Peabody, deal with this."
"Sure. Come on, Chloe." Putting her back into it, Peabody hefted the
weeping girl. "Let's go splash some water on your face. Blair would
want you to be strong. I've got some questions I need to ask you. He'd
want you to help us, so we can see justice is done."
"I will! I will be strong, for Blair. No matter how hard it is."
"I know you will," Peabody replied and led Chloe through an archway.
"Second, much younger side dish," Eve said before Roarke could ask.
"Ah."
"Yeah. Ah. I don't think she knows anything, but Peabody'll coax it out
of her if she does."
"I wonder if it'll be easier on Reva, knowing what a complete bastard
the man was. Her lawyer got her out on bail. She has to wear a
bracelet, but she's out. She'll stay with Caro until this is cleared
up."
He studied the wide double doorway taking up most of a wall, and
strolling over gave it a light tap. "Steel, reinforced, I'd wager. Odd
to go to all that for a space such as this."
"So I'm thinking."
"Hmm." He wandered to the security panel. "Feeney contacted me shortly
before you did. In fact, I was on the point of heading down to Central
when you gave me this interesting assignment."
Taking a case of slim tools from his pocket, Roarke selected one,
removed the plate. "He appears to have had a very fine time with his
family in Bimini."
"He has a tan. He smiles all the time. I'm not entirely sure they
didn't replace him with a droid."
Roarke made not entirely sympathetic mouth noises before taking a small
electronic unit out of another pocket.
"What's that?"
"Oh, just a little something I've been toying with. A good time to try
it out, in the field so to speak." He interfaced it with the pad,
waited through a series of beeps, and brushed Eve gently back when she
tried to stare at it over his shoulder. "Don't crowd me, Lieutenant."
"What's it doing?"
"All manner of things you wouldn't understand, and you'd just get testy
if I tried to explain. Simplest to say it's mating-as machines do. And
seducing Bissel's unit into revealing all sorts of secrets. And isn't
this interesting?"
"What? Damn it. Can you get in or not?"
"I don't know why I tolerate the insults." He glanced over his
shoulder, directly into her annoyed eyes. "Maybe it's the sex. How
lowering that would be. Then again, I'm as weak and vulnerable as the
next man."
"Are you trying to piss me off?"
"Darling, it's no effort at all. Now what I've learned here, through my
delightful new toy, is exactly when this passcode was changed. And I
think you'll find it as interesting as I do that it was done at nearly
the same time someone was jamming a kitchen knife in Blair Bissel's
ribs."
Her eyes flickered, narrowed. "No mistake?"
"None. He could hardly have done this himself."
"Hardly."
"Nor could his equally dead mistress, or his wife. Or, for that matter,
his killer."
"But I'll bet you whoever locked this up knew he was dead, or dying.
Knew his wife was in the frame. This has to be another stage of the
whole bloody mess. Get me inside."
It didn't take him long. Such things rarely did. He had thief's
hands-quick, agile, and sneaky-but since he used them for her, and on
her, with cheerful regularity, it was tough to criticize.
And when he was done, the heavy doors slid back with barely a sound
into wall pockets to reveal Blair Bissel's studio.
He'd given himself a lot of space here, too. And it looked like he
needed it. There was metal everywhere, in long beams, short stacks, in
piles of cubes and balls. The floor and the walls were covered in some
sort of fireproof, reflective material that did double duty and
mirrored back vague ghosts of the equipment and works-in-progress.
Tools that made Eve think of medieval torture devices lay on a long
metal table. Tools that cut and snipped and bent, she assumed. And
three large tanks fixed into rolling stands were in various positions
around the room. From the attachments and hoses on each, she deduced
they were filled with some sort of flammable gas and provided the heat
used to weld or melt or whatever the hell people who made weird things
out of metal did with fire.
Another wall was covered with sketches. Some looked to have been done
by hand, others computer-generated. Since one matched the strange
twists and spikes of a piece in the center of the room, she decided
they were ideas or blueprints for his art.
He may have spent his off time diddling anything female, but it
appeared he took his vocation seriously.
She skirted around the centered sculpture, and only then noted that
there was a form of a hand, fingers spread as if desperately reaching,
plunged out of the twist of metal.
She glanced back at the sketch, read the notation at the bottom.
ESCAPE FROM HELL
"Who buys this shit?" she wondered.
"Collectors," Roarke supplied, eyeing a tall, obviously female form
that was, apparently, giving birth to something not completely human.
"Corporations and businesses that want to be seen as patrons of the
arts."
"Don't tell me you have some of this?"
"Actually, I don't. His work doesn't . . . speak to me."
"That's something, anyway." Turning her back on the sculpture, she
walked to the data station set up at the far end of the room.
She glanced at the stack of beams. "How does he get the stuff in and
out? No way some of this fits on the elevator."
"There's another lift to the roof. There." He gestured to the east
wall. "Installed at his own expense. It's triple the size of the
standard freight elevator. There's a copter pad on the roof, and he has
pieces and equipment airlifted."
She just looked at him. "Don't tell me you own this place."
"Partially." He spoke absently as he wandered, studying metal forms.
"It's a conglomerate sort of thing."
"You know, it gets embarrassing after a point."
He lifted his eyebrows, all innocence. "Really? I can't imagine why."
"You wouldn't. Which reminds me." She shoved back her jacket sleeve and
held out her arm so the bracelet glittered. "Take this thing, will you?
I forgot I was wearing it when we headed out to the scene. Peabody
keeps staring at it, and pretends she's not staring at it. It's
freaking me out, and if I stuff it in my pocket or something, I'll
probably lose it."
"You know," he began as she unclasped it, "people tend to wear jewelry
so other people will notice it. Admire it, even covet it."
"Which is why people who hang baubles all over themselves end up
getting mugged."
"That's a downside," he agreed and slipped the bracelet into his
pocket. "But life's full of risks. I'll consider holding this for you
my little way of saving some poor, foolish street thief from ending up
with your boot stomped on his throat."
"Birds of a feather," she murmured and made him grin.
She went to work on the computer, with the same results she'd gotten
from Bissel's home unit. "Why is an artist so damn careful and paranoid
about his data?"
"Let me have a go at it, and let's find out."
She stepped back, did a walk through the studio to get a sense of
Bissel's style, and to give those magic hands of Roarke's time to work.
There was a red-and-white bath off the main floor, complete with jet
tub, drying tube, and the same sort of fancy towels Roarke favored. A
bedroom had been set up as well. Small, she noted, but with all the
comforts. Bissel had liked his comforts.
The gel mattress was thick and cushy, the cover slick and black and
sexy. One wall was mirrored, and she thought of the entrance to his
house, the master bed and bath.
Liked to look at himself, and to watch himself with women. Egoist,
narcissist. Pampered and confident. There was a mini data and
communication center near the bed, as blocked as the others.
Chewing it over, she moved to a narrow three-drawer chest and began
riffling. Spare underwear, extra work clothes.
And ah, a locked bottom drawer. Roarke wasn't the only one who could
handle such things, she thought as she pulled out a pocketknife.
She attacked the old-fashioned lock, hacking happily away, and gave a
grunt of satisfaction as it gave. She jerked open the drawer. And even
her cynical, seen-it-all-and-then-some eyes popped wide.
"Holy jumping Jesus."
She pawed through satin restraints, velvet whips, leather strap-ons,
the connoisseur's collection of dildos. There were vials of the illegal
substance known as Rabbit, a bag she identified as Zeus, another of
Erotica. There were gel balls, butt plugs, blindfolds, numerous
battery-operated toys and devices, cock and nipple rings of all
description.
And more. A great deal more she wasn't entirely sure she could identify.
It appeared Bissel not only took his work seriously, but his games as
well.
"The unit's not blocked, Lieutenant. It's . . ." Roarke trailed off as
he stepped in and saw what Eve was examining. "Well, well, well, what
have we here?"
"The goodie drawer of all goodie drawers. This dildo not only throbs,
vibrates, expands, and comes equipped with hands-free feature, it sings
a choice of five popular tunes."
He crouched beside her. "You couldn't have tried it out that quickly."
"Pervert. I turned it on to see. He's got some illegals sprinkled
through here, too."
"So I see. Oh, look, what fun. His and her VR. Maybe we could-" He
started to reach for the matching goggles, and had his hand slapped
away.
"No."
"You're so strict." He walked his fingers along her knee. "Maybe you
could be strict with me later." Wiggling those eyebrows, he held up a
pair of restraints. "We already have these."
A quick check proved the restraints were indeed her own, lifted right
off her person without her feeling a thing. She snatched them back.
"Cut that out. And don't touch anything in there. I mean it. I have to
log this crap. Even the mother of all goodie drawers is no reason for a
guy to passcode his computers, lock the drawer in an already secured
area. He-"
"I said the unit wasn't blocked." He patted her knee and rose,
resisting-though it was difficult-palming a couple of the goodies just
for the fun of it. "It's fried."
"What the hell do you mean 'fried'?"
"Fried, toasted, whacked, zapped, dead."
"I know what fried means, I meant-damn it." She sprang up, kicked the
drawer closed. "When? Can you tell when? When and how?"
"I imagine so, given the right tools and a bit of time, but I can tell
you this much just from this cursory exam: It was professionally and
expertly fried."
"What does that mean?"
"Simply, the main board was destroyed so that all data was corrupted.
My first guess would be a very insidious worm, with specificity for
this purpose. Likely contained on a disc, inserted into the drive, used
to infect, then removed when the task was complete."
"Can you tell if data was removed first?"
"Trickier, but we can certainly try."
"How about retrieving anything? Digging in and finding what data was on
there, uncorrupting?"
"Trickier yet."
"It's there. It's always there, no matter what. I know that from
Feeney."
"Well, that may not be quite true. Eve, there's a group of
techno-terrorists. They call themselves the Doomsday Group."
"I know who they are. Glorified hackers, like to infiltrate systems,
upload what they can, screw with the data. They've got some good,
twisted brains and plenty of financial backing."
"A bit more than glorified," he corrected. "They're responsible for
downing a number of private shuttles by skewing data in air-traffic
control. They helped themselves to several works of art, and
deliberately damaged others at the Louvre by shutting down their
security. They killed twenty-six employees of a research lab in Prague
by sabotaging their system, shutting down the air supply, and sealing
all doors."
"I said they were twisted. I know they're dangerous. What does it have
to do with a fried unit in a dead man's art studio?"
"They've been working on a worm of just this nature for the past few
years. Potent, portable. Its design is not simply to corrupt data or
hijack it, but to eliminate it, and on a large scale. To network, to
proliferate."
"How large a scale?"
"Theoretically, a disc could be slipped into a drive on a networking
unit-even a network with fail-safes and blocks, with virus detectors
and bug zappers-and download the entire data bank from that network,
then corrupt the units. An office, a building, a corporation. A
country."
"Not possible. Even midlevel security detects intrusive viruses and
bugs and shuts down before infection. You can't download without
detection from CompuGuard. Home units like this, okay, you might get it
off and down before the security dropped on you. Small operations
networks, maybe. Maybe even with the CompuGuard shields in place. But
nothing over that."
"Theoretically," he repeated. "And this faction is reputed to have some
particularly brilliant minds on board this project. The intel indicates
the worm is near completion, and could work."
"How do you know about this?"
"I have connections." He gave an easy shrug. "And it happens Roarke
Industries is under government contract, a Code Red contract, to
develop and create an exterminator program and shield against this
potential threat."
She sat on the side of the bed. "You're working for the government.
Ours?"
"Well, if by that you mean the U.S., yes. Actually, it's also a
conglomeration sort of thing. The U.S., the Euro Community, Russia, a
few other concerned areas. Roarke Industries Securecomp arm has the
contract, and R and D is working on it."
"And Reva Ewing works in R and D, for Roarke Industries Securecomp arm."
"She does. Eve, I said Code Red, that's highest clearance. This isn't
something she'd have chatted about with her husband over dinner, I can
promise you."
"Because you didn't chat with me about it over dinner?"
Irritation sparked, then was controlled. "Because she's a pro, Eve. She
wouldn't hold the position she does if there was any doubt of that. She
doesn't leak data."
"Maybe not." Coincidence, to her mind, was just a link between points.
"But it's certainly possible someone else doesn't have the same
confidence in her that you do. It sure adds an interesting angle."
She pushed off the bed, circled the room. "Check this out, will you?"
she said absently with a gesture toward the mini data center.
"Techno-terrorists. What does a philandering metal sculptor have in
common with techno-terrorists besides his wife's position? Why, if they
found some use for him, do they kill him, his mistress, and frame his
wife? Of course, with the wife in a cage on two counts in the first,
this could put a crimp into the research and development of the
extermination program and shields."
She looked toward Roarke for confirmation.
"Somewhat. But not an insurmountable crimp. She's heading this, and a
couple of other sensitive projects, but there's a very competent team
as well. All data on the project would remain locked in-house. None of
it is taken outside."
"Are you sure of that? Dead-sure?"
"I would have been. This is fried as well, same method." Because he had
the same cynical take on coincidence as Eve, anger began to rise
through his concern. "Do you speculate that Bissel somehow got his
hands on data pertaining to the programs, and was killed for it?"
"It's a good place to start. Did he, or Felicity, ever visit Reva at
work?"
"Not that I'm aware of, but I'll find out. They'd never have been
admitted into the lab-not this lab-but there are visitors' areas, so
I'll see about that. I'll also have a look, personally, at the security
of the project, and the personnel assigned."
She knew that icy, controlled tone of voice. "No point in getting
pissed off until you know you've got a leak."
"Just getting a jump on it. You'll want to talk to Reva again, and
press her on how her husband might have known something of this
project."
"Like I said, it's a place to start."
"She might talk to me more freely."
"Her boss? The man who hired her, pays her, and trusted her with the
responsibility of a Code Red? Why should she?"
"Because I've known her since she was in bloody university," he said
with some impatience. "And if she lies to me, I'll know it."
"You're on EDD duty on this," she reminded him. "You wanted the gig,
and you've got it. It looks to me as if we're going to make some use of
you in that area. I've got to call for a pickup here of all
electronics. And I want the gallery and the studio swept. So that's
going to take a little time. I'll give you ten minutes with her, then
she's mine."
"I appreciate it."
"No, you don't. You're still pissed off."
"At least I'm polite about it."
"If she leaked it-" She held up a hand to stop his automatic denial.
"If she leaked it, how much of the fallout lands on you?"
He wanted a cigarette, and denied himself that small weakness out of
principle. "She's mine, so it's my responsibility. We'll take a hit, a
hard one. There are a number of other contracts pending. If this blows
up in my face, I'd estimate seventy percent of them-and that's
optimistic-will cancel."
She couldn't estimate the real value of seventy percent of pending
contracts. Millions? Billions? But more, she knew, would be the damage
to his pride, and his rep. So she kept her face sober. "Does that mean
we won't be able to afford live-in help?"
Appreciating her, he angled his head, then gave her a quick poke with
his finger in the belly. "We'll muddle through somehow. I've a bit put
by for a rainy day."
"Yeah, a couple of continents, I imagine. Just like I imagine your rep
will stand the hit, if it comes. It will," she repeated when he said
nothing. "And I'd make book you'll fast-talk your way into keeping the
bulk of those pendings."
The first gush of anger cooled. "That's considerable faith in me,
Lieutenant."
"Considerable faith in that Irish guile of yours, ace."
She pulled out her communicator and called for an EDD pickup. She
stepped into the studio from the bedroom area as Peabody stepped in
from the gallery.
"Got the interview-the really long, rambling, theatrical interview with
McCoy. Due to which, I just took a departmentally approved blocker for
the amazing headache."
"Where is she?"
"I let her go. She's planning to lie prostrate in bed in her apartment,
and permit herself to be swept away by the rising tide of her grief.
That's a direct quote. I did a standard run on her while she was
babbling," she added, and brightened considerably when Roarke stepped
out. "She's twenty-one, as advertised. Still working on her art and
theater degrees, big surprise there. Employed here for the last eight
months. No criminal. Born in Topeka." She tried and failed to stifle a
yawn. "Sorry. Was Farm Queen her senior year of high school, another
shocker. Moved here at eighteen to attend Columbia, partial
scholarship. She comes up as clean and green as a Kansas wheat field."
"Do a second-level run on her anyway."
"On her?"
"I'll fill you in on the way. You come in your own transpo?" she asked
Roarke.
"I did. I'll follow you over."
"Good enough. Since you're civilian consultant for EDD, contact Feeney
and bring him up to date."
"Yes, sir." He winked at Peabody as they stepped into the elevator.
"You look tired, Detective."
"I'm whipped. It's what . . . fourteen hundred. Twelve hours on the
clock, on no sleep to speak of. I don't know how she does it."
"Just focus," Eve ordered. "I'll give you an hour's personal in the
crib at Central after this."
"A whole hour." Peabody gave up and yawned again. "Boy, that ought to
set me up."
* * *
By the time they were double-parked in front of Caro's building,
Peabody's droopy eyes were back on alert.
"Techno-terrorists, Code Reds, government alliances. Jeez, Dallas, it
sort of rocks. It's like spy stuff."
"It's like murder stuff, seeing as there are two bodies in the morgue."
Even as she got out of the car, the doorman, spiffy in hunter-green
with gold braid, marched over. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you can't leave
your vehicle there. Public parking is available two blocks west, on . .
."
He trailed off, snapped to attention like a new army recruit faced with
a five-star general when Roarke strolled up to join them. "Sir! I
wasn't told you were expected. I was just informing this woman that her
vehicle is in violation of the parking code."
"This is my wife, Jerry."
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs.-"
"Lieutenant." She ground it out between her teeth. "Dallas, and that
makes this a police vehicle. That means it stays where I put it."
"Of course, Lieutenant. I'll make certain it's not disturbed."
He hustled to the door, opened it with some flourish. "Just call down
if you need anything," he said. "I'm on the door until four."
"We're fine. Nice to see you again, Jerry."
"Always a pleasure, sir."
Roarke walked directly to the automated security panel that was flanked
by two tall urns filled with burnished gold fall flowers. "Why don't I
do it, and save time?" Without waiting for the go-ahead, he placed his
palm on the plate, and was immediately cleared.
Good afternoon, sir! the
computer said with the same delighted enthusiasm as Jerry the doorman. Welcome back. What can I do for you?
"Inform Ms. Ewing that I'm here, along with Lieutenant Dallas and
Detective Peabody. And clear the elevator."
Yes, sir. Enjoy your visit.
"Now, wasn't that better than having a pissing match with a machine?"
Roarke asked as he led the way to a trio of silver elevator doors.
"No. I like having pissing matches with machines. It gets my blood
moving."
He patted her on the shoulder, nudged her into the car ahead of him.
"Well, next time, then. Eighteenth floor," he requested.
"I guess this is one of your buildings."
He smiled over at Peabody. "It is, yes."
"Sweet. So, if I ever have any money to invest, would you maybe give me
some pointers?"
"I'd be delighted to."
"Yeah, like cops have investment funds." Eve shook her head.
"You just start out saving a little bit of each payday check," Peabody
explained. "Then you find the right place to put it, so you can
increase the pot. Right?"
"Exactly so," Roarke agreed. "Just let me know when you're ready, and
I'll find you a rainbow to bury that pot under."
He gestured when the doors opened on eighteen. "Ladies."
"We're on duty. That makes us cops, not ladies." But Eve stalked out,
and to the door of the east-corner apartment.
It opened before she could bother with the buzzer.
"Is there some news? Has there been a development?" Caro caught
herself, drew a breath. "I'm so sorry. Please come in. Why don't we sit
in the living area?"
She stepped back to welcome them into the spacious apartment with a
river view. Twin sofas done in strong blue were grouped into a
conversation area accented with pretty lamps with jeweled shades and
glossy tables.
In what Eve considered a female trait, she'd arranged plump and
colorful pillows on the sofas. There were fresh flowers in vases,
attractive little dust catchers, and books-the sort with pages-grouped
on shelves.
She'd changed, Eve noted, into what she imagined Caro considered
around-the-house attire. Both the shirt and pants were bronze; both
were meticulously tailored.
"What can I get you?"
"Coffee would be lovely," Roarke said before Eve could reject the
offer. "If it's not too much trouble."
"Of course not. I'll just be a minute. Please, sit down. Be
comfortable."
Eve waited until Caro had walked through a doorway. "This isn't a
social call, Roarke."
"She needs something to do, something normal. She needs a moment to
settle."
"This is really beautiful," Peabody said into the silence. "This place.
Simple, classy elegance. Just right, you know. Like her."
"Caro is a woman of quiet and unquestionable taste. She's built a life
that reflects her own style and desires, and she's done it on her own.
Something you'd respect," he said to Eve.
"I do respect her. I like her." Am intimidated by her, she thought.
"And you know I can't let that get in the way of the job."
"No. But you might add it into the equation."
"If you get overprotective and defensive, this isn't going to work."
"I'm only asking for you to go gently with her."
"And here I was planning on smacking her around."
"Eve-"
"Please, don't quarrel over me." Caro stepped back in, carrying a tray.
"This is a very difficult situation we find ourselves in. I don't need
or expect special handling."
"Let me take that." Roarke took the tray from her. "You should sit
down, Caro. You look worn out."
"Not very flattering, but certainly true. I'm a little worn at the
edges." She made herself smile as she sat. "But I'm perfectly capable
of handling the tough stuff, Lieutenant. I'm not fragile."
"No, I've never thought of you as fragile. Formidable."
"Formidable." Now her smile warmed. "I'm not sure that's flattering
either. You take yours black, as Roarke does. And you, Detective?"
"I'll have it light, thanks."
"I need to speak with your daughter," Eve began.
"She's resting. I browbeat her into taking a soother a couple hours
ago." As she poured, Caro pressed her lips together. "She's grieving
for him. Part of me is angry that she could grieve for him, under the
circumstances. She's not fragile either. I didn't raise a fragile
child. But she's damaged by this -by all of it. And afraid. We're both
afraid."
She passed the coffee around, then a plate of thin golden cookies. "You
must have some questions you need to ask me. Couldn't you interview me
first, give her just a little more time to rest?"
"Tell me what you thought of Blair Bissel."
"What I thought of him, before this morning?" Caro lifted her cup. It
was a pretty floral pattern. "I liked him, because my daughter loved
him. Because by all appearances he loved her. I never felt as much for
him as I'd hoped to feel for my daughter's choice of mate, which sounds
. . . convenient under the circumstances, but doesn't make it less
true."
"Why? Why didn't you like him as much as you'd hoped to?"
"That's a good question, and difficult to answer with specifics. I'd
imagined when she married, that I'd love her husband, much as I
might've loved a son. But I didn't. I found him pleasant and amusing,
considerate and intelligent. But . . . cool. On some inner level, cool
and distant."
She set her cup down again, without drinking. "It was my hope that I'd
have grandchildren, when they were ready. And my secret hope, one I
never shared with Reva, that when the grandchildren came I'd find that
love for Blair."
"And his work?"
"It's necessary to be honest now, isn't it?" There was, for just an
instant, a twinkle in her eyes. "I could never be honest before.
Preposterous, occasionally offensive, and very often unseemly. Art
should often be surprising, and even unseemly, I suppose. But I'm more
traditional in my tastes. He did very well, though."
"Reva strikes me as an urbanite. What's she doing in a house in Queens?"
"He wanted it. A big house, in his own style. I admit it broke my heart
a little to have her move even that far away. We've always been very
close. Her father hasn't been part of our lives since she was twelve."
"Why?"
"He preferred other women." She said it without any trace of
bitterness. Without, Eve noticed, any trace of anything. "It seems my
daughter was attracted to the same kind of man."
"She lived farther away from you at one time, during her time with the
Secret Service."
"Yes. She needed to spread her wings. I was very proud of her, and
extremely relieved when she retired and moved back, went into R and D.
Safe, I thought." Caro's lips trembled. "So much safer for my girl."
"Did Reva ever talk about her work with you?"
"Hmm? Oh, from time to time. We were often involved, in our different
ways, in the same projects."
"Has she discussed with you the project she's involved with now?"
Caro picked up her cup again, but Eve had seen the quick widening of
her pupils. "I imagine Reva's involved in a number of projects at the
moment."
"You know the one I'm talking about, Caro."
This time there was a faint line of confusion between her eyebrows, and
a quick glance at Roarke. "I'm not at liberty to discuss any of the
projects in development through Roarke Industries. Even with you,
Lieutenant."
"It's all right, Caro. The lieutenant is aware of the Code Red."
"I see." But it was clear to Eve that she didn't. "I'm privy to certain
details on any project with this level of sensitivity. As Roarke's
admin, I assist in meetings and review contracts, evaluate personnel.
These are part of my duties. So yes, I'm aware of the project Reva's
heading."
"And the two of you have discussed it."
"Reva and I? No. We wouldn't speak of this, any details of it. With
Code Red, all data-verbal, electronic, holographic-all files, all
notes, all intel remains top level. I've discussed this with no one,
until now, but Roarke himself. In the office. This is global security,
Lieutenant," she said with brisk disapproval in her tone. "It isn't
coffee talk."
"I'm not bringing it up to juice up the cookies."
"They're great cookies," Peabody piped up, and earned a scowl from Eve.
"I bet you get them from a bakery."
Caro smiled a little. "Yes, I do."
"We always had fresh cookies in the house when I was a kid. Now that
we're grown up, my mom still has them around. Habit," Peabody said, and
took another bite. "You probably always had them around when Reva was a
kid."
"I did."
"I guess especially when you're raising a kid on your own, you tend to
be close, and a mom gets to be even more protective."
"Probably." The stiffness in Caro's voice, in her body language
relaxed. "Though I've tried, always, to give her room. Independence."
"Still worry, like you said. Like when she was with the Secret Service.
Probably worried some, too, like moms do, when she got serious about
Blair."
"Yes, a bit. Still, she was a grown woman."
"My mom always said we can get as old as we want, she's still our mom.
Did you run Bissel, Ms. Ewing?"
Caro started to speak, then flushed and stared hard at the window. "I .
. . she's my only child. Yes. I'm ashamed to say I did. I know I asked
you specifically not to," she said to Roarke. "Made a point of it, even
an issue of it with you."
"I did two levels anyway."
"Well, of course. Of course, you did." Her hand fluttered to her face,
then fell back into her lap. "She was an employee, after all." She
sighed now. "I knew you would do that much. You have to protect
yourself, your holdings."
"I wasn't only thinking of myself, Caro, or my holdings."
She reached out, touched his hand. "No, I know that. But I also knew,
because I asked-well, demanded, really-you wouldn't go deeper than
that. And I swore to myself I wouldn't. I absolutely would not
interfere in such an underhanded way with my daughter's life. Then I
did. Another full level. And I used your resources to do it. I'm
terribly sorry."
"Caro." He picked up her hand, kissed her fingers gently. "I was
perfectly aware of what you did. I had no problem with it."
"Oh." She let out a shaky laugh. "How foolish of me. Remarkably."
"How could you do that, Mom?" Reva stepped into the room. Her eyes were
ravaged, her hair disordered from sleep. "How could you go behind my
back that way?"
Roarke got to his feet and moved so smoothly, so subtly between mother
and daughter, Eve wondered if anyone noticed that he'd placed himself
as Caro's shield.
"For that matter, Reva, so did I, go behind your back, as it were."
"You're not my mother." She bit the words off as she stepped forward,
and Roarke simply shifted his body without seeming to move at all.
"Which would mean, all in all, I had less of a right." He spoke easily,
drawing his cigarette case out of his pocket. The gesture, Eve noted,
distracted Reva. If only for a moment. "Do you mind, Caro?" he asked,
very pleasant.
"No." Flustered, she looked around, then rose. "I'll get an ashtray."
"Thanks. Of course you could say I did the basic run on Blair as your
employer. And that would be true." He lit the cigarette. "True enough,
but not fully true. You're a friend of mine, as is your mother, so that
was another factor."
Color was riding high in Reva's cheeks, a full temper strike at the
flashpoint, made no less volatile by the fact she was bundled into a
petal-pink robe and wearing thick gray socks. "If I can't be trusted
to-"
"You I trust, and always have, Reva. Him I didn't know, so why should I
have trusted him? Still, I didn't go beyond two levels out of respect
for your mother."
"But not for me, not out of respect for me. Either of you," she said
with a furious look at her mother as Caro came back with a small
crystal dish. "You were spying on him, checking up on him, and all the
while you were making wedding plans, pretending to be happy for me."
"Reva, I was happy for you," Caro began.
"You didn't like him, you never liked him," Reva spat out. "If you
think I didn't know you-"
"Sorry. If you want to get into a family spat, it'll have to wait." Eve
made a show of getting out her recorder when Reva whipped around toward
her. "Homicide investigations take precedence. You've already been read
your rights-"
"You agreed to give me ten minutes," Roarke reminded her. "I'll take it
now."
Eve shrugged. "A deal's a deal."
"Caro, is there somewhere private I could have a few moments with Reva?"
"Yes. You could use my office. I'll just show you-"
"I know where it is." Turning her back on Caro, Reva stalked away. The
ensuing silence was punctuated by the violent slamming of a door.
"I'm very sorry." Caro sat again, folded her hands in her lap. "She's
understandably upset."
"Sure." Eve glanced at her wrist unit. Ten minutes was all Roarke was
going to get.
* * *
In Caro's office, with its streamlined D and C center on top of an
antique rosewood desk, Reva stood as rigid as a blindfolded prisoner
awaiting execution. "I'm so angry with her, with you. With every
fucking thing."
"Well, there's a bulletin. Why don't you sit down, Reva?"
"I don't want to sit down. I'm not going to sit down. I want to punch
something, kick something. Break something."
"Do what you need to do." His tone was bored, a verbal shrug that
caused embarrassed color to rise up and join the flush of Reva's
temper. "That's between you and Caro, as these are her things. When
you've finished your tantrum, you can sit down and we'll talk like
reasonable adults."
"I've always hated that about you."
"What's that?" he asked and took a slow drag on his cigarette.
"That control of yours. That ice you use instead of blood in your
veins."
"Ah, that. The lieutenant can tell you there are times when even my
astonishing control and marvelously even temper fails. No one snaps our
composure quite like someone we love."
"I didn't say you had an even temper, marvelous or otherwise," she said
dryly. "There's no one scarier, or meaner. Or kinder." Her breath
hitched, forcing her to take a gulp of air, or sob. "I know you have to
fire me, and that you're going to try to do it gently. I'm not angry
about that. I can't blame you for that. If it makes things easier, less
messy, I'll resign."
He took another drag, then tapped the cigarette out in the little
crystal dish he'd brought in with him. "Why would I need to fire you?"
"I've been charged with murder, for God's sake. I'm out on bail, the
kind of bail that's going to require me to sell my house and nearly
everything else I own. I'm wearing this."
She shot out a hand, her fingers fisted tight below the dull silver
tracking bracelet on her wrist.
"I suppose it's too much to ask for them to make those things even
remotely stylish."
At the comment, she could only stare at him. "They know if I walk
outside to go to the corner deli. They know I'm upset right now because
they can read my pulse rate. It's just a prison without the cage."
"I know it, Reva. I'm sorry for it. But the cage could be worse, a
great deal worse. You're not to sell your house, or anything else. I'll
lend you the money. Shut up," he ordered even as she opened her mouth.
"You'll take it because I'm telling you to take it. It's an investment
for me. And when this is cleared up and you're exonerated, I'll have it
back. Then you'll work off what I consider a fair interest on the loan."
She did sit down, dropping onto the little love seat beside him. "You
have to fire me."
"You're telling me how to run my own business now?" His tone was cold,
deliberately so. "However valued an employee you are, I don't take
orders from you."
She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and covered her face with her
hands. "If this is for friendship-"
"Partially, of course. The friendship and affection I have for you and
for Caro. It's also a matter of you being a very important part of
Securecomp. And aside from that, I believe you're innocent, and trust
my wife to prove it."
"She's almost as scary as you."
"And she can be more so, in certain areas."
"How could I be so stupid!" Her voice was wavering again, tears
shimmering in it. "How could I be such a fool?"
"You weren't stupid. You loved him. Love's supposed to make us fools,
or what's the point of it? Pull yourself together now. We don't have
much time, for believe me, when my cop says ten minutes, she means ten.
The extermination program and shield, Reva, the Code Red."
"Yeah." She sniffled, wiped her hands over her face to dry it. "We're
close, nearly there. All the data's on the secured unit in my
office-double passcoded and blocked. Backup copies in the vault,
encrypted. The latest was hand-delivered to your office yesterday. Also
encrypted. Tokimoto can take it over. He's the best choice. I can brief
him on the areas he doesn't know, or you can. Probably best if you bump
LaSalle up to second-in-command on that. She's as smart as Tokimoto,
just not as creative."
"Did you ever mention the project to your husband?"
She rubbed her eyes, then blinked them. "Why would I?"
"Think carefully, Reva. Any mention of it, however casual?"
"No. I might've said something like I had a hot one and that was why I
was putting in some extra hours. But nothing specific. It's Code Red."
"Did he ask you about it?"
"He can't ask me about what he doesn't know," she responded in a tone
tight with impatience. "He was an artist, Roarke. His only interest in
my work pertained to how I'd design and implement security for our
house, and his work."
"My wife's a cop, and couldn't be less interested in my business. But
occasionally, for form anyway, she asks about it. How was your day,
what are you working on, that sort of thing."
"Sure, okay, sure. I'm not getting this."
"Did he, or anyone else, ask you about this project, Reva?"
She leaned back. Her face was pale again, her voice thin and weary. "I
guess he might have. What's so hot about this one, something like that.
I'd've told him I couldn't talk about it. He might've teased me about
it. He sometimes did that. Top secret, hush-hush. My wife, the secret
agent or something."
Her lip trembled so that she sank her teeth into it, biting back some
control. "He got off on espionage, loved spy vids and games. But if he
said anything it was just joking. You know how it is. Friends might do
the same now and then, but they weren't really interested."
"Felicity, for instance?"
"Yeah." And now those teary eyes opened, went hot. "She was all about
art, fashion, socializing. Sneaky bitch. She'd say things like how
could I stand being holed up in some lab all day, fiddling with codes
and machines. And what was so damn interesting about that? But I never
discussed details, not even on the minor projects. It would violate the
confidentiality contract."
"All right."
"You're thinking Blair's dead and I'm in this fix because of the Code
Red? That's just not possible. He didn't know anything, and nobody
without clearance knew I was on it."
"It may be very possible, Reva."
Her head jerked around. Before she could speak, there was a brisk knock
on the door. "Time's up," Eve called out.
She opened the door just as Reva was getting slowly to her feet.
Reading Reva's expression, Eve nodded at Roarke. "I take it you laid
the groundwork."
"He knew she was working on a top-level project, but the details
weren't discussed."
"This can't have anything to do with what happened to Blair," Reva
insisted. "If this was a terrorist hit, why wouldn't they come after
me, or you?" she said to Roarke. "Or any active member of the team?"
"Let's try to find out," Eve suggested. "Come back in here so we can
lay this all out once, for everyone."
"What does killing Blair accomplish?" Reva hurried out behind Eve. "It
doesn't affect the project."
"Got you booked on a double homicide, didn't it? Sit down. When's the
last time either of you were in Bissel's studio?"
"Months for me," Caro responded. "I was there last spring. April? Yes,
I'm sure it was April. He wanted to show me the fountain he was working
on for Reva's birthday."
"I was there last month," Reva said. "Early August. I went there after
work to meet him. We were going to a dinner party at Felicity's. He
cleared me, and I went up, waited a few minutes while he finished
changing."
"Cleared you?" Eve prompted.
"Yeah. He was a maniac about his studio security. Nobody, but nobody
got the passcode."
"You gave me the passcode."
Reva flushed, cleared her throat. "I accessed it -on that same visit. I
just couldn't resist. And it seemed like the perfect time to field-test
a new security scanner we were working on. So I accessed the code,
tested it, and got clearance. Then I reset the security, and called up
to Blair. I didn't tell him because it would've pissed him off."
"Did you ever go up there when he wasn't around?"
"What for?"
"Poke around, see what he was up to."
"I never spied on him." She sent a long look toward Caro. "I never
spied on him. Maybe I should have, maybe if I had I'd've known about
him and Felicity long ago. But I respected his space and his privacy,
and expected the same from him."
"Did you know about him and Chloe McCoy?"
"Who?"
"Chloe McCoy, Reva. The pretty young thing who works in his gallery?"
"The little drama queen?" She laughed. "Oh, please. Blair couldn't
possibly have . . ." She trailed off as the cool, direct gaze had her
belly trembling. "No. She's hardly more than a child. She's still in
college, for God's sake." She curled herself into a ball and rocked.
"Oh God. Oh God."
"Baby. Reva." Caro moved quickly to sit beside her daughter, wrap her
arms around her. "Don't cry. Don't cry over him."
"I don't know if it's over him, or over me. First Felicity, and now
that -that brainless little coed. How many others?"
"It only takes one."
Reva turned her face into her mother's neck. "Like mother, like
daughter," Reva murmured. "If what you're saying is true, Lieutenant,
maybe it was some jealous boyfriend who killed them. Somebody who knew
they were being cheated on."
"That doesn't explain why you were lured there at exactly the right
time. It doesn't explain why the passcodes on the elevator to the
studio were changed at nearly the same time Blair Bissel and Felicity
Kade were being murdered. It doesn't explain why the computers at your
home, at Bissel's gallery and studio, and at Felicity Kade's home
-Feeney just verified" -she said to Roarke- "have all been infected
with an as-yet-unidentified worm that has corrupted all data thereon."
"A worm?" She pushed away from Caro. "All those computers, in all those
locations? Corrupted. You're sure?"
"I've examined two of them myself," Roarke told her. "There's every
indication they were infected with the Doomsday worm. We'll test to be
certain, but I know what to look for."
"It can't be done by remote. We know it has to be done on site." Reva
sprang up to pace. "It's a flaw in the system. It has to be uploaded
directly into one of the units in a network to infect the network. It
requires an operator."
"That's right."
"If the units were infected with the Doomsday, it means someone got
through the security. At my house, at the gallery, the studio, at
Felicity's. I can check those systems. I designed and installed all of
them. I can run scans to see if they were compromised, and when."
"If you run the scans, the results are inadmissible," Eve told her.
"I'll run them." Roarke waited until she'd stopped pacing long enough
to look at him. "You'll trust me for that."
"Damn right, Lieutenant." Reva came back, sat on the edge of the sofa.
"If this is-if what happened has something to do with the project, it
means Blair was set up, too. It was all staged, all put together so I'd
go running over there, so it would look to me, to everyone as if Blair
and Felicity had been lovers. He's dead because of what he was to me.
They're both dead because of me."
"You can believe that if you want. Me, I'd rather deal with the truth."
"But there's no proof that he was ever unfaithful. It could all be
faked. The photographs, the receipts, the discs. He could've been
kidnapped and taken to Felicity's. He might've been . . ."
She was running down as the facts, the timelines, the sheer weight of
her fantasy began to bear down. "It doesn't make any sense that way. I
know it. But it doesn't make sense any other way either."
"It makes sense if Bissel was not only unfaithful with Felicity Kade
and Chloe McCoy, but if the terrorists believed he had intel. More
sense yet if they had reason to believe it."
"Because they think I talk to him? But-"
"No. Because he talked to them."
She jerked back as if Eve had struck her. "That's not possible." The
words came out in a croak. "You're saying that Blair had knowledge of,
had contact with this radical terrorist group? That he fed them
information? That's ludicrous."
"I'm saying it's a possibility I'm going to explore. I'm saying person
or persons unknown went to a lot of trouble to kill Bissel and Kade and
point the finger at you. And if this had been taken as the classic
crime of passion it appeared to be, those units wouldn't have been
given more than a cursory look."
She waited, just a beat, as she watched the possibilities hit home with
Reva. "It would be assumed that you, with your knowledge of computers
and your temper, destroyed them out of spite. That the changes in
security at Bissel's gallery would be considered a glitch."
"I can't- I can't believe this of him."
"What you believe or don't believe is up to you. But if you look
deeper, if you start tugging on all the threads, you start to see
there's a lot more here than a couple of murders and a suspect served
up to the cops on a shiny, silver platter."
Reva got up, walked to the wide window that looked out over the river.
"I can't . . . You want me to believe this, to accept it, and if I do,
it means everything was a lie. Right from the beginning, it was a lie.
He never loved me. Or he loved me so little, he was seduced by whatever
these people offered him. Money, or power, or just the thrill of
playing techno-espionage for real instead of on VR. You want me to
believe he used me, exploited everything I've worked for, the trust and
respect I've earned in my field."
"If you look at it straight, it's about him. It's not about you."
Reva only stared out the window. "I loved him, Lieutenant. Maybe from
where you're sitting that's weak of me, and stupid of me, but I loved
him, the way I've never loved anyone else. If I accept all this, I have
to let go of that, and everything it means to me. I'm not sure prison's
any worse."
"You don't have to believe anything, or accept anything. That's your
choice. But unless you want to find out if prison's any worse, you'll
cooperate. You'll submit to Truth Testing, level three, tomorrow at oh
eight hundred. You'll agree to full psychiatric eval by the
departmental psychiatrist, and you'll instruct your attorneys to clear
all of your records. All of them, and those of your husband. If there
are any sealed records -either yours or his -you will authorize us to
break them."
"I don't have any sealeds," Reva replied softly.
"You were Secret Service. You'll have sealeds."
She turned back, and her eyes were dazed like a woman living in a
dream. "You're right. Sorry. I'll authorize."
"And yours," Eve said to Caro.
"Why hers?" The earlier resentment was forgotten as she leaped to her
mother's defense. "She's not part of this."
"She's connected to you, to the victim, and to the project."
"If you think she might be in danger, she should have protection."
"I've seen to it, Reva," Roarke stated, and earned a quick, surprised
look from Caro.
"You might have mentioned it," she mumbled, then sighed. "But I won't
argue. And I'll take care of the authorization immediately."
"Good. Meanwhile, both of you think, go back over any conversations you
might have had with either victim, or anyone else for that matter,
about work. Particularly this Code Red. I'll be in touch."
Eve started for the door, but Roarke lingered another moment. "Get some
rest, both of you. Take tomorrow if you need it, but I expect you both
back to work the following day." He glanced over at Eve. "Any problem
with that, Lieutenant?"
"Not for me. That's your deal."
"Thank you, Lieutenant. Detective"-Caro opened the door-"I hope you get
some rest yourselves."
"We'll get to it."
Eve waited until they were in the elevator and heading down before she
spoke to Peabody. "That was a good hunch about Caro running Bissel.
How'd you come to it?"
"She strikes me as a thorough woman and a thorough mom. She didn't much
like Bissel."
"I got that part."
"So, she doesn't much like him, but she loves her daughter and wants
her daughter to have what she wants. Still, she'd want to be sure he
was what he said he was. She had to look."
"And she looked deep enough that you'd figure he was straight." Eve
nodded. "Good catch, even if you did lead up to it with cookies."
"Hey, they were really good cookies."
"It earned you the rest of the day. Go home, get some sleep."
"Seriously?"
"And report to my home office at seven hundred. Sharp."
"With bells on."
She looked down at Peabody's colorful airsneaks. "It wouldn't surprise
me."
"I can put in a couple more hours if you want to keep pushing."
"Neither of us is going to do the investigation much good if we're
asleep on our feet. Let's hit it fresh in the morning."
"Take my car," Roarke offered and Peabody's eyes all but popped out of
her head and onto her shoes.
"Really? What is this, be nice to Peabody day?"
"If it's not it should be. You'll save me from having to have it picked
up, as I'd like to ride with the lieutenant."
"Well, any little thing I can do."
He gave her the code, and watched with amusement as she sauntered off.
Then indulged herself with a little boogie dance around the hot red
sportster.
"You know she's not going to drive back to her place, not right away."
Watching Peabody's happy dance, Eve fisted her hands on her hips.
"She's going to take it out on the freeway or the turnpike, open up
that ridiculous engine, and end up somewhere in New Jersey, explaining
to some traffic droid that she's a cop, and on some bogus assignment.
Then she'll carom back to the city, get pulled over again, and give
them the same story."
"Carom?"
"That's the sound that toy of yours makes. Carom. Then when McNab gets
off shift, he'll talk her into letting him take it out, and they'll get
pulled over again, have to flash their badges. And if any of the
traffic droids interface, you're going to get tagged and have to
explain why a vehicle registered to you is being used by a couple of
idiotic city detectives."
"Sounds like fun for everyone. In you go, Lieutenant. I'll drive."
She didn't argue. Lack of sleep had dulled her reflexes, and traffic
was starting to heat up.
"You were hard on her," he commented as he nudged the police unit away
from the curb.
"If you've got a problem with my technique, file a damn complaint."
"I don't. She needed you to be hard on her. And when she gets her feet
under her again, she'll respect that. She'll also push back."
Eve stretched out as best she could, and shut her eyes. "That doesn't
worry me."
"It wouldn't. I think you'll like her better when she starts to push."
"I didn't say I didn't like her."
"No, but you think she's weak and she's not." He skimmed a hand,
lightly, over Eve's hair. "You think she's foolish, and she isn't. What
she is, is shaken, on every level, and grieving for a man she knows, at
the core, isn't worthy of that grief. So she grieves instead for the
illusion. And that, I think, might be even more wrenching."
"If you ended up naked and dead with another woman, I'd do the rumba on
your corpse."
"You can't do the rumba."
"I'd take lessons first."
He laughed, rubbed a hand over her thigh. "You might very well, not
that you'll ever get the chance. But you'd also grieve."
"Wouldn't give you the satisfaction," she mumbled, half asleep. "You
cheating fuckwit putz."
"You'd weep in the dark and call my name."
"Call your name all right: How are things in hell, you dickless
bastard? and I'd laugh and laugh. That's how I'd call your name."
"Christ Jesus, Eve, I love you."
"Yeah, yeah." And she smirked in her sleep. "Then I'd put all your
precious shoes in the recycler, take your fancy suits and burn them in
a celebrational fire, and kick Summerset out of my house on his bony
ass. After which I'd have a party where we'd drink all your expensive
wine and whiskey. And after that I'd hire two, no three, of the top LCs
in the business to come over and pleasure me."
When she noticed the car was stopped, she blinked her eyes open and saw
he was staring at her. "What?"
"It just occurs to me that you've given this matter a great deal of
thought."
"No, not really." She rolled some of the stiffness out of her shoulders
and yawned. "It all just came to me in one big lump. Where'd I leave
off?"
"Being pleasured by three LCs. I assume you'd need three in order to be
pleasured in the style to which you've become accustomed in the last
couple years."
"Yeah, you'd think that. Okay, after the orgy, I'd start on your toys.
First, I'd . . ." She broke off, narrowed her eyes as she focused out
the car window. "Funny, that doesn't look like Central."
"You can work from home, and plan my memorial from here as well. After
we both get some sleep."
He got out, came around, and opened her door because she hadn't budged.
"I haven't updated my report, or checked in with the commander."
"Which can be done from here, as well." He simply reached in, gathered
her up, and slung her over his shoulder.
"You think this is all macho and sexy, right?"
"I think it's expedient."
She decided to play possum when he walked in the house. At least that
way she wouldn't have to speak to Summerset. But when she heard the
irritating sound of his voice she wished she could screw up her ears as
handily as she could her eyes.
"Is she injured?"
"No." Roarke shifted his balance as he started up the stairs. "Just
tired."
"You look tired yourself."
"I am. Hold any transmissions that aren't emergencies for the next few
hours, will you? And anything that's not priority for an hour beyond
that."
"I will."
"I'll need to speak with you about several matters after that. Put up
full security, and stay in the house until I do."
"Very well."
Because she'd opened one eye, she saw Summerset's concerned frown
before Roarke turned at the top of the stairs.
"He in on this Code Red?"
"He knows a great deal about a great deal. Anyone looking at me would
look at him." He booted the door closed behind him, then walked over to
dump her on the bed.
"I guess you do look tired." She angled her head as she studied his
face. "You hardly ever do."
"Been a long day, all around. Boots off."
"I can get my own boots off." She brushed his hands away. "Deal with
your own."
"Ah yes, a pair of my precious shoes, soon doomed to the recycler."
She had to admit, he had a great smirk. "If you don't watch your step,
pal."
She stripped off the boots, the jacket, her weapon harness, then
crawled into bed.
"You'd sleep better without the clothes."
"You get ideas when I'm naked."
"Darling Eve, I get ideas when you're wearing riot armor. All I'm after
is a bit of sleep, I promise you."
She wiggled out of the jeans, the shirt, then gave him a mock scowl
when he slid in beside her, drew her against him. "Don't even think
about engaging thrusters."
"Quiet." He kissed the top of her head, snuggled her in. "Go to sleep."
Because she was warm, comfortable, and her head was perfectly pillowed
on his shoulder, she did. A moment after he felt her float off, he
followed.
* * *
How could things have gone so wrong? How could it have fallen apart
when it was all so perfect, so meticulously planned? And executed, he
reminded himself as he huddled in the dark.
He'd done everything right. Absolutely everything. And now he was
hiding behind locked doors and shaded windows, in fear for his life.
His life.
There'd been a mistake. That had to be it. Something had gone wrong,
somewhere. But it made no sense.
He calmed himself with slow sips of whiskey. He hadn't made a mistake.
He'd gone into the brownstone at exactly the right time. His skin
sealed, his clothes protected by the thin, clear lab suit, and his hair
covered with a zero-contamination skullcap. There would be no trace of
him inside the house.
He'd checked the house droid to verify it had been shut down for the
night. Then he'd gone upstairs. God, how his heart had pounded. He'd
been afraid, almost afraid, he amended, that they'd be able to hear the
wild beat of it over the music, over their own moans as they'd fucked.
He'd had the stunner in his hand, the knife in the sheath on his belt.
He'd liked the way the sheath had bumped against his thigh.
Anticipation.
He'd moved quickly, just as planned. Just as he'd practiced. One shot
between the shoulder-blades, and the first half of the target was done.
Maybe, just maybe he'd hesitated a fraction of a second then. Maybe,
just maybe he'd watched Felicity's eyes, and had caught the shock in
them an instant before he'd rammed the stunner between those beautiful
breasts.
But he hadn't hesitated after that. He hadn't.
The knife now, drawing steel out of leather with a sexy little swish.
Then the killing. His first kills.
He had to admit he'd liked it. More, much more than he'd expected. The
feel of the knife driving into flesh, and the warm wash of blood.
So primal. So basic.
And so, well, easy, he mused as the whiskey soothed his nerves. So easy
once you got started.
He'd set the stage then, and he'd been very, very careful. So careful,
so precise, he'd been barely finished when Reva had arrived, when his
alarm had beeped quietly to signal she'd begun to disengage the
security.
But he'd stayed calm, he'd stayed cool. Silent as a shadow, he thought
with some pride, as he'd waited for her to come into the room.
Had he grinned when she'd marched to the bed, spewing temper? Maybe he
had, but it hadn't affected his performance.
One quick spray of the anesthetic, and she'd been out.
He'd added a few touches there. Genius, really. Dragging her into the
bath to get her fingerprint on the sink, smearing a bit of blood on her
shirt. And he thought the knife stabbed into the mattress spoke for
itself.
It was so Reva, after all.
He'd left the front door ajar, just as planned, when he left. She
should've been out long enough for security to find her on the routine
check. All right, all right, maybe that had been a small
miscalculation. He hadn't sprayed enough, or he'd wasted a little time
with the extra touches.
But even that shouldn't matter. She was charged. Blair Bissel and
Felicity Kade were dead, and she was the only suspect.
He should've been away by now. His accounts bursting with fresh money.
Instead, he was a marked man.
He had to get away. He had to protect himself. He wasn't even safe
here. Not completely safe. But he could fix that. He could fix that, he
realized, and sat up as the clouds of fear and self-pity began to
clear. And solve some of the financial squeeze at the same time.
Then he'd deal with the rest.
A little more time to think, and he'd deal with it all.
Steadier, he rose to pour more whiskey, and to plan his next steps.
Eve was alone when she woke, and a quick check showed her she'd slept a
half-hour longer than she'd intended.
Too groggy to curse, she crawled out of bed, stumbled to the AutoChef,
and got coffee. She carried it with her to the shower, called for water
on full at a hundred and one, then glugged down caffeine while the hot
water pounded on her.
She was halfway through with the oversized mug when she realized she
was still wearing her underwear.
Now she did curse. After downing the rest of the coffee, she peeled off
the tank and panties and tossed them into a sopping heap in the corner
of the shower.
Dead philandering husband and mistress, she thought. Both connected to
the art world. Possible connection to techno-terrorists. Super computer
worm. Security compromised in several areas. Preplanned frame on
security expert in charge of developing extermination program and
shield.
What was the point of the frame? Somebody else would step up to the
plate. No one was indispensable.
She worried it, juggled it, twisted it around, and didn't like any of
the patterns that formed. Why was something so neat and slick so sloppy
once you chipped off the shine?
Even if the case was treated as a straight crime of passion, even if
Reva Ewing was charged, tried, convicted, and spent the rest of her
life in a cage, what did it accomplish?
She was on her second cup of coffee and another mental run-through when
Roarke walked into the bedroom.
"Somebody want you to take a major hit bad enough to kill two people
and frame an employee?" she asked.
"There are all kinds of people in the world."
"Yeah, that's what's wrong with the world. There are people in it. But
there are easier ways to screw with you than double murder. I don't
think you're it."
"Darling, I'm shattered. I was so sure I was it for you."
"But you could be it, on some level. Roarke Industries could, or more
specifically Securecomp. We'll have to play with that some. But first I
want a closer look at the victims."
"I started the runs for you. I was up," he said when she frowned at
him. "Now that we both are, I'm thinking seriously about food."
"You'll have to have it in my office."
"Naturally."
"You're pretty agreeable."
"No, actually, just hungry."
Because he was, he ordered up steaks in her office. "You can have a
look at the life and times of Blair Bissel while you eat. Computer,
data on screen one."
"Any sealeds?"
"No. At least none that show."
"What do you mean, none that show?"
"Just that it's all very, very tidy. See for yourself."
She cut into her steak as she read the data on screen.
Bissel, Blair. Caucasian. Height: six feet, one inch. Weight: one
hundred and ninety-six pounds. Hair: brown. Eyes: green. DOB . . .
March 3, 2023, Cleveland, Ohio. Parents: Marcus Bissel and Rita Hass,
divorced 2030. One brother, Carter. DOB: December 12, 2025.
Occupation: sculptor. Resides: 21981 Serenity Lane, Queens, New
York.
"Serenity Lane." Eve shook her head as she chewed. "What twink comes up
with that stuff?"
"I imagine you'd prefer Kick-Ass Drive."
"Who wouldn't?"
Because he'd gone deep, she was treated to educational history from
Bissel's formal play group at age three right through his two years
abroad at an art school in Paris.
She read through his medical-the broken tibia at age twelve, the
standard sight checks and adjustments at ages fifteen, twenty,
twenty-five, and so on. He'd had some face and body work-ass, chin,
nose.
He'd been a registered Republican, and had a gross worth of one
million, eight hundred thousand and some change.
There was no criminal record, not even a whiff as a juvenile. He'd paid
his taxes in a timely fashion, lived well, but within his means.
Reva was his only marriage.
His parents were still living. His father remained in Cleveland with
wife number two, and his mother in Boca Raton with husband number
three. His brother-no marriage on record, no children registered-had
entrepreneur listed as profession, a sure tip-off to the less polite:
no gainful employment. His work history was varied as he'd moved from
job to job and place to place. He was currently listed as residing in
Jamaica, as part owner of a tiki bar.
His criminal record was equally varied. Petty ante stuff, Eve noted. A
little graft, a bit of grift, a touch of larceny. He'd served eighteen
months in an Ohio state pen for his part in selling seniors nonexistent
time-shares.
His gross worth was just over twelve thousand, which included his part
in the tiki bar.
"I wonder if the younger brother has some issues with the fact big
brother got the bucks and the glory. No violent crimes on record, but
it's different with family. People get worked up when it's family. Add
money and it gets messy."
"So little brother comes up from Jamaica, kills big brother and frames
sister-in-law."
"Reaching," she admitted with a purse of her lips, "but not that far if
you speculate Carter Bissel knew about the project. Maybe he was
approached, offered money for any information he could get. Maybe he
gets some, maybe he doesn't. But he's slick enough to figure out his
brother's diddling on the side. Maybe a spot of blackmail, family
fight. Threats." She shrugged.
"Yes, I see the picture." While he ate, Roarke turned it over in his
mind. "He may have been a conduit. A liaison. Sibling rivalry turns
deadly, and he and whoever recruited him decided to eliminate the loose
ends."
"Makes the most sense so far. We'll want to chat with little bro
Carter."
"That's handy as we don't spend nearly enough time in tiki bars."
Since it was there, she picked up the glass of cabernet and sipped
while she studied her husband's face. "You're thinking something else."
"No, just thinking. Have a look at Felicity Kade. Kade data, on screen
two."
She got the picture quickly enough of the only child of well-to-do
parents. Extensive education, extensive travel. Homes in New York City,
the Hamptons, and Tuscany. A socialite who earned some pin money as an
art broker. Not that she needed extra to buy her pins, Eve thought,
with a net worth-mostly inherited and through trust funds-of five
million plus.
Never married, though there was one brief cohabitation on record in her
twenties. At thirty, she lived alone, lived well-or had.
She'd had considerable body work, but had apparently been happy enough
with her face. There was no unusual or unexpected medical data, and no
criminal. No sealeds.
"Spends a lot," Eve commented. "Clothes, salons, jewelry, art, travel.
Lots of travel. And isn't it interesting that she's been to Jamaica
four times in the last eighteen months."
"Yes, it's very interesting."
"Could be she was cheating on the cheating husband with the cheating
husband's feckless brother."
"Keep it in the family."
"Or maybe she did the recruiting, looking for a fall guy should the
situation call for one."
He speared an artichoke heart. "It's Reva who's taking the fall."
"Yeah. Just let me play with it." She picked up her wine again, sipping
at it as she rose to pace. "First trip a year and a half ago. Feels him
out, maybe. Could use him to double-team Reva or Blair. Or both. She
likes money. She likes risks. You don't sleep with your friend's
husband if you don't like risk, or if you have a conscience. Playing
with global techno-terrorists might appeal to her. She likes travel,
and with all the people she meets-through traveling, through her social
position, through the art world . . . yeah, she could've been
approached."
"So, how did she end up dead?"
"I'm getting there. Maybe little brother was jealous. That's a
time-honored motive for hacking your lover to bits."
"Or learning how to rumba."
"Har-har. Maybe he wanted a bigger cut, or maybe she double-crossed
him. And maybe this is all bullshit, but it's something to explore."
She gestured with the glass toward the wall screen. "I'll tell you
something else I think. They're just too damn clean."
"Ah. I was hoping you'd feel that way." He leaned back in the chair
with his wine. "Just so very smooth aren't they, our Mr. Bissel and Ms.
Kade. Just so completely what one would expect. Educated, law-abiding,
financially cozy. Not the least little smudge. It all fits so exactly-"
"That it doesn't fit at all. They're liars and cheats, and liars and
cheats generally have a smudge or two."
He sipped, smiling at her over the rich red in a crystal glass. "Enough
skill, enough money, all matter of smudges can be erased."
"You'd know. We're going to take this deeper, because I'm just not
buying. Meanwhile, I want to see Reva."
"Screen three."
The data flashed on, and the 'link from Roarke's adjoining office
beeped.
"I need to take that."
She nodded absently, and read as he went into his own office.
Ewing, Reva. Caucasian. Hair: brown. Eyes: gray. Height: five feet,
four inches. Weight: one hundred and eighteen pounds. DOB: May 15,
2027. Parents: Bryce Gruber and Caroline Ewing, divorced 2040. Resides:
21981 Serenity Lane, Queens, New York. Occupation: electronic security
expert. Employed: Securecomp, Roarke Industries. Married: October 12,
2057, Blair Bissel. No children registered.
Education: Kennedy Primary, New York. Lincoln High School-fast
track-New York. Georgetown University, East Washington, with degrees in
computer science, electronic criminology, and law. Joined Secret
Service, January 2051. Assigned to President Anne B. Foster, 2053-55.
Complete service record in attached file, including sealed records,
opened by authorization of Ewing, Reva.
Good as her word, then, Eve decided, and opted to read the service
record later.
Resigned from Secret Service, January 2056. Relocated to New York City.
Employed Securecomp, Roarke Industries, January 2056 to present.
No criminal record. Misdemeanor truancy charge, misdemeanor underage
alcohol consumption charge, both expunged from juvenile record in
compliance with court order. Community service completed.
The medical included a broken index finger at age eight, a hairline
fracture of the left ankle at age twelve, broken collarbone, thirteen.
Doctor's and social worker's reports ascertained that the injuries, and
the numerous subsequent injuries, were the result of various sports and
recreational activities that included ice hockey, softball, martial
arts training, parasailing, basketball, and skiing.
But the most serious injury had come as an adult, and on the job. Reva
had done what every SS agent vows to do. She'd taken a hit for the
President.
A full-body blast that had lain her up for three months, and had
required treatment in one of the top clinics in the world. She'd been
paralyzed from the waist down for six weeks.
Remembering how hideous it had been when McNab had taken a similar hit
earlier that summer, and how slim his chances had been if the nerves
hadn't regenerated on their own, she had a good idea of the pain, the
fear, and the work Reva had gone through to recover.
She remembered the assassination attempt as well. The suicidal fanatic
who'd charged at the President, and had taken out three civilians and
two agents before he'd been stopped. She now recalled seeing Reva's
image on the media. But she'd looked very different then.
Longer hair, Eve recalled. Dark blonde, with a fuller, softer face.
Eve glanced over her shoulder as Roarke came back. "I remember her now.
Remember hearing about her when she took that hit. Lots of buzz. She
took the guy out, didn't she? Took him down while she used herself to
shield Foster."
"They didn't think she'd live. Then they didn't think she'd walk again.
She proved them wrong."
"You didn't hear much about her after the first few days."
"That's the way she wanted it." He glanced over at the image of Reva,
still on screen. "She didn't like the attention. She'll get it again
now. They'll make the connection quickly, and the buzz will start
again. Heroic woman charged in double murder and so on."
"She'll deal."
"She will, yes. She'll bury herself in work, like someone else I know."
"How far will this set back the project?"
"Half a day. That was Tokimoto. Reva's already briefed him, though she
plans to be back at it herself as soon as she's done with Truth
Testing. If two people are dead for the purposes of scrapping this
project, it was severely misdirected."
"You'd think anybody smart enough to pull this off would be smart
enough to know that. Desperation move?" she speculated. "Trouble in the
rank and file? Carter Bissel. I really want to talk to Carter Bissel."
"Are we going to Jamaica?"
"Don't grab your beach towel yet. I'll start by chatting up the local
authorities. I've got to write my report, shoot a copy to Whitney. And
I've got to follow through with the standard investigative routine.
Check with the ME, the lab, the sweepers, EDD. Media's going to start
jumping by morning. You're probably going to want to formulate an
official statement as her employer."
"I'm already working on that."
"I want her under wraps, Roarke. No statements from her, so if she goes
back to work, I need her tucked up tight."
"I can promise you, she knows how to stonewall the media."
"Just make sure of it. If you don't have something else going, you
could start digging deeper on Bissel and Kade."
"I've cleared the table for this." He picked up his wineglass again.
"I'll get my shovel."
"You're okay, you know." She stepped to him, gave him a light bite on
the bottom lip. "For a slick-talking, sticky-fingered civilian."
"You're okay yourself. For a mean-tempered, single-minded cop."
"Aren't we the pair? Give a yell if you find something interesting."
She sat at her desk to sort through her notes, the statements,
preliminary findings. Then began to write up a report for her files,
and her commander's.
Halfway through, she pulled out the crime-scene stills and studied them
yet again. Had they been conscious when the stabbing started?
Unlikely, she thought, given the timeframe. Whoever killed them had
wanted them dead and hadn't cared about causing pain. That left out
rage, in her opinion. It had been too cold-blooded, too premeditated
for rage.
It was meant to look like rage.
Front door was open. She frowned as she rechecked her notes. Caro's
statement asserted the front door was open when she arrived. Yet in
Reva's, she stated she'd reset the locks and the security. And Eve was
inclined to believe she had. It would be habit, routine, training, the
sort of thing she'd do automatically even when in a temper.
Whoever had killed them, and incapacitated Reva, had gone back out the
front door, leaving the locks open. Why not? What would it matter?
In fact . . .
She got up, went to the doorway. "Fancy security system like Kade's . .
." she began, ". . . if it's shut down, and an egress is left open, how
long before the company'd do a routine check of the premises?"
"That would depend on the client's request. It's individualized." He
glanced up from his own work. "You're wanting me to check."
"You could get the answer faster, seeing as you own the world."
"I only own specific parts of the world. Open Securecomp," he ordered
his computer. "Authorization Roarke."
Working . . . Securecomp open on Authorization Roarke.
"Access client file for Kade, Felicity, residential account, NYC."
Working . . . Kade, Felicity,
accessed. Do you want the data on screen or on audio?
"On screen. Detail client's profile for house security."
Profile displayed.
"Let's see, then . . . sixty minutes on the street-level doors and
windows. The instructions are to monitor for motion, and to relay any
questions to her house droid after a sixty-minute period."
"Is that standard?"
"It's rather long, actually. I'd have to assume she trusted the system,
and didn't care to be disturbed should there be a glitch."
"Sixty minutes. Okay. Okay, thanks." She wandered back, running it
around her head.
Had they figured Reva would be out at least an hour, or if not out,
disoriented? Security company activates house droid, house droid
reports security has been compromised, and the company automatically
reports same to the police and sends over a team.
But Reva's a tough customer. She surfaces quicker, and even though
she's sick, scared, confused, she makes a call. So that part of the
plan-if it was part of the plan-didn't work, because Caro, rushing the
few blocks with a coat thrown over her pajamas, closed the door before
the sixty was up.
She added the detail to her report.
What was left on scene?
The kitchen knife from the Bissel-Ewing house. How long had it been
missing? Unlikely they'd be able to determine.
Military-issue stunner. Used by military personnel, Special Forces,
certain city crisis-response teams. Who else?
"Computer, what weaponry is issued to United States Secret Service
agents, specifically those on presidential detail."
Working . . . all agents are issued
an M3 stunner and a neuron blaster, both handheld models. Agents may
choose between a 4000 blaster and a 5200, as suits their personal
preference.
"An M3," Eve murmured. "I was under the impression SS agents carried
A-1s."
Prior to December 5, 2055, A-1
stunners were standard issue for Secret Service. The change to the more
powerful M3 went into effect at this time. The attempt on the life of
then-President Anne B. Foster, on August 8, 2055, the loss of two
agents and civilian casualties during this assassination attempt
resulted in the upgrade of weaponry.
"Is that so?"
This is accurate data.
"Right." Eve tipped back in her chair. Whoever had used and planted the
M3 had assumed Reva had one. She hadn't left the SS until January. But
she'd never gone back to active duty either. It was a simple matter to
check to see if she'd ever been issued that style weapon.
Another detail for her report. When she'd compiled everything she
wanted, she dumped it all into a file, saved it.
"Computer, analyze all data in case file HE-45209-2. Using known data,
run a probability scan on Ewing, Reva, as perpetrator."
Working . . .
"Take your time," Eve murmured and rose to get more coffee.
She wandered back to her desk. Sat, sipped, played idly with the
stuffed cat Roarke had given her since Galahad appeared to be spending
the evening with Summerset.
Which just went to show, she thought, the cat's lousy judge of
character.
Probability scan complete.
Probability that Ewing, Reva, is perpetrator in the murders of Bissel,
Blair, and Kade, Felicity, is seventy-seven point six percent.
"That's interesting. That's pretty interesting for something that, on
the surface, looked like a walk. She passes Level Three tomorrow,
that's going to drop another twenty points, easy. Then her lawyers are
going to kick my ass."
"You don't sound overly concerned about that."
She turned her head to look at Roarke, lounging against the doorjamb
between their offices. "I can take my licks."
"I'll owe you for it. Yes, yes," he said, reading her face. "Doing your
job, and so on and so forth. But you'll be taking some of those licks
to help a friend of mine. So I'll owe you for it. The media loves to
slap down anyone who's at the top of their game, as you are."
"And gee . . ." -she held up the stuffed cat as if speaking to it- ". .
. the media worries me almost as much as a bunch of pussy lawyers."
"I beg your pardon, but my lawyers are not pussies."
Eve set the stuffed cat aside and gave Roarke a steely stare. "I
figured she'd lawyered up with some of your suits. If they're worth
half of what you pay them, they'll have the charges dropped within
another twenty-four. It'd be better if they didn't."
"Why is that?"
"As long as whoever's running this show thinks she's in the squeeze,
she's safe and he won't be as likely to blow. If he's not already in
the wind, and Reva shakes this loose, he'll blow. Or they will."
"They."
"There's got to be a team working on this. Someone for the murder,
someone for the setup, someone for the hit on the security and data
units at the gallery and studio. And somebody, I betcha, pushing all
the buttons."
"It's so nice when we agree. I need to move this to the unregistered."
"Why?"
"Come with me, and I'll show you."
"I'm working here."
"You'll want to see this, Lieutenant."
"Better be good."
The equipment unregistered with, and undetectable by, CompuGuard was in
a secured room.
The wide wall of windows was screened against prying eyes, but let in
the view of New York, with all its spires and spears rising into the
night sky.
The black, U-shaped console was slick, and studded with dozens of
controls. It reminded Eve, always, of some sort of futuristic
spacecraft. So much so, she wouldn't have batted an eye if the entire
thing had floated up from the floor, then zoomed off, to wink away in
some time warp.
He got a brandy from the fully stocked bar behind a wall panel, and
because he intended for her to sleep shortly, poured her another glass
of wine.
"I'm on coffee now."
"Then it won't hurt you to dilute some of the caffeine. And look what
else I have." He held up a candy bar.
Greed shot into her eyes before she could disguise it. "You have candy
in here? I've never seen candy in here."
"I'm just full of surprises." Watching her, he waved the wrapped bar
from side to side. "You can have the candy if you sit on my lap."
"That sounds like something perverted old men say to young, stupid
girls."
"I'm not old, and you're not stupid." He sat, patted his knee. "It's
Belgian chocolate."
"Just because I'm sitting on your lap and eating your candy doesn't
mean you can cop a feel," she said as she folded into his lap.
"I'll just have to live in hope that you'll change your mind. Which you
may when you see what I've found for you."
"Put up, or shut up."
"That's my line." He nipped her ear, passed her the candy bar, then
inserted a disc. Reaching over, he laid a palm on the console. "Roarke.
Open operations."
It hummed, more like a powerful animal waking than a machine booting
up. Lights flashed on.
"Upload data."
"If you've got data on the disc . . ." She swallowed a bite of candy,
". . . why do you need the unregistered? You're already on record."
"It's not what I have, but what I intend to do with it. Digging around,
I ran into a couple of blocks. Nothing unusual initially. Standard
privacy blocks, all very usual and law-abiding. But when I nudged them
a bit, I got this. Computer, display last task from disc on screen one."
Screen one on. Display up.
Eve frowned at the snowy-white screen and blurred black letters.
RESTRICTED DATA
ACCESS DENIED
"That's it? Access denied? You run into a wall and I have to come in
here and sit on your lap?"
"No, you're sitting on my lap because you wanted my candy."
Rather than admit that was true, she took another bite of chocolate.
"Why's the display fuzzy?"
"Because, fortunately, I engaged filters before digging around. If I
hadn't, I'd have set off an alarm, and my little excavation would have
sent up all manner of flags. So, we do it in here. Computer, redo last
task."
Acknowledged.
The screen flashed off, then on again, clear.
Task complete.
"So?"
"You have no faith whatsoever. Just for that, sit over there and be
quiet."
She shrugged, moved off his lap, and onto a chair. She finished off her
candy bar, sipped lazily at her wine. It wasn't exactly a
hardship to watch him work. She liked the way he rolled his sleeves up
to the elbow, tied his hair back-like a man preparing to do some
serious physical labor.
He used both manual and verbal commands, so she could watch his quick
fingers fly over keys, hear his voice-more Irish as he
concentrated-flow out.
"Access denied? I'll show you access denied, bloody wanker."
Smiling a little, she closed her eyes, telling herself she was just
going to rest them while she walked mentally through the investigation
to date.
The next thing she knew, he was shaking her gently by the shoulder.
"Eve."
"What!" Her eyes popped open. "I wasn't sleeping. I was thinking."
"Yes, I could hear you thinking."
"If that's some smart-ass way of saying I was snoring, bite me."
"I'd be more than happy to bite you later, but I really believe you'll
want to see this."
She rubbed her eyes, and focused on his face. "Since you've got that
big I'm-the-cat's-ass grin on your face, I guess you got into whatever
you wanted to get into."
"Have a look." He gestured toward the screen.
Reading, Eve got slowly to her feet.
HOMELAND SECURITY ORGANIZATION
REDSTAR ACCESS ONLY!
"Jesus Christ, Roarke, you hacked into the HSO?"
"I have." He toasted himself with a brandy. "By God, I have, and it
took considerable doing. You were . . . thinking for over an hour."
She knew she was goggling, but she couldn't stop. "You can't hack into
the HSO."
"Well, I hate to disagree, but as you can plainly see-"
"I don't mean you can't. I mean you can't."
"Relax, Lieutenant, we're shielded." He leaned over and kissed the tip
of her nose. "Right and tight."
"Roarke-"
"Ssh, you haven't seen it yet. Computer, employ passcode. Now, you'll
see the file I dug for is encrypted, for obvious reasons. You'd think a
gang like the HSO would employ more complex encryptions. Then again, I
don't suppose they counted on anyone actually getting through to this
point. It was a bloody battle."
"I think you've lost your mind. You may be able to get off on an
insanity defense. They'll still torture you, brainwash you, and lock
you in a cage for the rest of your life, but they might not beat you to
death if they know you're insane. This is the HSO. The antiterrorist
organization that employs methods every bit as dirty as the terrorists
they were initially formed to seek out and destroy. Roarke-"
"Yes, yes." He waved away her concerns. "Ah, here we are. Take a look."
She hissed out a breath, turned back to the screen, and stared at the
ID photo and the personnel file of Bissel, Blair, level-two operative.
"Goddamn! Goddamn!" She was grinning now, as wildly as Roarke. "We got
us a freaking spook!"
"You have a dead spook," Roarke pointed out. "I wonder if that's
redundant."
"It makes sense. Don't you see?" She punched him lightly on the
shoulder. "Who gets through security slicker than a spook?"
"Well, foregoing modesty, I must point out that I-"
"You don't have any modesty to forego. Bissel was HSO, so it jibes for
him to have all those blocks on his studio, for him to hook up with a
security expert, and for him to be dead."
"Assassinated by another spook, national or foreign."
"Exactly. They knew about Bissel and Kade, and when the time was right
they let Reva know. Set her up to take the fall."
"Why? What's the point in framing an innocent woman?"
Frowning, she studied the screen. He looked like an ordinary man, she
thought. Good-looking, if you went for the smooth type, but ordinary.
That would, she imagined, be part of the point. Spooks needed to blend
in to stay spooks.
"Not sure there has to be a point, but if there is, it could be as
simple as not wanting anyone looking too closely at Bissel, taking it
on the surface. A philandering husband whacked by his crazed wife in
the heat of passion. Homicide comes in, takes a look at the mess, hauls
Reva off, and that's the end of that."
"That's simple enough, but it would've been simpler yet to stage a
burglary gone wrong and leave Reva out of it."
"Yeah." She looked back at Roarke. "And that tells me she was already
in it."
"The Code Red."
"The Code Red, and other things she's been working on over the past
couple of years." Jamming her hands in her pocket she began to pace.
"This current isn't your only government or sensitive project."
"Hardly." Roarke studied Bissel's ID image. "He married her because of
her work. Because of what she was rather than who."
"Or because of what you are. They'll have a file on you."
"Yes, I'm sure they do." And he intended to take a look at it before he
was done.
"What's level two mean? Level-two operative."
"I have no idea."
"Let's take a look at his dossier. See when he was recruited." Thumbs
hooked in pockets, she read the data on screen. "Nine years ago, so he
wasn't a rookie. Based in Rome a couple of years, and in Paris, in
Bonn. Got around. I'd say his artistic profession would make good
cover. Spoke four languages-and that'd be a plus. We know he's good
with the ladies, and that couldn't hurt."
"Eve, look at his recruiter."
"Where?"
With a keystroke, he highlighted a name.
"Felicity Kade? Son of a bitch. She brought him in." She held up her
hand for silence and paced out her thoughts. "She'd've been a kind of
trainer to him, seems to me. A lot of times trainers and trainees
develop a close relationship. They worked together, and they were
lovers. Probably lovers, on and off, all along. They're a type."
"Which type is that?" he wondered.
"Slick, upper-class, social animals. Vain-"
"Why vain?"
"Lots of mirrors, lots of fancy duds, lots of money spent on body and
face work, salons."
Amused, he studied his fingernails. "One could claim those attributes
are simply natural elements of a comfortable lifestyle."
"Yeah, if they add up to you. You've got a big trunkful of vanity
yourself, but it's not the same as these two. You don't throw mirrors
onto the walls every damn place so you can check yourself out every
time you move, like Bissel."
Thoughtfully, she glanced back at Roarke and decided if she looked as
good as he did, she'd probably spend half the day staring at herself.
Weird.
"All those mirrors, reflective surfaces," she continued when he just
smiled at her, "you could argue that was as much lack of confidence as
vanity."
"That would be my take, but it sounds like a question for Mira."
"Yeah." She would get to that, and soon. "Anyway, they're a type. Like
the artsy scene, and showing themselves off. Even if it's cover, they
have to be into it. And on another level, it must take a certain type
to go into covert work, on the long haul. You live a lie, you set up an
identity, a persona that's part reality, part fantasy. How else could
you make it work?"
"I'll agree that Bissel and Kade appear to be more suited than Bissel
and Reva -at least on the surface."
"Okay, but they need Reva. They need, want, or have been assigned to
infiltrate Securecomp. Felicity approaches Reva first, makes pals.
Maybe feels her out. But for whatever reason Reva's not a good
candidate for the HSO."
"She's worked for the government," Roarke pointed out. "Nearly died for
it. She's loyal, and the administration she was attached to had no
great affection for the HSO, as I recall."
"Politics." Eve blew out a breath. "Makes me screwy. But if we take it
down to 'she's not a candidate for covert,' it doesn't mean she's not a
good resource for the HSO. So they bring in Bissel. Romance, sex. But
the marriage, that says they expected her to be of long-term use."
"And disposable."
She turned back to him. "It's tough to see a friend get kicked around
this way. I'm sorry."
"I wonder if it'll be easier on her, or harder, knowing all this."
"Whichever, she'll have to cope. She doesn't have a lot of options."
She nodded toward the wall screens. "These two were using her as an
information source, and it's probable they planted various devices in
the home, in her data unit, her vehicles, maybe on her person. She was
their plant, an unwitting mole, and odds are they tapped her for
plenty. No point in keeping up the charade of marriage and friendship
if it wasn't paying off."
"Agreed." And the fact that it must have been paying off was, he
imagined, going to cause him considerable annoyance. "But what point is
there in eliminating two operatives? If it was an in-house
assassination, it seems wasteful. Outside, it seems like overkill.
Messy, Eve, either way."
"Messy, but it had the potential of taking out three key players." She
drummed her fingers on her hips. "There's more. Has to be more. Maybe
Bissel and Kade screwed up. Maybe they tried playing both sides. Maybe
they blew their cover. We need to pick our way through their lives. I
need all the data you can get me on them. And since we're playing with
spooks, screw the rules."
"Could you say that again? The screw the rules part. It's such music to
my ears."
"You're going to enjoy this one, aren't you?"
"I believe I am." But he didn't look pleased when he said it. He looked
dangerous. "Someone has to pay for what's been done to Reva. I'll enjoy
being part of that payment."
"There's an advantage to having a friend as scary as you."
"Come sit on my lap and say that."
"Get the data, pal. I need to call in, check with the men on Reva's
house. I don't want anybody sliding in there before we sweep it for
devices in the morning."
"If there were bugs, they'd have had an exterminator of their own."
"They had to move fast between the time Reva received the package and
the hit, then her arrival." She combed a hand through her hair as she
went over the time line. "If they moved right in maybe they swept it
out. But somebody was at the Flatiron. Seems to me that an op like
this, double murder, would require a small, tight team. Don't want too
many in the know."
"It's Homeland," Roarke reminded her. "Orders to sweep out a private
residence wouldn't require the exterminators being apprised of the
reason."
"Just following orders," she mumbled and envisioned the bloody mess in
Felicity Kade's bed. What kind of person gave orders for that kind of
brutality? Not assassination, she thought. No way to clean up vicious,
bloody murder. "Yeah, you've got a point. Still, if orders did come
down, they could've missed something."
* * *
They worked another two hours before he convinced her it was all he
could do for the night. He talked her into bed, and when he was certain
she slept, he got up, went back. And did more.
It wasn't difficult to access his file as he was already into the main.
They had less hard data on him than he'd anticipated. Hardly more, he
noted, than was public knowledge-or that he'd adjusted, personally, for
public knowledge.
There were a number of suspecteds, allegeds, probables running through
his somewhat checkered career. Most of them were true enough, but there
were a few sins ascribed to him that weren't on his actual plate.
That hardly mattered.
It amused more than annoyed him to find that twice he'd been
romantically involved with an operative assigned to him in the hopes of
eliciting information.
He lit a cigarette, tipped back in his chair as he remembered the two
women with some fondness. He supposed he couldn't complain. He'd
enjoyed their company, and was confident enough that though their
primary mission had failed, they'd enjoyed his.
They didn't know about his mother, and that was a tremendous relief.
Officially, Meg Roarke was listed as his mother, and that was fine by
him. What did it matter to the HSO who had birthed him? A young girl
foolish enough to love and believe in a man like Patrick Roarke wasn't
of any interest.
Especially since she was long dead.
Since they hadn't bothered to go back that far, or dig that deep, they
didn't know about Siobhan Brody, or his aunt and the rest of the family
he'd discovered in the west of Ireland. His newfound relations wouldn't
be watched or approached or have their privacy invaded by the HSO.
But there was a fat file on his father. Patrick Roarke had been of
considerable interest to the HSO, as well as Interpol, the Global
Intelligence Council, and other covert organizations the HSO had pooled
for data. He discovered that they'd considered recruiting him at one
point, but had judged him too volatile.
Volatile, Roarke mused with a dark chuckle. Well, he could hardly argue
with that.
They'd tied him to Max Ricker, and that was no surprise. Ricker had
been a clever man, and his network spread all over the planet, and off,
with rich pockets of weapons and illegals running among other business
ventures. But he'd been entirely too vain to cover all of his tracks.
Patrick Roarke was considered one of Ricker's occasional tools, and not
a particularly deft one. Too fond of the drink and other chemicals. And
not discreet enough to warrant a higher position, much less a permanent
one on Ricker's payroll.
But seeing the association in black-and-white made the fact that Eve
had been the one to lock Ricker in a cage all the more gratifying.
He'd nearly closed the file again when he caught a notation about
travel to Dallas. The time, the place made his blood run cold.
Patrick Roarke traveled from Dublin to Dallas, Texas, on circular route
and under the name Roarke O'Hara. Arrived Dallas 5-12-2036 at
seventeen-thirty. Was met at airport by subject known as Richard Troy
aka Richie Williams aka William Bounty aka Rick Marco. Subjects
traveled by car to Casa Diablo Hotel where Troy was registered as Rick
Marco. Roarke rented a room under O'Hara.
At twenty-fifteen, subjects exited hotel and traveled by foot to the
Black Saddle Bar, where they remained until oh two hundred.
Transcription of conversation attached.
There was more-standard surveillance reports that covered three days
with the two men coming and going, having meetings with others of their
kind in bars, in dives.
A great deal of drinking and posturing, and bits and pieces discussed
about movement of munitions from a base in Atlanta.
Max Ricker. Roarke didn't need the transcript to tell him both his
father and Eve's had been on the fringes, at least, of Ricker's
network. They knew the men had met, in Dallas.
Days before, he thought, only days before Eve had been found, battered
and broken, in an alley.
They'd known all that, he thought, and so had the HSO.
Subject Roarke checked out of hotel at ten thirty-five the following
morning. He was driven by Troy to the airport where he took a shuttle
to Atlanta.
Troy returned to hotel room shared with female minor. Surveillance on
Roarke passed to Operative Clark.
"Female minor," Roarke repeated. "You bastards. You bloody bastards,
you had to know."
And with a rage so strong it sickened him, he brought up Richard Troy's
HSO file.
* * *
It wasn't yet dawn when she stirred, and felt his arms go around her.
So gently around her. Half dreaming, she turned to him, turned into him
and found the warmth of his body, then the warmth of his lips on her
lips.
The kiss was so tender, so fragile somehow, that she could let herself
drift into it even as she floated on that twilight sleep.
In the dark, she could always find him in the dark and know he'd be
there to soothe her or arouse her. Or to ask those things of her.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, cradling his head as she
urged him to deepen the kiss. Deeper, a mating of lips and tongues, and
still soft as a dream she was already forgetting.
For now there was only Roarke, the smooth glide of his skin over hers,
the lines of him, the scent and taste. She was already filled with him
as she murmured his name.
His mouth trailed over her like a benediction. Cheeks, throat,
shoulders, then pressed delicately on the slope of her breast to linger
where her heart beat.
"I love you." His lips formed the words against her breast. "I'm lost
in love with you."
Not lost, she thought, and smiled in the dark even as her pulse
thickened. Found. We're both found.
He cradled his head there a moment-cheek to heart-and closed his eyes
until he could be sure he had his fiercer emotions in check, until he
could be sure his hands would be gentle on her.
He had a searing need to be gentle.
She sighed, soft and sleepy, and was content, he knew, to be wakened
like this. No matter what had been done to her, her heart was open for
him, and that open heart lifted him beyond anything he'd expected to
become.
So he was gentle when he touched her, and when he roused her to peak it
was lovely and sweet.
When he slipped inside her, they were one shadow moving in the dark.
She held him there, close in the big bed under the sky window where the
light was going pearl-gray with dawn. She could stay like this for an
hour, she thought. Stay quiet and joined and happy before it was time
to face the world, the job, the blood.
"Eve." He pressed his lips to her shoulder. "We need to talk."
"Mmm. Don't wanna talk. Sleeping."
"It's important." He drew away, though she groaned a protest. "I'm
sorry. Lights on, twenty percent."
"Oh, man." She clapped a hand over her eyes. "What is it? Five? Nobody
has to have a conversation at five in the morning."
"It's nearly half-five, and you'll have your team here at seven. We
need the time for this."
She spread her fingers, squinted through. "For what?"
"I went back last night and accessed more files."
And through those spread fingers, he saw the annoyance. "I thought you
said that was all you could do."
"For you, it was. I did this for me. I wanted a look at my own dossier,
in case . . . Just in case."
She sat up quickly. "Are you in trouble? Christ, are you in trouble
with the fucking HSO?"
"No." He put his hands on her shoulders, ran them up and down her arms.
And suffered, knowing she would suffer. "It's not that. While I was at
it, I had a look at my father's files."
"Your mother." She reached for his hand, squeezed.
"No. It seems she didn't earn as much as a blip on their radar. They
weren't paying much mind to him that long ago, and she didn't matter to
them, wasn't useful or interesting, which is all to the good. But
Patrick Roarke became of more interest, and they spent time tracking
his moves now and again. Mostly, it appears, on the chance he'd give
them something to use against Ricker."
"I'd say he didn't, as Ricker stayed in operation until last year."
"He didn't give them enough. It's a long, convoluted file, a great many
cross-references, a lot of man-hours that didn't amount to anything
that would stick."
"Well, he's away now. Ricker. What does that have to do with this?"
"They had my father under surveillance, believing he was working as a
bagman for Ricker, and they tracked him to Dallas, in May. The year you
were eight."
She nodded, slowly, but had to swallow. "We knew he'd been in Dallas
about that time, helping to set up for the Atlanta job, the sting where
Skinner's operation went to hell. It's not important. Look, since I'm
up, I'm going to get a shower."
"Eve." He clamped his hands on hers, felt hers jerk as she tried to
escape. "He was met at the airport by a man named Richard Troy."
Her eyes were huge now, with fear -the kind he saw when she woke from
nightmares. "This has nothing to do with the case. The case is
priority. I need to-"
"I've never looked into your past, because I knew you didn't want it."
Her hands had gone cold in his, but he held them. He wished he could
warm them. "I didn't intend to look now, but only to assure myself that
my family wasn't being watched. The connection . . ." He brought her
rigid hands to his lips. "Darling Eve, the connection between your
father and mine is there. We can't pretend otherwise. I don't want to
hurt you. I can't stand to hurt you."
"You have to let me go."
"I can't. I'm sorry. I tried to talk myself out of telling you. 'She
doesn't need to know, doesn't want to know.' But I can't hold this back
from you. It would hurt you more, wouldn't it, and insult you on top of
that if I treated you like you couldn't take it."
"That's tricky." Her voice was scratchy and her eyes burned. "That's
pretty fucking tricky."
"Maybe, but no less true for all that. I have to tell you what I've
found, and you'll decide how much of it you want to hear."
"I need to think!" She yanked her hands free from his. "I need to
think. Just leave me alone and let me think." She sprang off the bed,
rushed into the bathroom. Slammed the door.
He nearly went after her, but when he asked himself if doing so would
be for her sake or his own, he wasn't at all sure. So instead, he
waited for her.
She took a shower, blistering hot. Halfway through her heart rate was
nearly normal again. She stayed in the drying tube too long, and felt a
little lightheaded afterward. She just needed coffee, that was all.
Just a few hits of coffee-and she needed to put this crap out of her
mind.
She had a job to do. It didn't matter, it didn't fucking matter about
Patrick Roarke or her father, or Dallas. It didn't apply. She couldn't
afford to crowd her head with that kind of bullshit when she had work
to do.
And she looked at her face in the mirror over the sink, her pale,
terrified face. She wanted to smash her fist through it. Nearly did.
But she turned away, yanked on her robe, and walked back into the
bedroom.
He'd gotten up, put on a robe of his own. He said nothing as he walked
over and handed her a cup of coffee.
"I don't want to know about this. Can you understand? I don't want to
know."
"All right, then." He touched her cheek. "We'll put it away."
He wouldn't call her a coward, she realized. He wouldn't even think it.
He would just love her.
"I don't want to know about this," she repeated. "But you have to tell
me." She walked to the sitting area and lowered to a chair because she
was afraid her knees would shake. "His name was Troy?"
He sat across from her, keeping the low table between them because he
sensed she wanted the distance. "He had a number of aliases, but that
was his legal name, so it seems. Richard Troy. There's a file on him. I
didn't read the whole of it, but just the . . . just the business in
Dallas. But copied it for you in case you wanted to."
She didn't know what she wanted. "They met in Dallas."
"They did. Yours picked mine up at the airport, brought him to the
hotel where you . . . where you were. He registered. They went out
later that night and got piss-faced. There's a transcript of their
conversation, such as it was, and the same over the three days they
were there together. A lot of posturing and bragging, and some
speculation on the operation in Atlanta."
"Ricker's gun-running operation."
"Yes. My father was to go on to Atlanta, which he did the following
day. There is speculation that he took payoff money from the cops who
were using him as an inside man in Ricker's organization. He took that,
and Ricker's money, and-double-crossing both sides-went back to Dublin."
"That confirms what we theorized when we dealt with Skinner. Sloppy job
by the spooks if they didn't cop to what your father had in mind, and
warn the locals. Puts HSO on the trigger for the thirteen cops who died
in that botched raid as much as Ricker, as much as anyone."
"I'd say HSO didn't give a damn about the cops."
"Okay." She could focus on that, pinpoint some of the rage on that.
"They'd consider Ricker the prime directive. The Atlanta operation was
major, but it wasn't the whole ball. Maybe they were too focused on
bringing down Ricker, crushing his network and doing the victory dance
that they didn't figure a small cog like Patrick Roarke was going to
screw all sides. But it's unconscionable they'd let cops die that way."
"They knew about you."
"What?"
"They knew there was a child in that bloody room with him. Female,
minor child. The bastards knew."
When her eyes went glassy, he cursed. Shoving the table away, he pushed
her head between her knees. "Take it slow, breathe slow. Christ,
Christ, I'm sorry."
His voice was a buzz in her ears. His beautiful voice, murmuring in
Gaelic now as his control wavered. She could hear it wavering, feel it
in the quiver of his hand on the back of her head. He was kneeling
beside her, she realized. Suffering as much, if not more, than she was
herself.
Wasn't that strange? Wasn't that miraculous?
"I'm okay."
"Just give it a minute more. You're trembling yet. I want them dead.
Those who knew you were trapped with him and did nothing. I want their
blood in my throat."
She shifted enough to rest her cheek on her knee and look at him. At
the moment, he looked every bit like a man who could rip out another's
throat. "I'm okay," she said again. "It's not going to matter, Roarke.
It's not, because I survived, and he didn't. I need to read the file."
He nodded, then just laid his head on hers.
"If you'd blocked this from me" -her voice was thick but she didn't try
to clear it- "it would've set me back. It would've set us back. I know
this isn't easy for you either, but telling me . . . Trusting us to get
through it, that's going to make it better. I need to look at some of
this data."
"I'll get it for you."
"No, I'll go with you. We'll look at it together."
They went back in his private room, and read what he brought up on
screen together.
She didn't sit. She wasn't going to let her legs go weak on her again.
Not even when she read the field operative's report.
Sexual and physical abuse involving minor female purported to be
subject's daughter. No recorded data on minor, no birth mother or
surrogate registered. Intervention is not recommended at this time. If
subject becomes aware he is being observed, or if any social or
law-enforcement agency is informed of the situation with minor female,
subject's value would be compromised.
Recommend non-action re minor female.
"They let it go." Roarke spoke softly, too softly. "I hate fucking
cops. Saving your presence," he added after a moment.
"They're not cops. They don't give a rat's ass about the law, much less
about justice. They sure as hell don't give a damn about an individual.
It's all big picture to them, always was, from the moment they formed
at the dawn of the Urban Wars, it was big picture and fuck the people
in it."
She packed away her rage, her horror, and continued to read. It wasn't
until she came to the end that she had to reach out, lie her hand on
the console for balance.
"They knew what happened. They knew I killed him. My God, they knew,
and they cleaned up after me."
"For security, my ass. To cover their own culpability."
"It says . . . it says the listening devices planted were defective and
shut down that night. What are the chances?" she drew a deep breath and
read the section again.
Surveillance returned at seven hundred and sixteen hours. No sound or
movement recorded on premises for six hours. Assumption that subject
had moved on during dark period caused field agent to risk a personal
check of room. Upon entering, agent observed subject DOS. Cause of
death determined to be multiple stab wounds inflicted with small
kitchen knife. Female minor child could not be located on premises.
No data on premises pertaining to Ricker or Roarke. On orders from
Home, area was cleaned. Body disposal team notified.
Minor child, female, believed to be subject's daughter, located under
medical observation. Severe physical and emotional trauma. Local
authorities investigating. Minor has no identification and will be
assigned a social caseworker.
Subsequently local authorities unable to identify minor child, female.
Minor subject unable to remember and/or relate name or circumstances.
No connection to Troy or this agency can be made. Minor subject has
been absorbed by the National Agency for Minors and has been given the
name Dallas, Eve.
Case file Troy is closed.
"Is there a file on me?"
"Yes."
"Did they make the connection?"
"I didn't read it."
"Aren't you just full of willpower?" When he didn't speak, she turned
away from the screen, and took a step toward him.
He took one back. "Someone will pay for this. Nothing will stop me. I
can't kill him, though God, I've dreamed of it. But someone will pay
for standing by, standing back, and letting this happen to you."
"It won't change anything."
"Aye, by God it will." Some part of the fury he'd held inside him since
reading the reports lashed out. "There are balances, Eve. You know it.
Checks and balances, that's what makes your precious justice. I'll have
my own on this."
She was cold, already so cold, but his words, the look of him now all
but numbed her. "It's not going to help me to think about you going off
and hunting up some spook assigned to this over twenty years ago."
"You don't have to think about it."
A little bubble of panic rose in her throat. "I need you focused on the
work -do what you promised to do."
He stepped around the console, up to her. His eyes were blue ice as he
took her chin in his hand. "Do you think I can or will let this go?"
"No. Do you think I can stand back and let you hunt someone down and
mete out your personal sense of justice?"
"No. So we have a problem. In the meantime, I'll give you whatever you
need from me on this case. I won't fight with you over this, Eve," he
said before she could speak. "And I won't ask or expect you to change
your moral ground. I only ask you do the same when it comes to me."
"I want you to remember something." Her voice wanted to shake. Her soul
wanted to tremble. "I want you to think about this before you do
something you can't take back."
"I'll do what I have to do," he said flatly. "And so will you."
"Roarke." She gripped his arms, and was afraid she could already feel
him slipping away from her. "Whatever happened to me back in Dallas, I
came out of it. I'm standing here because of it. Maybe I have
everything that matters to me, including you, because of it. If that's
true, I'd go through it all again. I'd go through every minute of the
hell to have you, to have my badge, to have this life. That's enough
balance for me. I need you to think about that."
"Then I will."
"I need to get ready for the morning briefing." To think about
something else -anything else. "So do you. This has to be put away for
now. If you can't put it away, you're no good for me, or your friend."
"Eve." He said it gently, as he'd loved her gently, and he brushed the
tear she hadn't been aware of shedding from her cheek.
She broke when his arms came around her. And because they did, she
burrowed into him and let herself weep.
She was back in form by the time her team arrived for the briefing.
Thoughts of what she'd survived in Dallas were locked away to be taken
out later when she was alone, when she could stand them. When she
could, she would figure out what could and couldn't be done.
He'd kill them. She had no illusions. Left to himself, Roarke would
hunt down those responsible for the non-action directive in Dallas, and
. . . eliminate them.
Checks and balances.
He would do this, unless she found the key to his rage, his sense of
justice, his need to punish. His need to stand for her and to spill
blood for blood for the sake of a desperate and brutalized child.
So she had to find that key, somehow. And while she was looking for it,
she was going up against one of the most powerful and self-contained
organizations on or off planet.
Her prior plans of expanding the team, of including a strong showing of
hand-selected EDD men, had to be put on hold. She had an intricate
little bomb on her hands. Too much shifting and passing and it would
blow up in her face.
She would keep her team as small and tight as possible.
Feeney. She couldn't do without Feeney. He was currently chowing down
on one of his favored Danishes while he argued with McNab about some
Arena Ball player named Snooks.
EDD ace Ian McNab didn't look like somebody who'd get riled up about
Arena Ball. Then again, he didn't look like a cop either. He was
wearing purple leather-look pants, pegged tight as tourniquets at the
ankles to show off his low-rider purple gel-sneaks. His shirt was
purple stripes and snug enough to show off his narrow torso and bony
shoulders. He'd pulled his blond hair back in a relatively simple braid
that hung between his angel-wing shoulder-blades, but had made up for
the simplicity with a jungle of silver hoops that curved along his left
ear.
Though he had a pretty face, narrow and smooth and set off by clever
green eyes, he didn't look like the type the sturdy and steady Peabody
would go for. But she did, and in a big way.
You could see what was between them in the casual way his hand brushed
Peabody's knee, the way she jabbed him with her elbow when he tried to
take her pastry.
And the proof that love was in bloom when Peabody broke the pastry in
half and gave it to him.
She needed them, the three of them, and the man-her man-who sipped his
coffee and waited for her to start the show.
And once she did, she put them all at risk.
"If everyone's finished their little coffee break, there's a little
matter of a double homicide to discuss."
"Got your EDD report there." Feeney nodded toward the disc packet he'd
put on her desk. "Every one of the units -house, gallery, studio- was
fried. Total corruption. I got some ideas on how to regenerate and
access data, but it's not going to be easy, and it's not going to be
quick. Easier and quicker with the use of some of the equipment our
civilian consultant has at his disposal."
"Then it's at yours," Roarke said and had Feeney beaming in
anticipation.
"I can have a retrieval team here in an hour, with the units. We'll set
up a network and-"
"That's not going to be possible," Eve interrupted. "I need to ask you
to personally transport a sampling of the units here. Those that remain
at Central will require top-level security. They have to be moved from
the pen, Feeney. ASAP."
"Dallas, electronics isn't your area, but even you should be able to
figure out how long it's going to take me to work this magic on more'n
a dozen units. I can't be hauling them over here a couple at a time,
and without a retrieval team, six-man minimum, we're looking at days,
if not weeks before we pull out anything readable."
"It can't be helped. The nature of the investigation has changed.
Information has come into my hands that confirms involvement and
possible participation in these murders by the Homeland Security
Organization."
There was a moment of absolute silence, then McNab's excited response.
"Spooks? Oh baby, ultimately iced."
"This isn't a vid, Detective, or some comp game where you play secret
agent. Two people are dead."
"With all respect, Lieutenant, they're dead anyway."
Since she couldn't think of an argument for that, she ignored it. "I
can't reveal how this information came to me." But she saw Feeney's
glance at Roarke, the speculation and the pride in it. "If it comes
down to a court order demanding my source -as it very well may- I'll
lie. You need to know that upfront. I'll perjure myself without
hesitation, not only to protect the source, but to maintain the
integrity of this investigation, and to protect Reva Ewing, who I'm
convinced is innocent."
"I like the anonymous tip myself," Feeney said easily. "Untraceable
transmission of data. There's a couple of ways to set that up on your
unit right here so it'll look like you got one. Should hold up against
most tests."
"That's illegal," Eve pointed out, and he smiled.
"Just talking out loud."
"When each of you took this case, it was on the belief it was a
standard homicide investigation. It's not. You have a choice of
stepping out of the investigation before I reveal the data in my
possession. Once I relay it, you're stuck. And it could get pretty
fucking sticky. We can't bring anyone else into this. It can't be
discussed outside of secured locations. Each of us will have to be
swept daily for possible bugs and that includes home, workplace,
vehicles, and person. You'll be at risk, and certainly under
observation."
"Lieutenant." Peabody waited until Eve's gaze shifted to her. "If you
don't know we're in, you should."
"This isn't business as usual."
"No, because it's ultimately iced." Peabody grinned when she said it
and earned a snicker from McNab.
Shaking her head, Eve sat on the corner of her desk. She'd known they
were in, but she had to give them the out. "Blair Bissel was a
level-two operative for the HSO, recruited and trained by Felicity
Kade."
"It was an HSO hit?"
She glanced at McNab. "I haven't quite tied it all up in a bow for you,
Detective. No notes," she said when he got out his book. "Nothing
logged or recorded except on cleared units. Here's what I know. Bissel
was in Homeland for nine years. At level two he functioned primarily as
a liaison. Passing data from point to point, accessing data or
accumulating intel, which he passed along to a contact. Kade generally,
but not exclusively. Three years ago, Kade was assigned to Reva Ewing
for the purposes of developing a relationship, a friendship."
"Why Ewing?" Peabody asked. "Particularly."
"They've had her under observation for a number of years, including her
time with the Secret Service. This observation was beefed up after her
injury, line of duty, and subsequent retirement. She was approached by
a recruiter for the HSO during her recuperation, and-according to the
file-was less than gracious in her refusal. As she was offered a
substantial incentive package, her refusal and her subsequent
employment were suspect."
"Roarke . . . Industries," Eve continued, "is a hot button for the HSO.
They've spent considerable time and manpower trying to tie it to
espionage, without success. Reva Ewing was considered a strong
candidate for information due to her personal and professional
relationship with the industry's head, and her mother's position as
Roarke's admin. The hope was Reva would chat about her work, her boss,
her projects, and so on, and the HSO would be one up."
"But she didn't," Feeney prompted.
"She didn't give them what they were after, but they had a lot
invested. And Felicity was committed. She brought in Bissel and set up
for the long haul."
"He married her for intel?" Peabody queried. "Sucks wide."
"For intel," Eve agreed. "And for a stronger cover, for the additional
contacts that came from her. She's still friendly with some of her
associates from the Secret Service, and she has former President
Foster's ear, among others. Neither Foster nor the current
administration has maintained very friendly relations with the HSO, or
vice versa. There's a lot of resentment, one-upmanship, a lot of
secrets and backbiting."
"I'm following all this well enough, kid," Feeney put in. "But it
doesn't explain why Bissel and Kade were hit, and Ewing set up."
"It sure as hell doesn't. So let's find out."
She glanced at Roarke, silently passing him the ball. "The Code Red
must factor into it," he began. "The units were taken out with the
Doomsday worm, or a close clone of it. It's possible, though it pains
me, that they've infiltrated my security at Securecomp, using Reva as
their conduit. The contract came through the Global Intelligence
Council, and was heatedly protested by the HSO, and a few other
acronyms."
"HSO would've wanted the contract themselves," McNab speculated.
"Privatization of this kind of work put the squeeze on the budget of
some of these agencies."
"There's that," Roarke agreed.
"Add that if they had the contract and the fee," Peabody continued,
"they'd also have all pertinent intel on the Code Red in-house. They
don't have to wait to be fed through channels."
Eve nodded. "Using Reva was a way to feed."
"Add that since Roarke Industries is considered suspect by some
factions . . ." Roarke let that hang in the air a moment, almost as if
amused. "The HSO found it expedient to focus on infiltrating and
gathering data and intel -whatever came to hand-in order to attempt to
build a case against the corporation. For espionage, double-dipping,
tax evasion. Some such thing."
He shrugged it off. He was-since Eve, in any case -a completely
legitimate businessman. And if he wasn't, he had no doubt he'd have
gotten around Homeland, just as he'd always done.
"I'll be looking into security and plugging any potential holes, but at
this point it's a bit like bricking up the hole after the rat's slipped
in to nibble the cheese."
"You can always lay out more cheese," Feeney commented.
Roarke smiled a little. "We're of a mind there."
"What about the worm itself?" Peabody asked. "If this was an HSO hit,
and the units were corrupted, that means the HSO has the worm, or a
clone. Wouldn't they be working on an extermination program and shield
themselves instead of . . . Oh."
"Global espionage isn't so very different from the corporate sort."
Roarke picked up the pot and topped off his coffee. "If they're working
on spec, or have another organization working on the protection
programs, it would pay them to know what we're up to."
"And to kill for it. Just another kind of organized crime." Peabody
flushed a little. "Sorry, Free-Ager roots showing. Realistically, I
know governments need covert organization to gather intelligence, to
help predict terrorist attacks, to help dismantle terrorists and
politically fanatic groups. But it's the fact that they don't always
have to play by the rules that can corrupt the individuals that make up
the whole. And that sounded just like my father."
"It's okay, She-Body." McNab gave her knee a squeeze. "I think
Free-Agers are hot."
"If the HSO ordered the hit on Kade and Bissel," Eve continued, "they
may not pay for it in the public courts. But, if they set up Reva Ewing
and left her twisting in the wind, they'll pay for that. She's a
citizen of New York, and that makes her ours. I'm going to speak with
the commander, then I'm going to Reva Ewing and make full disclosure,
unless ordered otherwise. I believe with her contacts I can work a meet
with reps from the HSO. And we'll play some ball."
When she'd completed the briefing, she started to walk out with
Peabody, then stopped as if just remembering something. "Oh, Feeney, I
need just another minute with you. Peabody, go on down. Put in a
request with the commander's office for some time, priority one."
"I don't expect to be more than two or three hours at Securecomp,"
Roarke told Feeney. "You know where everything is here. Set up however
it suits you best. Summerset will be able to answer any questions you
may have. I'll be back to roll up my sleeves as soon as I can.
Lieutenant."
He knew she would wince when he leaned down to kiss her. Which was only
one of the reasons he couldn't resist doing so. He let her close the
door behind him, and after giving it one speculative look, walked away.
Inside, Eve rubbed her hands over her face. "I've got to ask you for a
personal."
"Okay."
"This is . . . a little tricky for me."
"I'm seeing that. We need a sit-down?"
"No. I mean you can. I . . . can't. Shit." She paced away, stared hard
out of the window. "I don't know how much you know about when I was a
kid, and I don't want to talk about it."
He knew a great deal, enough that having her bring it up tightened his
belly. But his voice stayed even. "All right."
"There was an HSO field operative in Dallas when . . . during a period
when . . . Goddamn it."
"They had eyes on your father?"
"Yes. Eyes and ears. They . . . it's complicated, Feeney, and I don't
have it in me to go through it all. But the fact is there's a file.
Roarke's read it and-"
"Hold up. They had eyes and ears, they knew there was a kid, and they
didn't intervene?"
"That's not the point."
"Fuck the point."
"Feeney." She turned back and was assaulted by the same rage shooting
off him as it had with Roarke. "I shouldn't be telling you any of this.
If anything . . . You could, depending on the outcome, be considered an
accessory before the fact. But maybe, by telling you, we can change the
outcome. He'll look for payback, and he can't. It could ruin him. You
know that. I'm asking you to help me stop him."
"Stop him? What makes you think I won't give him a hand with it?"
"Because you're a cop," she snapped. "Because you know you can't take
it down to the personal that way. You know what can happen when you do.
I need you to keep him busy, too busy for him to spend any time moving
on this other thing. I need you to find a way to try to talk him down
from this. I think he'd listen to you."
"Why?"
"I don't know." She dragged her hands through her hair. "I just do.
Please God, Feeney, don't make me go to Summerset with this. It's hard
enough asking you. I just need to buy some time so I can think it
clear."
"Keeping him busy's not a problem seeing as there's only three of us
working on fourteen units. Talking to him . . ." Feeney's hands
retreated to his pockets as he shrugged. "I'll see if I can find an
opening for it. Can't promise I will."
"I appreciate it. I appreciate it, Feeney. Thanks."
"Let me ask you something, Dallas. Just between you and me, here and
now. We don't have to bring it up again, but I want a straight answer
from you. You don't want payback?"
She looked down at the floor, then made herself lift her gaze and meet
his eyes. "I want it so bad I can taste it. I want it so bad, so
fucking bad, it scares me. I want it, Feeney, so bad that I know I have
to put it away. I have to, or I'll do something I'm not sure I can live
with."
He nodded, and that was enough for both of them. "Let's go do the job,
then."
* * *
Commander Whitney was a big man who sat behind a big desk. Eve knew his
day was filled with paperwork and politics, with diplomacy and
directives. But it didn't make him less of a cop.
He had skin the tone of glossy oak, and the eyes that beamed out of his
wide face were dark and intelligent. There was more gray in his hair
than there'd been the year before, and Eve imagined his wife nagged him
to deal with it.
Personally, Eve liked it. It added one more aspect of authority.
He listened, and she found his silence during her report both heavy and
comforting.
She remained standing when she was finished, and though she didn't
glance over at Peabody, she knew her partner was holding her breath.
"Your source on this information is reliable?"
"Sir, as this information came to me through unknown sources, I am
unable to vouch for the reliability of same, but I'm convinced the data
itself is reliable."
He raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Carefully said. It may stand if and
when you're pushed on it. How do you intend to proceed?"
"I intend to disclose this information to Reva Ewing."
"That should make her lawyers stand up and dance."
"Sir, she didn't kill Bissel and Kade. I can't in good conscience
withhold this information from someone who is, essentially, another
victim."
"No. I just hate seeing lawyers dance."
There was the faintest snort from Peabody, hastily transformed into a
cough.
"The PA's not going to be happy," Whitney added.
"He may be happy enough to dance himself if we tie the HSO into a
double murder, and the deliberate framing of a civilian. That
eventuality would make this case very hot," Eve added when she saw the
speculative look in Whitney's eyes. "Hot enough to generate
considerable media. Global media, with the prosecuting attorney in the
forefront."
"That's interesting, and political thinking, Dallas. You surprise me."
"I can push my mind in a political direction when pressed, and assume
you'd be able to expand on that area when briefing the PA."
"You can be sure of it."
"Ewing may also prove useful in providing contacts to assist me in
pursuing this HSO aspect of my investigation."
"The HSO, once made aware of this aspect of your investigation, will
try, very hard, to end said investigation."
Non-action, she thought. That would be the term, and what they'd want
from her.
She'd be damned if they'd get it.
"They have no authority over the NYPSD on a homicide investigation. An
innocent woman was implicated, deliberately, in a double homicide."
An innocent child, she thought, couldn't stop the thought, was
deliberately ignored and left to be beaten, to be raped. Left to kill
to survive.
"That isn't national or global security, Commander, it's just dirty."
Her throat was starting to burn, but she ignored it and ordered herself
to stay with the facts. To stay with the now.
"A legitimate corporation, for which Ewing works, has a viable
government Code Red contract to develop an extermination program to
block the alleged plans of a techno-terrorist organization. If the HSO
has attempted to hamper the research and development currently underway
at Securecomp, that isn't a matter of national or global security
either. It's dangerous and self-aggrandizing corporate espionage."
"I can promise you, they'll have a different spin."
"They can spin it until they create a new plane of gravity, it won't
alter the fact that two people were brutally murdered, and an innocent
civilian deliberately framed for it. The media's already smearing Reva
Ewing's name all over the screen. She doesn't deserve it. She nearly
died standing as shield for President Foster, because that was her job.
No more, no less. She's done her job, no more, no less, for Securecomp,
and in doing so will be partly responsible for developing another
shield against a threat that could, potentially, shut down the
Pentagon, the NSC, the GSC, Parliament, and the damn HSO."
He held up a hand. "She'd do better with you than the lawyers. I'm not
arguing with you," he added as the insult flickered over Eve's face. "I
read her file. You understand you have the option of simply dropping
the charges and allowing Ewing to do her own spin. The NYPSD, and you,
might look overbearing or foolish initially, but that would wear off
before long."
"Two people would still be dead."
"Two operatives, Dallas. By-product of the job." He held up his hand
again before Eve could speak. "Do you have an opinion on that,
Detective Peabody?"
"Yes, sir. If I went down, line of duty, that'd be a by-product of the
job. But I'd expect Dallas and my fellow officers to do everything they
could to get me justice. We don't just let murder go because it's a
professional hazard."
"You stand up well for yourself, Detective. Now that I see we're all on
the same side of the line. Talk to Ewing. I'll take this to Chief
Tibble. Only Chief Tibble," he added, "on a need-to-know."
"Thank you, sir. The EDD team will work primarily out of my residence.
It has more levels of security than we have at Central."
"That doesn't surprise me. Document everything, Dallas, but for now
your reports to me will remain verbal only. I want to be informed the
minute you have any kind of contact with any agent or representative of
the HSO. Keep your ass covered, because if it takes a hit, so does this
department."
* * *
"That went well," Peabody commented as they headed down to the garage.
"Well enough."
"When he asked me if I had an opinion, I almost clutched."
"He wouldn't have asked if he didn't want to hear it."
"Maybe not, but brass usually wants to hear what they want to hear.
There was this other thing I was thinking." She ran a hand, very
casually, down her jacket to smooth the line. "Due to the nature of
this investigation and certain sensitivities, it might be more secure,
all in all, if members of the team remained at your residence."
"Might it be?" Eve replied.
"Well, yeah, seeing . . ." She trailed off, studied their pea-green
city vehicle. "Unit swept and shielded?"
"Maintenance said so, but they're lying sacks of shit. It should be
safe enough for you to make your pitch in general terms."
Peabody climbed in. "First, you have those extra layers of security in
place, so we don't have to watch what we say or do. Part of
investigating is talking through data and information. Also EDD could
take shifts, if necessary. And since McNab and I are getting ready to
move to our new apartment, my place is a wreck." She smiled prettily.
"So how about it?"
"It's not a party."
"Absolutely not." Peabody stifled the smile and looked stern. "I'm
proposing this for the good of the team, and the investigation."
"And because there's always ice cream stocked in the freezer."
"Well, yes. Do I look stupid?"
* * *
It wasn't unusual for Roarke to call for a spot-check on security in
any department at any time. But it was less usual for him to run
scanners personally-and to run tests on his own equipment.
The level-ten lab at Securecomp could only be accessed by employees
with the highest clearance. Still, none of them grumbled at the body
scans, or the delay while the scanner was run through a series of
checks, then the scans rerun.
No one mumbled when a team of exterminators in their white skinsuits
and black helmets were called in to sweep for bugs. Glances were
exchanged, and a few shrugs, but no one questioned the man.
The lab itself was pristine. Filters and purifiers kept the air
absolutely clean. Floors, walls, ceilings were all unrelieved white.
There were no windows, and the walls were a full six inches thick.
Minicams were positioned to record every area, all personnel, every
movement, every sound.
Each workstation was a clear-sided cube or series of clear counters,
and each held compact and powerful equipment. There were no 'links
other than interoffice ones.
Authorized personnel wore encoded badges, and passed through three
staging areas each time they entered or exited the lab. Access required
voice, retinal, and palm-print verification.
The scanners, alarm, and preventatives made it impossible -so Roarke
had believed-to remove any data from the lab without his knowledge and
authorization. Planting a bug inside would require sorcery.
He'd have bet his reputation on it. And, essentially, had.
He signaled to the acting lab chief, Tokimoto, and walked into what the
techs called "the vault."
It was an office-Spartan, almost military-with a single streamlined
desk, two chairs, and a wall of sealed drawers. The desk held a
muscular data and communications system with a 'link that could only
send or receive outside the lab with Roarke's personal voiceprint and
passcode.
"Close the door," he ordered Tokimoto. "Have a seat."
Tokimoto did both, then folded his long, neat hands in his lap. "If
you've brought me in here to ask me about Ewing, you're wasting our
time. And we both value our time. She didn't kill anyone, however much
he deserved it."
Roarke sat, adjusted his thinking and approach as he studied Tokimoto.
The man was forty, trim and long-limbed. He wore his black hair short
and close to the scalp. His skin was very white, his eyes tawny beneath
long, straight brows. His nose was narrow, his mouth pressed now into a
thin line of annoyance.
It was, Roarke estimated, one of the very few times he'd seen Tokimoto
annoyed in the six years of their association.
"This is interesting," Roarke commented.
"I'm pleased my opinion is of interest," Tokimoto responded in his
clipped, precise voice.
"I didn't realize you were in love with Reva. Obviously, I haven't been
paying attention."
Tokimoto remained still, face and body. "Ewing is -was- a married
woman. I respect the institution. We are associates and colleagues,
nothing more."
"So you haven't told her, or moved on her. Well, that's your business.
Your personal business, and none of mine unless it pertains to what
goes on inside this lab. But I will say that, at the moment, she could
use a friend."
"I don't want to intrude."
"Again, your business." Roarke took a disc out of his pocket, inserted
it in his computer. "Have a look at this. I'd like your opinion."
Tokimoto rose, walked lightly around the desk to study the screen. He
pursed his lips over the grid, the complex lines and boxes. He
scratched his chin.
"Will you enhance? This area." Tokimoto gestured to a section of the
grid.
Without speaking, Roarke keystroked to enlarge and enhance the
requested area. "There's a shadow, just here in Quadrant B, section
five through ten. A bug was there, but is not there now. I think . . .
wait. Does it move?"
The question, Roarke knew, wasn't directed at him. But to answer he
magnified again and let the disc play forward.
"Yes, yes, it moves. Barely a shadow when it moves. More detectable
when it rests."
"And your conclusion?"
"The device is planted on a movable object. A person or droid. It's
highly sophisticated. Minute and very well shielded. Ours?"
"I don't think so, but we'll work on that. This is a security print of
the lab, Tokimoto. And this . . ." He tapped a finger on the screen
where the shadow was darkest. "This is Reva's station."
"There is a mistake."
"It's not a mistake."
"She would never betray you or her associates. She's honorable."
"No, I don't think she'd betray me, or you. I'm going to ask you this
once. Have you been approached by any outside party regarding the Code
Red?"
"I have not." It was said simply, with no hints of insult, annoyance,
or fear. "Had I been, I would have reported to you."
"Yes, I believe that. Because you're honorable, Tokimoto. I'm showing
you this because you are. Because in this very delicate matter, I'm
trusting you."
"You have my loyalty, but I won't believe this of Reva."
"Neither will I. How, in your opinion, could this bug have infected the
lab?"
"On a person, as I said."
"On her person."
Tokimoto's brow creased as he studied the screen again. "This is
contradictory to me. She would know if she carried a device, and she
would not enter the lab. Therefore, she could not have carried a
device. In addition, lab security is meticulous and multi-layered and
would have detected a device. Therefore, a device could not have
penetrated the lab. Yet it did."
"That's very logical, Tokimoto, but expand your thinking. How might
Reva have brought a device into the lab, unknowingly, that penetrated
lab security?"
"She's an expert, and your scanners are the most powerful available.
It's impossible that a device was planted on her person and escaped her
detection, and the scanners. It is . . ."
He stopped, straightened, and Roarke watched the idea bloom on his face.
"Internally," Roarke supplied.
"Such things are possible, in theory. Some have been tested. Those in
development, including those worked on here, haven't proven effective."
"The device can be injected, under the skin."
"In theory."
"All right, thank you." Roarke rose.
"Is she . . . Is Ewing in some sort of danger?"
"She's protected. It would do her good to hear from a friend who
sympathized and believed in her. Meanwhile, I want work on the Code Red
to move around the clock. Four shifts. If she's up to it, Reva will be
back tomorrow."
"It will be good to have her. She should know of this, but I won't
speak of it if that's your wish."
"I'm on my way to tell her myself. If you discuss it with her, do it in
the vault." He started for the door, stopped. "Yoshi, life is never as
long as we want it to be, and wasted time can never be recovered."
A ghost of a smile curved Tokimoto's lips. "A proverb."
"No. It's my way of telling you to make a goddamn move."
Eve didn't see how she could be concerned about total security at this
point, but she took the cryptic transmission from Roarke on the odd
little 'link he'd presented to her that morning.
It strapped on the wrist, but she didn't care for the weight of it, or
the absurdity of talking to her sleeve. So she'd stuck it in her jacket
pocket, and when it vibrated against her hip, she jolted as if she'd
been struck with a laser blast.
"Jesus. Technology is a pain in the-haha-ass." She yanked it out.
"What?"
"That's hardly a professional greeting, Lieutenant."
"I'm stalled in traffic. Why don't these people have jobs? Why don't
they have homes?"
"And some nerve they have being out and about on your streets. I'm on
them myself, and about to pick up a package. I need to take it home. I
very much want you to see it, so you'll want to meet me there."
"What? Why? Goddamn asshole maxibus! I'm driving here. I'm heading to
the East Side, if I don't indulge in a major vehicular accident just to
clear the goddamn roads!"
"I'm running that errand for you myself. Come home, Eve."
"But I-" She snarled at the 'link when the transmission ended, then in
disgust tossed it at Peabody. "It's gone wonky."
"No, sir. He cut you off. He wants you to go back to the residence,
where he's bringing Reva Ewing."
"How do you get that?"
"I watch a lot of spy vids. He must have found something, and he wants
to discuss it with you in the most secure location. This is really
chilled, you've got to admit."
"Yeah, so chilled, I've yet to talk to Morris, or have another look at
the bodies. I haven't booted Dickhead around the lab to see if there's
any forensics that might be useful. And, much as I hate it, I haven't
talked to the media liaison about a spin when we drop charges on Ewing."
"Those usual routines don't apply as much when you're Bonding."
"Bonding? How am I bonding? I'm not interested in bonding, in fact I
dislike bonding intensely."
"No, no, Bonding. Like Bond, James Bond. You know, ult spy guy."
"God." Eve shot down a cross-street, and made it a block before she
stalled again. "Why me?"
"I really dig the spy vids, even the old ones. Gadgets and sex and
sophisticated quips. You know, Dallas, if Roarke was an actor he could
completely play Bond on vid. He's a total Bond."
Eve plowed through the light, cast her eyes to heaven. "God, I repeat.
Why me?"
* * *
She slammed into the house, bared her teeth at Summerset.
"Your associates have arrived. Suitable quarters have been prepared for
them. Going by previous experience, I am about to have food supplies
completely restocked, with an emphasis on items without any nutritional
value whatsoever."
"And you're telling me this because, somehow, I look like I give a
shit?"
"You are mistress of this house, and responsible for the comfort of
your guests."
"They're not guests. They're cops."
Peabody loitered as Eve charged upstairs. "Is it okay if McNab and I
have the room we took last time?"
Summerset's stony countenance softened with a smile. "Of course,
Detective. I've arranged it."
"Mag. Thanks."
"Peabody!" Eve's aggrieved voice shot down the stairs. "With me,
goddamn it."
"Bad traffic," Peabody grumbled. "Terrible mood."
She had to bolt up the stairs, then streak down the hall to catch up
with Eve.
"If you're going to brownnose the resident cadaver, do it on your own
time."
"I wasn't brownnosing." But the comment had Peabody's nose twitching.
"I was merely inquiring about my quarters during this operation.
Besides, I don't have to brownnose Summerset. He likes me."
"That ascribes to him the capacity for human emotions." She swung into
Roarke's office, and frowned when she saw him serving coffee to both
Reva and Caro. "You might've told me you were bringing them here," she
complained, "before I fought my way to the Upper East Side."
"Sorry for the inconvenience, but here is where we need to be."
"This is my case, my investigation, my op. I decide where we need to
be."
"This isn't about authority, Lieutenant. And when your knowledge of
electronics meets or exceeds mine, we'll reevaluate." His tone was
entirely too pleasant. "In the meantime . . . coffee?"
"I don't have time for coffee."
"Help yourself, Peabody," he invited, then took Eve's arm. "If I could
have a moment, Lieutenant."
She let him lead her into her office. She didn't like it, but she
allowed it. Then she blasted him when he'd closed the door. "We need to
set some parameters. You're working in conjunction with EDD. You do not
have the authority to transport my suspect, and her mother, whenever
and wherever you choose. Your personal feelings for them take a
backseat, and if they can't, you're out."
"It was necessary. You're irritable and annoyed," he snapped as she
started to steam. "Well, so am I. So we can stand here and piss on each
other for the next ten minutes, or get on with it."
She had to take a breath, then two, before she managed to control her
temper. He looked ready to brawl. Not that she minded that so much, but
she was more interested in why.
"Okay, you are irritable and annoyed. What set you off?"
"If you'd give me a few minutes without crawling up my ass, I'll show
you."
"I don't like what I see, ace, I'm crawling right back."
He stepped back to the door, then turned to her again. "I realize that
I have, on occasion, acted in a way that failed to show the proper
respect for your authority and your position. That was wrong. Not that
it might not happen again, but it was wrong. This isn't one of those
times."
"It feels like it."
"That can't be helped. On the other side, those two women are my
employees. Spanking me in front of them demeans my authority and
position, Eve."
"That can't be helped either. They know you've got balls." She offered
a razor-thin smile. "Now they know I've got them, too."
"This isn't about-" He cut himself off, offered a prayer for patience.
"Christ, there's no point to this. We'll have a go at each other later."
"Count on it." She reached around him and opened the door herself.
Thinking of authority and position, she made sure that she strode
through the door first. "You've got five minutes," she told him.
"It shouldn't take longer. Computer, lock down this room only, for
silent running."
Acknowledged. Commencing silent
running.
"What the hell is-" Eve whirled, hand on her weapon, as titanium
shields lowered on the windows behind her. Others slid into place over
the doors. The lights took on a red cast, and every machine in the room
sent out a series of beeps and hums.
"Totally Bond," Peabody murmured with a big, dazzled grin on her face.
Lockdown complete. Silent running
fully engaged.
"In your home office." Reva got to her feet, walked over to examine the
window shields. "A little paranoid, but excellent. Have you equipped
the whole house with SR capability? I'd really like to see the-"
"You kids can play with the toys later," Eve interrupted. "Now I'd like
to know why we need them."
"I ran some tests at Securecomp. Very detailed and exacting tests. They
showed traces of a mobile bug."
"Mobile?" Reva shook her head. "Someone got through security, all the
scanners, with a device on their person? That shouldn't be possible. In
fact, it isn't possible."
"So I believed, but the device is also very sophisticated. It wasn't on
someone's person, Reva, but in yours."
"In? Internal? That's out of the question. Completely bogus."
"Then you won't object to a body scan?"
Her face went hard, her stance combative. "I submit to one every time I
go in or out of the damn lab, Roarke."
"I've something a little more sensitive, a little more specific."
"Go ahead." Reva threw out her arms. "I've got nothing to hide."
"Computer, open Panel A."
Acknowledged.
A section of the wall opened. Inside was a small room, hardly bigger
than a closet. It held what looked like a high-end drying tube, with
clear, rounded sides and a door with no apparent lock. There were no
visible controls.
"Something I've been working on, on my own," Roarke said when Reva
lifted her eyebrows. "An individual security scanner, higher intensity
than what's on the market currently. It'll also read vital signs, which
will come in handy for evaluating a subject's state of mind during
scan."
"Is it safe?" Caro had risen, walked over quietly. "I'm sorry, but if
it hasn't been approved, there may be some risk."
"I've used it myself," he assured her. "It's quite safe. It'll feel
warm on the skin as it scans," he told Reva. "Not uncomfortably so, but
you'll notice the change in temperature as it moves from area to area."
"Let's just get it done. I've got the Truth Testing scheduled today.
I'd like a little time between scans and probes if it's all the same to
you."
"Computer, open scanner."
Acknowledged.
A door opened on the tube with a little puff of air. At Roarke's
gesture, Reva stepped inside, turned to face the room.
"Begin process on Ewing, Reva, full body, full power on my command. It
needs to read and record your height," he said. "Your weight, your body
mass, and so on."
"Fine."
"When the door closes, the process should only take a few moments.
There'll be an audio and video readout, if you don't object."
"Just do it."
"Computer, begin."
The door of the tube closed. The lights inside it turned to a cool
blue. Eve listened as Reva's body statistics were noted. A horizontal
red beam rose up from the floor of the tube, slowly traveling up the
body, down again. Her various injuries were listed, and the evaluation
of healing.
"Excellent." Reva's voice sounded hollow through the tube, but she was
beginning to grin. Eve could see that most of the temper had drowned in
professional fascination. "And thorough. You're going to need to get
this on the market."
"A few more tweaks," Roarke said.
Then came a series of red and blue beams, crisscrossing her body,
pulsing as they scanned her, section by section from feet to head.
Electronic device located, subdermal,
sector two.
"What the hell is it talking about?" Her tone a quick jerk of panic,
Reva pressed her hands against the tube. "Where's section two? This is
bullshit."
Roarke noted the increase in her pulse rate, her blood pressure.
"Let it finish out, Reva."
"Hurry up. Just hurry up. I want to get out of here."
"It's all right, Reva." Caro spoke softly. "Only a little more, and
it'll be done. Everything's going to be all right."
"Nothing's all right. Nothing's going to be all right again."
No secondary device detected. Single
electronic device, operable, subdermal, section two. Request command to
mark location.
"Do so," Roarke ordered.
There was a quick hum, a flash. Reva slapped a hand at the back of her
neck, as though she'd been stung by a bee.
Eval and scan complete.
"Save and display all data. Release seal, end program."
The lights in the tube winked off, and the door opened.
"Inside me? Under my skin." She held her hand cupped over the back of
her neck. "How could I not know? I swear to God, I swear I didn't know."
"I never thought you did. Sit down now."
"An internal. It would require a procedure. I haven't had a procedure.
It can't be there."
"It is there." Roarke drew her to a chair, stepped back when Caro sat
beside her, took her hand. "Planted there without your knowledge,
without your acquiescence."
"I'd have had to have been unconscious. I haven't been unconscious."
"You've been asleep, haven't you?" Eve broke in. "Somebody's asleep,
it's not hard to give them a little bump with a pressure syringe and
take them under. Or to slip something into food or drink so they'd
sleep through an implant."
"I sleep at home, in my own damn bed. The only person who'd be able to
pull off something like that would've been . . . Blair," she finished
on a shaky breath. "But that's crazy. He didn't know anything about
internals or subdermal devices."
She saw the look Roarke and Eve exchanged. "What is this? What the hell
is this?"
"I didn't tell her, Lieutenant." Roarke inclined his head. "It wasn't
my place to."
Eve stepped up to Reva. "You're going to have to toughen up, because
this is going to be a punch in the face."
She told Reva the way she'd want to be told. Straight, clean, without
emotion. She watched her sag, lose color, saw the tears swim into her
eyes. But they didn't fall, and the color came back.
"He . . . they marked me, as a source for information." Her voice was
hoarse. "To spy, through me, on Securecomp, and possibly other areas of
Roarke Industries through my mother. Also . . ." She paused, cleared
her throat and spoke in stronger tones. "It makes sense to assume they
were using my connection with the Secret Service, President Foster, and
members of her staff I remain friendly with. They would, through this
implant, have recorded any and all conversations, professional and
personal."
She took the glass of water Peabody brought over without glancing up.
"I have, in my supervisory position at Securecomp, numerous discussions
every day with techs, giving directives, receiving status reports. It's
my habit to log my own reports verbally. It helps me to see the
progress, or any necessity for a new direction. They'd know everything
about my projects, and any I assisted on since they put this thing in
me. They were sucking me dry, the two of them. Every day. Every day."
She looked up at Roarke. "I betrayed you after all."
"You did not." Caro's tone was harsh and impatient. "You were betrayed,
and that's a difficult thing. But feeling sorry for yourself isn't
productive. No one's blaming you, and blaming yourself at this point is
an indulgence you can't afford."
"I'm entitled to a little brooding time when I've been technologically
raped, for God's sake."
"Brood later. How do we remove it?" Caro asked Roarke, then shifted her
gaze to Eve. "Or do we?"
"I thought about leaving it in. It's an option, but I'd rather have it
out. I'd rather, if anyone's still listening, that they know we're onto
them. It could bring them to the surface faster."
"They killed Blair and Felicity, and set me up. Why?"
"The setup? I'd say because you were convenient. As to the hit, I don't
know yet. Maybe it was HSO, maybe it was the other side. Either way,
they knew how to get in, how to corrupt data, and how to get you where
they wanted you to take the fall. All that took some time and some
planning. Either Bissel or Kade, maybe both of them, were marked for
termination. When I find out why, I can work from there."
"We can have the device removed here. I have someone in-house with
medical training," Roarke explained.
"Get it out." Reva rubbed a hand at the nape of her neck. "I want a
look at it."
"Set it up," Eve told Roarke. "Reva, you can't discuss any of this on
the outside. Not even with your lawyers. Not yet. But I want you to
contact someone in the SS, or on Foster's staff, whoever you think
best. I want them to set up a meet for me with someone in the HSO with
enough grease to know about Bissel and Kade. I don't have time to waste
on some office drone. I want someone with juice."
"I'll reach out."
"Good. I'm going to leave the electronics to the people who know what
the hell to do about them." She said this, looking at Roarke. "And I'm
going to go do some cop work, if you'll open this place up again."
"Computer, end lockdown. Resume normal operations."
Acknowledged.
"I'll be a few moments," Roarke told Reva and Caro, then left them
alone to walk out with Eve.
"Peabody, go see how the EDD boys are doing. I'll catch up with you."
"Sure."
Eve turned into her own office ahead of Roarke, slipped her hands in
her pockets. "I thought you'd told her about the HSO angle, about the
conclusions on Bissel and Kade."
"I'm aware of that, and aware that you'd have reason to assume it."
"The assumption factored in to the speed with which I crawled up your
ass."
"Understood."
"I'm still irritable and annoyed."
"Well, so am I, so you've company."
"I might still want to have a go at you later."
"I'll pencil you in."
She stepped up to him, and keeping her hands in her pockets, planted a
hard kiss on his mouth. "See you," she said, and strolled out.
* * *
Since she didn't understand what EDD was doing in Roarke's home lab,
she dragged Peabody away, and gave her the task of locating and
contacting Carter Bissel while she begged a brief consult with Dr. Mira.
"Your assistant's starting to hate me," Eve commented.
"No, she's just very inflexible about schedules." Mira programmed her
habitual tea and gestured toward her blue scoop chairs.
She'd gone for red today. Not really red, Eve thought. There was
probably a name for the color that looked like faded autumn leaves. She
wore a trio of necklaces that were little gold balls strung together
like pearls, and matched them with minute gold earrings.
The shoes, some sort of textured heels, were the exact color of the
dress. Eve could never figure out how women managed that sort of
synchronicity-or really, why they bothered.
But it looked good on Mira. Everything did. Her sable hair with its
sunny highlights was drawn back today into some sort of twisty knot at
the nape. She was letting it grow again.
However Mira dressed or groomed herself, Eve decided she'd always look
perfect, and nothing like the standard image of a top profiler and
police psychiatrist.
"I assume this has something to do with Reva Ewing's Truth Test this
afternoon, as you requested I handle the test personally."
"It does. This conversation, any conversation with Ewing, and the
results of the test are highest classification. My eyes, yours, and
Commander Whitney's only."
Mira sipped her tea, pursed her lips. "And what warrants that
classification?"
"Global espionage," Eve said, and told her the rest.
"You believe her." Mira rose for another cup of tea. "That she was
duped, and is innocent of any involvement-deliberate involvement-in the
murders and in the background that may have led to them."
"I do. I expect you to confirm that."
"And if the results contradict her, and your beliefs?"
"Then she'll go back into a cage until I figure out why."
Mira nodded. "She's agreed to level three. That's a very difficult
process, as you know from personal experience."
"I got through it, so will she."
Mira nodded, her gaze on Eve's face. "You like her."
"Yeah, probably. But it won't get in the way. Either way."
"The murders were very violent, very brutal. One assumes that a
government-even covert government-organization would be less so."
"I don't assume anything about spooks."
Mira smiled a little. "You don't like them."
"No. The HSO has a file on my father."
Mira's smile faded. "I suppose that's to be expected."
"They had a field operative monitoring him, and the rooms where we were
in Dallas."
Mira set the cup aside. "They were aware of you? Of what was being done
to you, and didn't intervene?"
"They were aware, it's in the file. Just like they were aware of what I
did to get away. They cleaned up after me, and they let it ride. So no,
I'm no fan of the HSO."
"Whoever gave the order not to intervene when a child's welfare-her
very life-is at stake, should be locked away-like any abuser. This
shocks me. After all I've seen, heard, all I know, this shocks me."
"If they could do what they did in Dallas, they could do what was done
to Reva Ewing. But this time, they're not going to get away with it."
"You're going public with Ewing."
"Damn right."
* * *
Eve went back to Homicide, taking the glides rather than the elevator
to give herself more time to think about her next steps. It still gave
her a quick jolt to walk into the bullpen and see Peabody at a desk
instead of a cube.
Since her partner was on the 'link, Eve went straight into her own
office. She locked the door, then climbed onto her desk to reach the
ceiling panel, behind which she was currently secreting her personal
stash of candy.
She needed a hit. Genuine chocolate, real coffee. All would be right
with the world during the ten minutes she took for this personal, and
well-deserved, indulgence.
But instead of her cache of candy, there was a single, empty wrapper.
"Son of a bitch!" She nearly snatched the wrapper down with the
intention of tearing it into bits. But stopped herself. "We'll just see
about this, you vicious candy thief."
She hopped down and got her spare field kit. Sealing up, she climbed
back on the desk to remove the wrapper with tongs, then set it on a
protective surface on her desk.
"You want to play. We'll play."
Moments later, the knock on her door earned a snarl.
"Dallas? Lieutenant? Your door's locked."
"I know the damn door's locked. I locked it."
"Oh. I have information on Carter Bissel."
Eve rose, kicked the desk, unlocked the door. "Relock it," she ordered,
then sat back at her desk with her tools.
"Sure." With a shrug, Peabody secured the door. "I contacted -what are
you doing?"
"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?"
"Well, it looks as if you're doing a fingerprint scan on a candy
wrapper."
"Then that's probably what I'm doing. You contacted Carter Bissel?"
"No, I . . . Dallas, has a chocolate bar been entered into evidence on
this investigation?"
"This is a personal matter. Sealed up," she muttered. "Bastard sealed
up. But that's not the end of this. I've got other ways."
"Sir, you also appear to have run a fingerprint scan on a ceiling tile."
"Do you think I'm unaware of what I'm running, Detective? Do I look
like I'm in a fugue state?"
"No, you look supremely pissed."
"Again, your powers of observation are keen and accurate.
Congratulations. Fuck it." She balled the wrapper up, tossed it. "I'll
deal with this later. And I will deal. Carter Bissel. And where's my
coffee?"
"Uh, as you have declined the services of an aide-"
"Oh, bite me." She shoved away from the desk, stomped to the AutoChef.
"I just wanted the opportunity to say that. But, you know, I don't mind
getting you coffee. You could even get it for me sometimes. Like now,
for instance, since you're right there."
Eve heaved a huge sigh, and got a second cup.
"Thanks. Okay, Bissel, Carter. I tried the residence, but got no
answer. Left a message on his 'link. Then I tried the bar he's listed
as owning, and tagged his partner, Diesel Moore. Moore went into a rant
and jive the minute I asked about Bissel. Says he wants to find him,
too, and called him several uncomplimentary names. He claims Bissel
left him high and dry nearly a month ago, and skimmed out of the till.
Moore claims to be in dire financial straits. He waited, assuring
himself Bissel would come back with an explanation, but that hasn't
happened. He filed charges yesterday."
"You verify?"
"Yep. Local authorities are looking for Bissel, and have no record of
him leaving the island. Could've taken a boat or a seaplane,
island-hopped. They're looking into it, but not very hard. He only
skimmed a couple thousand, and part of that would be his due. Also, he
has a history of taking off for short periods of time without warning
or explanation."
"They check his place?"
"Affirmative. It appears some of his clothes may be missing, and a few
personal items, but there's no sign of struggle, foul play, or, for
that matter, evidence that he was planning a long trip."
"A month ago, Felicity Kade made a trip to Jamaica. Just what did she
and Carter Bissel have to talk about, I wonder?"
"Maybe she was looking to recruit him, too."
"Or maybe she was looking for another goat. I think we should take
another look at the crime scene."
Her desk 'link beeped, and she tossed the ceiling tile aside. "Dallas."
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. See the officer at 24 West Eighteenth
Street. Unattended death. Single victim, female. Identification
verified as McCoy, Chloe.
"Acknowledged. Responding. Dallas, out."
She'd gone with pills, and had dressed in a frothy pink nightgown, done
her face and hair carefully, then draped herself on the bed among a
mountain of pretty pillows and a stuffed purple bear.
She smelled of something very young, very floral, and might have been
mistaken for sleeping if her eyes hadn't been wide and staring, and
already clouded with death.
The note lay on the bed beside her, just at her fingertips, with a
single line written in dramatic, loopy script on cheap, reconstituted
pink paper.
There is no light, there is no life without him.
The empty pill bottle sat on the nightstand, beside a glass of tepid
water and a single pink rosebud, shed of all thorns.
Eve studied the room and decided the rose fit with the frilly
pink-and-white curtains, the framed posters of fantasy landscapes and
meadows. The room was tidy, if overly female, but for a scatter of used
tissues lying like snow over the floor by the bed, the remains of a
melted pint of Sinful Chocolate frozen dessert, and a half bottle of
white wine.
"What does it look like?" Eve asked Peabody.
"It looks like she had herself a major pity party. Wine and ice cream
for comfort, lots of tears. Probably used the wine to help herself gear
up for the pills. She was young, stupid, and theatrical. The combo led
her to self-termination over a sleazeball."
"Yeah, that's what it looks like. Where'd she get the pills?"
With a sealed hand, Peabody picked up the bottle to examine the
unmarked green plastic. "It's not a prescription bottle. Black market."
"She strike you as the type who'd have black market connections?"
"No." And the question had Peabody frowning, studying scene and body
more closely. "No, but you get fringe dealers working colleges and art
circles. She moved in both."
"True enough, true enough. Could be. She'd have had to move fast, but
from our brief meeting earlier, I'd peg her as the impulsive type.
Still . . ."
Eve walked around the room, into the little bath, out into the stingy
living area with its mini kitchen. There were lots of knickknacks, more
art reproductions, romantic themes, on the walls. There were no dishes
in the little bowl of the sink, no articles of clothing tossed around.
No tissues scattered anywhere but the bedroom.
And, she noted, running a sealed finger over a table, not a speck of
dust.
"Place is really clean. Funny that somebody so mired in grief they'd
self-terminate would tidy up like this."
"Could've always been tidy."
"Could've been," Eve agreed.
"Or she might've buffed the place up, just the way she buffed herself
up before she did it. One of my great-aunts is obsessed about making
the bed as soon as she's out of it every morning, because if she keels
over and dies, she doesn't want anybody thinking she's a careless
housekeeper. Some people are weird that way."
"Okay, so she gets the pills, buys herself a pink rosebud. Then she
comes home, cleans the house, spruces herself up. Sits on the bed
crying, eating ice cream, drinking wine. Writes the note, then pops the
pills, lies down and dies. Could've gone down just that way."
Peabody puffed air into her cheeks. "But you don't think so, and I feel
like I'm missing something really obvious."
"The only thing obvious is a twenty-one-year-old girl's dead. And from
first look, it appears to be a straight, grief-induced
self-termination."
"Just like Bissel and Kade appeared to be a straight, passion-motivated
double homicide."
"Well now, Peabody." Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. "You
don't say?"
"Okay, I'm picking up the trail, but if this, like the double homicide,
is an HSO or terrorist hit, what's the motive?"
"She knew Bissel. She was his lover."
"Yeah, but she was a kid, a toss-away. If she knew anything relevant to
Bissel's work, or the Code Red, anything hot, I'll eat my shiny new
detective's badge."
"I tend to agree, but maybe someone else didn't. Or maybe it was just
housecleaning. The fact is that there's a connection between her and
Bissel, and because there is we're not treating this like a straight
self-termination. We'll start with the body, then I want this place
picked apart. What's the name of the woman who found her?"
"Deena Hornbock, across-the-hall neighbor."
"Do a run. I want to know everything about her before I interview her.
Have the uniform keep her in her apartment and under control."
"Check."
"Contact Crime Scene, and Morris. I want Morris personally on her. And
I want CSU to sweep this place down to the last molecule."
Peabody paused at the door. "You really don't think she killed herself."
"If she did, I'll eat my no-longer-shiny lieutenant's badge. Let's get
to work."
---«»------«»------«»---
There were no signs of struggle, no evidence of insult or injury to the
body that would indicate force. Eve hadn't expected any. She'd died
shortly after three A.M. Painlessly, quietly. Uselessly, Eve thought.
Her 'links were in working order, though they'd been shut down shortly
after midnight. Reactivating, Eve found her last transmission was an
incoming from Deena across the hall at twenty-one hundred and involved
a great deal of weeping and sympathy.
I'm coming over, Deena had said. You shouldn't be alone at a time like
this.
Much tearful gratitude, then the transmission ended.
But the data unit wouldn't boot. Infected, she'd bet the bank on it.
What would a silly art student have on a data unit that could worry the
HSO, or techno-terrorists?
When she'd done all she could with the body and the bedroom, she moved
into the living area where Peabody worked with the sweepers. "They're
bagging her for transport. Suspicious death. Give me Deena Hornbock."
"Student, single, twenty-one. A theater major, with an eye toward set
design. She's got considerable work on her résumé. Lived
at this location for a year. Prior to that did the dorm thing at Soho
Theatrical Studies. Prior to that, lived with mother and stepfather in
St. Paul. One younger sib, brother. No criminal except a suspended for
recreational Zoner when she was eighteen. Pays the rent on time. I
contacted the landlord."
"Good."
"McCoy's also up to date on rent, though she tended to pay just before
the late fee would kick in. She paid up yesterday, an e-transfer at
sixteen thirty-three."
"Yeah? Really tidy to pay the month's rent when you're planning to kill
yourself. Let's see what her pal has to say."
Deena Hornbock was shaken but composed as she sat in a plush red chair
and sipped continuously from a bottle of water. She was a thin,
striking black woman with a small tattoo of a pair of red wings at her
left temple.
"Ms. Hornbock, I'm Lieutenant Dallas, and this is Detective Peabody. We
need to ask you some questions."
"I know. I'm really going to try to help. I didn't know what to do. I
just didn't know, so I ran out and started yelling for somebody to call
the police. Somebody did, I guess. I just sat down, right out in the
hall until Officer Nalley came."
"How did you get into Chloe's apartment?"
"Oh, I have a key. She's got one for mine, too. We were always in and
out of each other's places. Should I give it to you? The key?"
"I'd appreciate that. We'll get it before we leave. Why don't you tell
me what happened?"
"Okay." She drew breath in and out, scrubbed a hand over her face.
"Okay. I got back from class, and I thought I'd see how she was doing.
She was so upset about Blair's death. Just flattened, you know?" Deena
let out a long sigh. "I just went right in. When I left her last night
I promised to come by this afternoon after class, so I didn't bother to
knock or anything. I just went in and called out that I was there."
"The door was locked?"
"Yeah. When she didn't answer, I went back to the bedroom. I was going
to try to talk her into going out, or at least over to my place. Cheer
her up. God. It's hard to say it," she managed. "It makes me see it
again."
"I know."
"I went in. I saw her on the bed. I didn't get it at first, just didn't
think . . . I said something like: 'Oh, come on, Chlo.' I said
something like that . . ." Her voice started to break. "Jesus, 'Come
on, Chlo,' a little impatient, I guess, because it was all so . . .
stagey and dramatic. I was a little irritated with her as I walked over
to the bed. And then . . ."
"Take your time," Eve instructed as Deena took a long, long sip from
the bottle of water.
"Her eyes were open. Staring and open, and I still didn't get it. For
just an instant, I couldn't get it. It was like part of my brain shut
down. I've seen someone dead before. My great-grandmother." Deena
knuckled a tear away. "She lived with us for a while, and she died in
her sleep one night. I found her in the morning, so I've seen somebody
dead before. But it's not the same when they're young, when you're not
expecting it."
It's never the same, Eve thought. "Did you touch her, or anything else?"
"I think I touched her shoulder, or her arm. I think I reached down to
touch her because I didn't see how she could be dead. But she was cold.
God, her skin was cold, and I knew. That's when I ran out and started
yelling."
"You sat down in the hall, and stayed there until Officer Nalley came."
"Yeah, that's right."
"Did you or anyone else go into the apartment before the officer
responded?"
"No. I just sat in front of her door, crying. Some people came out of
their apartments, and asked me what was going on. I said, 'She's dead.'
I said, 'Chloe's dead,' that she killed herself."
"Okay. You talked to her last night."
"I called when I got home. I'd been out working on a set for a play on
the West Side. I knew she was having a rough time. We talked awhile,
then I went over. Kept her company for a little while. I stayed till
about eleven. I had an early class, and she said she was going to bed.
Escape into sleep, that's what she said. She said things like that, but
I didn't think she meant . . ." Deena reached out to grip Eve's arm.
"Officer Dallas. I'd never have left her alone if I'd understood what
she meant. I'd never have let her do it."
"This isn't your fault. You were a good friend." And because she could
see how the guilt was pricking, she didn't correct Deena on her rank.
"How was the apartment?"
"I'm sorry?"
"I wondered what sort of state the rooms were in last night when you
were there."
"Oh. It was pretty neat, I guess. Chloe liked to keep things neat.
Well, there were tissues everywhere. She was crying a lot at first, and
tossing them around."
"Did you have anything to eat or drink?"
"We had some wine. I brought over a bottle, and we went through about
half of it, maybe."
"Ice cream?"
"Ice cream? No, I didn't think of it. That would've been good, though."
"Did you clean up the wineglasses?"
"The glasses? Ah, no. I didn't think about it. I was tired, and she'd
about cried herself out. We just left everything in the living room."
"Not the bedroom?"
"No, we sat on the floor in the living room, just a couple hours. Maybe
if I'd stayed over with her . . ."
"I want to ask you to look at this note." Eve took out the pink paper
in an evidence bag. "Do you know if this is Chloe's handwriting?"
"Yeah. Big and splashy, that's Chloe. But she was wrong. There was life
without him. There's always more life. And for Christ's sake, it wasn't
going to go anywhere. It was all just a fantasy."
"Did you ever meet Blair Bissel?"
"No." She took a balled-up tissue, blew her nose. "She kept him really
close. I didn't even know about him. I mean, I knew there was somebody,
and I knew the somebody was married, but she wouldn't tell me his name,
or anything. Made a vow, she said. A solemn vow. It's so like her to
say that: 'I made a solemn vow.' That, and the fact she knew I didn't
see him as the love of her life the way she did, meant she didn't tell
me a lot of specifics about him. I didn't know his name, or that it was
the guy she worked for part-time in the gallery until after it
happened. After his wife killed him, I mean, and she told me about it
last night."
"So he never came here."
"Yeah, he did. At least I think he did. We had this signal, Chloe and
I. If either of us had something going on and didn't want other company
-if you get me- we'd hang this pink ribbon on the doorknob. That was
her idea. As far as I know, and I'm pretty sure I'd know, she wasn't
seeing anybody but the artist for the last few months. And there'd be a
pink ribbon on the door about once a week."
"Did she usually turn off her 'links when she was entertaining?"
"Oh yeah. That was Chloe. She didn't want anything from the outside
world to disturb the ambiance."
"When you left her last night, did you hear or see anything?"
"I went right to bed. I'd had a couple glasses of wine, and the whole
emotional scene. I was wiped. I didn't hear anything until the alarm
kicked me out of bed this morning at six-thirty."
"What time did you leave for class?"
"About quarter after seven. Give or take."
"See anything then?"
"No, nothing. I thought about running in and checking on Chloe, but
figured she'd be . . ." Her voice wavered again. "I thought she'd be
asleep -and I was cutting it close anyway, so I just went straight out,
and to class."
"I know this is a tough time for you, and appreciate you answering all
the questions." She started to rise, then sat again, as if just
remembering something. "Oh, I noticed-when I reviewed the 'link
transmissions -that she was wearing a necklace when she talked to you.
A heart on a chain, I think. Pretty. She kept playing with it while she
talked."
"The locket? I think the artist gave it to her a couple months ago. She
never took it off. She was really sentimental."
* * *
"She wasn't wearing a locket," Peabody said as they stepped
back into Chloe's apartment.
"Nope."
"No locket found on premises."
"Negative."
"So, potentially, whoever killed her or induced her to kill herself
took the locket."
"It sure as hell's missing. People put things in lockets, don't they?"
"Sure, pictures, locks of hair, DNA samples."
"If Bissel gave it to her, could be there was something more than
romantic inside it -or about it."
"Am I going to have to eat my shiny new badge?"
Eve shook her head. "Doesn't mean she knew what she had. But I'm
betting she died because of it, and whatever she might have had on her
data unit."
Peabody adjusted her thinking and looked around the living room. "She
tidied up, or someone did. I can't see why anyone who came in would
wash the neighbor's wineglass or pick up the place. If she did it, she
had a reason. Expecting someone? That means she'd have gotten a call,
but there's no record of one on any 'link."
"None that show. The data unit's down. Could be somebody sent her an
e-mail."
"So we have the EDD whizzes look closer on data and on communication."
"There you go."
"The building's got minimal security, but they should take a look at
the run for last night through the 911 call."
"I'll arrange a pickup."
"We can make all those contacts while fueling our bodies with
nutrition. After all, you missed your candy fix."
"Don't remind me." She didn't have to look over to know there would be
the beginnings of a pout on Peabody's face. "Okay, we'll eat. I want to
juggle some things in my head anyway."
* * *
Eve couldn't have said why she picked the Blue Squirrel for
anything resembling food, and a passing resemblance was as close as
anything on the menu came to food. Maybe she needed to touch base with
something from her old life-to indulge in a few memories of sitting at
one of the sticky tables, half lit on a Zombie while Mavis bounced on
stage and screeched out songs for the crowd.
Or maybe, she thought as she studied the soy burger on her plate, she
had a death wish.
"I know better than to eat this," she muttered, and took a bite anyway.
"Nothing in this comes from the natural universe."
"You've gotten spoiled." Peabody plowed through a chicken wrap and side
of veggie chips with apparent pleasure. "Meat from actual cows, real
coffee, genuine chicken eggs, and all that."
Eve scowled and bit into the burger again. Now she could say why she'd
opted for the Squirrel. She'd wanted to prove to herself she wasn't
spoiled.
"Somebody helps themselves to the coffee from my office AutoChef
whenever she damn well pleases."
"Sure, it's the first degree of separation rule." Peabody wagged a
veggie chip that was, remotely, carrot-colored. "I get spoiled by
association. Or maybe it's second degree, because the coffee comes from
Roarke to you. So you're first degree. But since you're married-"
"Shut up and eat."
Obviously, Eve thought, since she was eating the mysterious substance
purporting to be meat substitute that was slapped between two bricks of
some sort of bread matter, she wasn't spoiled.
A person got used to what they were used to, that's all. And since
Roarke insisted on having cow meat and other natural food products
around the house, she was accustomed to them. She didn't even notice
the difference now. The food was just there, like a chair, or a picture
on the wall that she didn't really look at . . .
Because it was day-to-day.
She yanked out her communicator.
"Feeney." His face filled her screen. "And this better be good."
Eve noted that his hair, however he'd shortened it, was sticking up in
mad tufts. Whatever he was working on, she concluded, wasn't going well.
"I need you to take the civilian and his magic fingers over to Queens.
Take those sculptures apart."
"You want us to take sculptures apart."
"You didn't find eyes and ears in the house yet, right?"
"I got a couple of boys doing another sweep."
"Move them out, and you and Roarke move in. The sculptures, Feeney. She
wouldn't have thought twice about the sculptures. Reva wouldn't have
checked them because he brought them in. She wouldn't have thought
twice about them, and they're every fucking where inside and out. Take
them apart."
"Fine, fine. I could use a change of scene."
"Have Roarke talk to her, see if there was anywhere in particular where
she might've done some work at home in addition to her office. Or had
conversations with him or anyone regarding Securecomp. When you nail
those locations, concentrate on the artwork-such as it is-in that
sector."
"I got it. I'll leave McNab on this detail here. Boy's young enough a
little frustration won't kill him."
Eve stuck the communicator away. "Finish that off," she said with a nod
at Peabody's plate. "We're going back to the Flatiron, and tearing down
Bissel's works-in-progress."
"You got all that because I said you were spoiled?"
"You never know what's going to kick it off, do you? Another thing I'm
thinking: Chloe didn't have any of Bissel's work in her place. Wouldn't
you think she'd have wheedled something? Some small piece of her
lover's work? She's in love with him, or so she believes. She's an art
major, she works in his gallery, but she doesn't have a sample of his
genius."
"You're thinking that's gone the way of her locket."
"We'll contact Deena on the way, and see."
* * *
Eve stood in the studio, hands on hips, as she studied the complicated
twists and marriages of metals that formed the sculptures.
"Okay, I miscalculated this. Taking these apart's going to require
specific tools. We've got them around here, but using them's another
matter."
"I actually know how to use some of them."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Eve circled the tallest of the works.
"Thing is, if we cut or melt or just fucking blast, we'd damage or
eradicate the device. If there is indeed a device. And we need EDD or
one of those handy scanners to verify that."
"The sweepers went over them."
"I'm betting it wouldn't register on a standard sweep. Even on a deeper
one. A spook sweep, now that might be different. This guy sold these
pieces of crap all over the world. Corporations, private residences,
even government facilities."
"And if they're bugged, it's a pretty slick way of getting intel."
"Mmm." Eve kept circling, studying. "I can't see them wasting his
talent. This makes sense to me. It's logical. I bet they'd have loved
to have had one of these inside one of Roarke's companies. Trouble was,
he didn't like the work, and even with Reva's influence he didn't pony
up. Didn't matter so much, since they bugged her."
"It's going to sound paranoid, but do you think somebody's watching us
now?"
"Maybe." In case, Eve offered a wide grin. Screw security and lockdowns
and silent runnings. She hoped they were watching. It was time to go
hand-to-hand.
"If they are, they'd better come out and play real soon. Unless they're
sniveling cowards on top of murdering bastards and perverted peepers.
I'm having these dissected. We're shutting down this floor until I do.
So they'd better take a good look while they still have the chance."
She called for the elevator, stepped in. "Peabody, I don't like Carter
Bissel in the wind. I want him found."
"I'll give the locals a goose."
"Do that. In person."
"Huh?"
"Go down, talk to the local PSD, interview the partner, and everyone
who knew him. Get us a line on the brother. There's a reason Felicity
went to see him. I want the reason."
"To Jamaica?" Peabody's voice rose three registers. "I'm going to
Jamaica?"
"One of us has to stay here, work this from here. You can get this done
in forty-eight, max. I don't want you skipping naked through the surf."
"Can I skip through the surf with appropriate swim wear for maybe one
hour?"
It took considerable effort for Eve to keep her lips from twitching. "I
don't want to hear about it. Especially since I'm sending McNab with
you."
"Oh my God. I'm having the best dream."
Okay, maybe she couldn't quite stop it from twitching. "You can leave
as soon as Feeney clears him. This isn't an island holiday."
"Absolutely not. But I could probably have one drink out of a coconut
shell-in the line, Lieutenant, since I'll be interviewing the owner of
a tiki bar."
"They'll watch you." Peabody's grin faded as Eve spoke. "Whoever's
responsible for this will know when you get on the transport, when you
get off. They'll know your hotel, what you have for dinner, what you
have in that coconut shell. Believe that, and stay ready."
"You're sending McNab with me so he can watch my back."
"So you can watch each other's backs. I don't anticipate anyone will
move on you, but I didn't anticipate anyone would move on Chloe McCoy
either."
"No one could have, Dallas."
"You can always anticipate," Eve stated as she stepped off into the
lobby, and turned to seal off the elevator. "If I had, she wouldn't be
dead."
* * *
She sent Peabody off to pack and went solo to the morgue. Morris was
just suiting up in his protective gear when she walked in.
He had a nice golden tan, and a trio of colorful balls dangling from a
temple braid. It reminded her that he'd just returned from vacation.
"Good to see you back in the trenches," she said.
"My return would hardly be complete without a visit from my favorite
murder cop. You've sent me three bodies in as many days. That's a haul,
even for you."
"Let's talk about the new one."
"Haven't gotten to her yet. Even I have human limitations. You've sent
her in priority one. Since it's you, I assume this poor young thing
actually is priority one. Suspicious death." He looked down at Chloe.
"Then, I'm always suspicious of death. Called in as a probable ST?"
"Yeah, but I'm not buying."
"No sign of force." He fixed on his goggles, bent low. Eve waited until
he'd run his eyes and his gauge over the body, studied readouts and
images on his screen. "No punctures, no insults. The note written in
her hand?"
"It was, to the best of my knowledge."
"And she was alone, in her apartment. In her bed?"
"On the bed. The security discs show no one other than residents
entering the building. There's no security floor to floor."
"Well, I'll open her up and we'll see what we see. Do you want to tell
me what you're looking for?"
"I want to know what she took, or was given. The amount, the potency,
the time. And I want to know fast."
"That I can do."
"How about the tox on the other two bodies-Bissel and Kade?"
"A moment." He walked over to his data center, called up the files.
"Just in. It appears they'd both indulged in several ounces of
champagne-French, excellent vintage. Last meal, three hours prior to
death . . . very classy. Caviar, smoked salmon, Brie, strawberries. No
illegals or other chemical enhancements in the female. Small traces of
Exotica in the male."
"They have sex?"
"They certainly did. At least they should have died in a jovial and
satisfied frame of mind."
"Verified the murder weapon?"
"Yes. Kitchen knife, jagged-edge style. The one recovered from the
scene matches the wounds inflicted."
"Zapped, stabbed."
"In that order," he agreed. "No defensive wounds. Some skin under the
female's nails that matches the other vic. Conclusion: a bit of
passionate scratching, very minor, during the throes. They'd had sex,
and from the positioning of the stunner marks, were likely having an
encore when they were disabled. Someone was very annoyed with them."
"You'd think." She glanced back at Chloe, lying white and naked and
cold on the slab. "Some people would think she got off easy."
"But we know better. I'll take care of her."
"You can reach me at home as soon as you have the results. Morris,
repasscode the files on all three of these, will you? And don't let
anyone else work on them."
His eyes gleamed with interest behind his goggles. "More and more
interesting."
"Yeah. In fact, I'll come back and pick up the data when you're done.
Don't send it."
"Now I'm fascinated. Why don't I bring it to you? That way you can
offer me some of Roarke's wonderful wine while you explain."
"Works for me."
* * *
He'd bought time and space. That was the important thing. Nothing was
going exactly as he'd planned, but he could think on his feet. He
could, would, keep his head and think on his feet.
He'd thought on his feet with Chloe McCoy, hadn't he? He'd tied that
right up.
The police weren't buying it, weren't buying any of it. And that made
no sense. No damn sense.
He couldn't have handed them a sweeter package if he'd tied a damn
ribbon around it.
Sweat wormed down his back as he prowled the well-appointed rooms that
were, for now, his prison and his sanctuary. They couldn't tie him to
the murders, and that was what counted. That was priority one.
The rest, he'd fix. He just needed more time.
So it was all right, for now it was all right. He was safe. And he'd
figure a way out.
He had some money-not enough, not enough even now and a far cry from
what he'd been promised-but it gave him some breathing room.
And no matter how maddening it was, parts of it were very exciting. He
was the star of his own vid, and he was writing it as he went along. He
wasn't the patsy people had taken him for, oh no, he wasn't.
He toked a little Zeus, a small reward, and felt like the king of the
world.
He'd do what he had to do, and he'd be smart about it. Careful and
smart.
Nobody knew where he was, or that he was.
He was going to keep it that way.
Roarke and Feeney stood contemplating a mixed-metal figure in the
garden of the house in Queens.
"What do you think it is?" Feeney asked at length.
"I think it's female. It may be partially reptilian. It may be
partially arachnid. It seems to have been built out of copper and brass
and steel. Bits of iron and perhaps tin."
"Why?"
"Well, that's a question, isn't it? I imagine it's symbolic of how
woman can be as sly as a snake, as cruel as a spider or some such
bullshit. I believe it's unflattering to the female sex, and know it's
ugly."
"I got that part, the ugly part." Feeney scratched his chin, then took
out his bag of candied almonds. After dipping a hand in, he held it out
for Roarke.
So they munched nuts and studied the sculpture.
"And people pay large bucks for this shit?" Feeney asked.
"They do. Indeed they do."
"I don't get that. Of course I don't know nothing about art."
"Hmm." Roarke circled the piece. "Sometimes it speaks to them on an
emotional level, or an intellectual one. Whatever. That's when the
piece has found the appropriate home. Other times, more often than not,
the money's spent simply because the buyer feels it should speak to
him, and is too idiotic or proud or afraid to admit the thing he's just
paid for speaks to no one because it's, essentially, an insulting piece
of crap."
Feeney pursed his lips, nodded. "I like pictures, the kind that look
like what they're supposed to be. A building, a tree, a bowl of fucking
fruit. Looks to me like my grandson could've put this together."
"Strangely enough, I believe it takes considerable skill and talent and
vision, however odd, to create something like this."
"You say so." Feeney shrugged, but was far from convinced.
"Canny way to conceal observation devices, if that's what it's about."
"Dallas thinks so."
"And she generally knows what she's about." Roarke opened the remote
scanner he and Feeney had configured. "You want to run this, or shall
I?"
"Your tool." Feeney cleared his throat. "Yeah, she knows what she's
about, like you said. A little nervy right now."
"Is she?"
"Hit the jammer on that thing for a minute."
Roarke lifted a brow, but complied. "Are we about to have a private
conversation?"
"Yeah." And Feeney didn't relish it. "I said Dallas was a little nervy
right now. About what you might do."
Roarke continued to set the gauges on the scanner. "About what?"
"About the file on her father, about what the HSO pus buckets let
happen to her back in Dallas."
Roarke looked over now and saw Feeney's face was tight. Rage, he
thought, and embarrassment. "She spoke to you?"
"She circled around it some. She doesn't know how much I know about it.
Doesn't want to. It's not something I want to talk to her about either,
if it comes to that. Since she feels the same, I didn't have to say
that you'd told me."
"The two of you amaze me," Roarke replied. "You're aware of what
happened to her, and with her instincts she'd know you are. But the two
of you can't say the words to each other. You can't say them, though
you're her father, more than that son of Satan ever was."
Feeney hunched his shoulders and stared at the mixed media ugliness of
a squat toad-like creature several feet away. "Maybe that's why, and
it's not the point. If she's worried enough about you going after some
asshole spook, then she's plenty worried. You're not fixing anything if
you twist her up."
Roarke set the scanner to analyze the dimensions, weight, and chemical
contents of the sculpture. "I don't hear you saying I'm wrong to go
after him. That he, or his superiors, don't deserve to pay for standing
back while a child was raped, beaten, and brutalized."
"No, I'm not going to say it." Feeney folded his mouth firm, then met
Roarke's eyes. "First, it'd be a fucking lie, the sort that'd burn my
tongue clean off because there's part of me that'd like to give you a
hand with it."
Feeney stuffed the bag back in his sagging pocket, then kicked the base
of the sculpture. The gesture was so like Eve, Roarke felt a smile tug
at his mouth.
"And second?"
"Second, you wouldn't give a good goddamn about the right or wrong of
it. But you give one about Dallas. You give one about how she feels,
about what she needs from you." His color came up as he spoke, staining
his cheeks with embarrassment. "I don't want to get into that whole
thing. Makes me feel like an asshole. But I'm saying you should think,
you should think long and hard about what it'd do to her before you do
anything."
"I am. And I will."
"Okay. Then let's just move on."
Though he was both touched and amused, Roarke nodded. "Moving on,
then." He disengaged the jammer, then studied the readout from the
scan. "I'm getting the expected metals, solvents, finishes, and
sealants. That's using the strongest setting corporations and
facilities would use in high-risk or sensitive areas."
"Bump it up. Let's see what it'll do with the bells and whistles we
added."
"Best move aside," Roarke warned. "The beam may not be friendly to
cloth and flesh."
Feeney stepped back from the sculpture, then decided the best place was
behind the scanner.
The red beam shot out with an insect-like hum. As it struck the metal,
the entire sculpture seemed to shimmer.
"Shit. Shit! If we set it too high it might melt that crap down to a
puddle."
"It's not too high," Roarke responded. "It may soften a few joints, but
other than that . . ." Still he pushed it, upping the speed so the beam
scanned the piece faster than he'd planned. Even from behind the unit,
he could feel the heat and smell the electric buzz in the air.
When he shut down, Feeney gave a whistling breath. "That is some son of
a bitch! Some son of a bitch. I'm doing the next one."
"Might be wise to wear goggles next run." Roarke blinked. "I've dots in
front of my eyes." But he was grinning, as Feeney was. "Nice rush,
wasn't it?"
"You got that right. And look here." Feeney slapped Roarke on the back
as he leaned over to scan the readout. "I'm seeing chips, and I'm
seeing fiber optics, and some goddamn silicon."
"Bugs."
Feeney straightened, flexed his fingers. "Bugs. Give the girl the brass
ring."
* * *
When Eve walked back into her office, she wasn't particularly surprised
to see on-air reporter Nadine Furst sitting in her visitor's chair and
carefully redoing her lip dye.
She fluttered her long, silky lashes and turned that freshly tinted
mouth up into a smile. "Cookies," Nadine said with a gesture toward the
little bag on Eve's desk. "I culled six for you before bribing your
men."
Eve poked into the box, and came out with chocolate chip. "There's an
oatmeal cookie in there. I see no reason for the existence of oatmeal,
particularly in cookies."
"So noted. Why don't you give it back to me, then it won't offend your
sensibilities?"
Eve pulled out the fat round cookie, handed it over before closing her
door. The closed door had Nadine lifting her perfectly arched brows
before nibbling on the cookie.
"Is that so you can yell at me for being in your office, or is it so we
can exchange juicy girl secrets."
"I don't have any juicy girl secrets."
"You're married to Roarke. You'd have the juiciest on or off planet."
Eve sat, rested her boots on the desk. "Have I ever told you what he
can do to the female body with a single fingertip?"
Nadine leaned forward. "No."
"Good. Just wanted to be sure."
"Bitch," Nadine said with a laugh. "Now about this double homicide, and
Reva Ewing."
"The charges about Ewing are about to be dropped."
"Dropped." Nadine all but jumped out of the chair. "Let me get my
camera, set up an on-the-spot. Take me less than-"
"Sit down, Nadine."
"Dallas, Ewing's huge. The former American hero gone bad and now about
to be exonerated? Add in the handsome artist and gorgeous socialite,
the sex, the passion."
"It's bigger than Ewing, and it's not about sex and passion."
Nadine sat again. "What could be bigger than that?"
"I'm going to tell you what you can go on air with, and what you can't."
Nadine's expression went sharp as a blade. "Wait just a minute."
"Or I'm going to tell you nothing."
"You know, Dallas, one of these days you're going to trust me to know
what can go on air and what can't."
"If I didn't trust you, you and your cookies wouldn't be here." She
rose as she spoke, and took the scanner EDD had provided her-one Roarke
and Feeney had upgraded-to check the office space for any new
electronics.
"What are you doing with that?"
"Just being anal. But as I was saying," she continued, when she was
satisfied the room was clean, "the fact is, if you hadn't been sitting
here playing with your pretty face when I walked in, I was going to
contact you. I've got reasons for wanting some of this to go public,
Nadine, and they're not all professional."
"I'm listening."
Eve shook her head. "I have to clear every word of the story, and any
follow-ups, before you go out with them. I need your word on it. I
trust your word, but I have to have it. You have to say it."
Nadine's fingers itched for her recorder, but she curled them into her
palm. "This must be big. You've got my word, on all of it."
"Bissel and Kade were HSO."
"You are shitting me."
"This information comes from an unnamed source, and it's gold. Bissel's
marriage to Ewing was part of an op, and it was without her knowledge
or consent. She was used and was framed for the murder of Bissel and
Kade to cover up the op, and potentially more."
"Something this hot from an unnamed-gold or not-I need hard facts."
"I'm going to give them to you. No recorder," she said and dug into her
desk drawers until she unearthed a stingy pad of recycled paper and an
ancient pencil. "Write it down, and keep it and any transcribed discs
from your notes in a secure location until you're cleared to air."
Nadine made a few testing squiggles with the pencil. "Let's see how
much of that shorthand my mother made me learn is still in my head. Go."
It took an hour, then Nadine flew out of the office to lock herself in
at Channel 75 to write the story.
It would explode, Eve knew, even when the initial pieces she cleared
hit the airwaves. It deserved to explode. Innocent lives taken or
ruined in the name of what? Global security? The sexiness of espionage?
It didn't matter, not when those lives, those innocent lives, looked to
her.
Eve finished up most of the grunt work she'd once dumped on Peabody.
She had to admit, having an aide the last year or so had come in handy.
Not that she'd gotten spoiled, she assured herself.
She could, of course, pull rank, and continue to dump most of the grunt
work on Peabody. And really, it was a learning experience. In the long
run, she'd be doing Peabody a favor.
She checked the time and decided to close up shop for the day. She
could get considerably more work done at home. With the remaining
cookies safe in her jacket pocket, she headed out.
She squeezed into an overburdened elevator, which reminded her why she
rarely left at change of shifts. Before the door closed, a hand shot
through, yanking it open again to a chorus of groans and nasty curses
from the occupants.
"Always room for one more." Detective Baxter elbowed his way on. "You
never call, you never write," he said to Eve.
"If you can leave on the dot of COS, you must not have enough
paperwork."
"I got a trainee." He flashed his grin. "Trueheart likes paperwork, and
it's good for him."
Since she'd had the same thoughts about Peabody, it was hard to argue.
"We got a manual strangulation, Upper East Side," he told her. "Corpse
had enough money to choke a herd of wild horses."
"Do horses come in herds or packs?"
"I don't know, but I think herds. Anyway, she had a miserable
disposition, a mile-wide mean streak, and a dozen heirs who are all
glad to see her dead. I'm letting Trueheart act as primary."
"He ready for it?"
"It's a good time to find out. I'm staying close. I told him I thought
the butler did it, and he just nodded, all serious, and said he'd do a
probability. Christ, he's a sweet kid."
Cops popped out like corks on every level. There was almost breathable
air by the time the elevator reached the garage.
"Heard you had to spring the prime suspect on the double homicide.
That's gotta sting."
"It only stings if she did it." She paused by Baxter's shiny sports
car. "How do you afford this ride?"
"It's not about afford, it's about the deft juggling of numbers." He
looked over to where her pitiful police issue sat dolefully in its
slot. "Me, I wouldn't be caught driving that heap if I was wearing a
toe tag. You've got rank enough to pull better."
"Maintenance and Requisitions both hate me. Besides, it gets me where
I'm going."
"But not in style." He slid into his car, gunned the engine so it
roared like a mad bull, then, with another wide grin, zoomed off.
"What is it about guys and cars?" she wondered. "I just don't get how
their dicks are attached to cars."
With a shake of her head, she started across the garage.
"Lieutenant Dallas."
Instinctively, her hand slipped inside her jacket and onto the butt of
her weapon. She held it there as she pivoted, and studied the man who
stepped out from between parked cars.
"This garage facility is NYPSD property, for authorized personnel only."
"Quinn Sparrow, Assistant Director, Data Resources, HSO." He held up
his right hand. "I'm going to reach, with my off hand, for my
identification."
"Reach slow, AD Sparrow."
He did, drawing out the flip case with two fingers. He held it up,
waiting for her to approach. Eve studied the ID, then his face.
He looked young for any real juice in the HSO, but then she had no idea
how early they recruited. He might've been forty, she supposed, but
calculated he was missing a few years from that date. But he wasn't
green. His calm demeanor told her he'd had some seasoning.
His body had the compact, ready look under its black,
government-employee suit that made her think boxer or ballplayer. His
voice had no discernible accent, and he waited, without movement or
word, until she'd finished summing him up.
"What do you want, Sparrow?"
"I'm told you want a conversation. Why don't we have one. My car's
beside yours."
She glanced over at the black sedan. "I don't think so. Let's take a
walk instead."
"No problem." He started to dip a hand in his right pocket. She had her
weapon out and at his throat. She heard him suck in air, let it out.
She saw the quick flicker of surprise and alarm on his face before it
settled into passive lines again.
"Keep your hands where I can see them."
"That's no problem either." He held them out, and up. "You're jumpy,
Lieutenant."
"I've got reason, Assistant Director. Let's walk." Rather than
holstering her weapon, she slid it inside her jacket as they walked
toward the garage exit. "What makes you think I want a conversation?"
"Reva Ewing spoke with a mutual contact in the Secret Service. Given
the current situation, I was assigned to come over from the New York
base and speak with you."
"What's your function?"
"Data cruncher, primarily. Administrative area."
"You knew Bissel?"
"Not personally, no."
She turned, moved briskly down the sidewalk. "I assume this
conversation is being recorded."
He gave her a very easy, very pleasant smile. "Is there something you
don't want on record?"
"I bet there's a lot you don't." She swung into a bar and grill,
largely patronized by cops. Because it was change of shift, it was
packed with them. Eve moved to a high-top where two detectives from her
division were sharing beer and shop talk.
"I got a meet here." She dug out credits, laid them down. "Do me a
favor and let me have the table. Beer's on me."
There was some grumbling, but the credits were scooped up, and the
detectives moved off. Eve chose a stool that kept her back to the wall.
"Felicity Kade recruited Blair Bissel for the HSO," Eve began.
"How did you come by that information?"
"Subsequently," she went on, "he functioned as a data liaison-data's
your territory, right?-transporting same to and from sources, and using
his profession as a cover. Was he ordered to marry Reva Ewing, or was
that his own suggestion?"
Sparrow's face had gone to stone. "I'm not authorized to discuss-"
"Then just listen. He and Kade targeted Ewing due to her contacts with
government officials, and her position in the private sector at
Securecomp. She was, without her knowledge, injected with an internal
observation device-"
"You're going to wait a minute." He laid a hand on the table. "You're
going to wait a damn minute. Your data's incorrect, and if you put this
sort of skewed information in your reports, it's going to cause trouble
for you. I want your source."
"You're not getting my source, and my data is on the mark. The device
was removed from Ewing today. You're finished using her. You shouldn't
have set her up on my watch, Sparrow. You want to take out a couple of
your own, that's your business, but you don't set up civilians to take
the fall for murder."
"We didn't set her up."
"Is that the company line?"
"There was no hit ordered or sanctioned by the HSO."
"You lied when you said you didn't know Blair Bissel. You're the AD,
you damn well knew him."
Sparrow's gaze never flickered, and Eve decided she'd been right about
the seasoning. "I said I didn't know him personally. I didn't say I
didn't know him professionally."
"Being slippery, Sparrow, isn't making me like you any better."
"Look, Lieutenant, I'm doing my job here. The incident involving him
and Kade is being investigated, internally. It's believed that the hit
was carried out by a cell of the Doomsday Group."
"And why would a group of techno-terrorists bother to build a frame
around Ewing?"
"It's being investigated. This is a global security matter,
Lieutenant." His voice was very low now, and very cold. "The
termination of two operatives is an HSO matter. You're required to step
back."
"I'm required to do my job. Another of Bissel's side dishes is dead.
This one was a twenty-one-year-old girl, still wet enough behind the
ears to believe in true love."
His jaw clenched, visibly. "We're aware of the disposal. We-"
"Disposal? Fuck you, Sparrow."
"It didn't come from us."
"You know everything that goes on inside your organization?"
He opened his mouth, then seemed to check whatever he was going to say.
"I've been thoroughly briefed on these matters. This conversation is a
courtesy, due to Ewing's exemplary service to her country, and the
desire of HSO to cooperate, as much as possible, with local
authorities. However, it's only a courtesy. There are details of these
matters you are not cleared to know. The charges against Ewing have
been dropped."
"And that smooths it all out? You think you can look and listen and sit
back, playing with people, nudging them around like pawns in a chess
game?"
She recognized the pressure on her chest, knew she'd need to gulp for
air if she let it take over. If she let herself think about that room
in Dallas.
So she blocked it out, slammed it down, and thought of a young woman in
a frilly bedroom with a purple stuffed bear and a pink rosebud.
"A few get broken along the way, well, that's a shame. Chloe McCoy is
dead. You got a way to smooth that out?"
His tone never changed. "It's being investigated, Lieutenant. It will
be resolved. Responsible parties will be dealt with as appropriate. You
need to back off."
"The way you people backed off in Dallas?" It was out before she could
stop it. "The way you sat on your asses gathering intel no matter what
the cost to the innocent."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Dallas isn't a factor in this
matter."
"You look like a smart guy, Assistant Director Sparrow. Look it up, put
it together." She slid off the stool. "And hear this: I don't back off.
Ewing's not only going to be sprung, she's going to be publicly
exonerated, with or without your cooperation. And whoever killed Chloe
McCoy will be dealt with, as the law deems appropriate, not your gang
of spooks."
She didn't shout, but neither did she trouble to keep her voice low. A
few heads turned -and, she knew, more than a few cops' ears tuned in.
"This time there's going to be payment. You and your listening posts
put that into your data banks and analyze it. You approach me again, be
ready to deal. Or we have nothing to say."
She strode out of the bar. Her breath was starting to come too fast,
and her head was going light. She had to bear down. She wasn't going to
think about what had been done to her, but about what she was going to
do.
There would be payment, she promised herself. She couldn't get it for
the battered, terrified child in Dallas, she would do everything in her
power to ensure Roarke didn't, but she would, she damn well would get
it for Reva Ewing and Chloe McCoy.
She ignored the tension at the base of her skull as she drove out of
the garage. She resigned herself to the iron grip of it as she battled
traffic.
Ad blimps blasted out their evening siren song of SALES, SALES, SALES.
Fall blow-out in EVERY store at The Sky Mall. One hundred lucky
customers would receive an In-Touch palm 'link ABSOLUTELY FREE. While
supplies lasted.
The noise of it rolled down over her, punctuated by the whispering
clack of traffic copter blades, horns blasting against the pollution
codes.
The tension began to sneak its way up, squeeze around her temples. When
the headache kicked in full, she knew it would be a bitch.
All through the noise of New York, the throb of its violent heart, she
heard the cool, composed voice of Sparrow speaking of disposal.
We are not disposable, she told herself when her hands gripped the
wheel like iron. No matter how many bodies she'd stood over, no matter
how many she'd ordered bagged, none of them, none of them, none of them
were disposable.
She punched through the open gates of home, and prayed for ten minutes
of silence, for ten minutes without the noise screaming in her head.
She rushed into the house, hoping to circumvent her nightly
confrontation with Summerset, and was halfway up the stairs when she
heard her name called.
She looked around and saw Mavis at the bottom of the stairs.
"Hey. Didn't know you were here." Absently, she rubbed at the ache in
her temple. "I was bolting, hoping to miss my nightly treat of Ugly
Guy."
"I told Summerset I wanted a few minutes. You look like you're pretty
busy, and tired. It's probably a bad time."
"No, that's okay." A dose of Mavis was a better cure than any blocker.
Just one more reminder of who she was, Eve thought. Of who she was now.
She assumed Mavis was in a conservative mood, as she was wearing
nothing that glowed. The fact was, she didn't know the last time she'd
seen Mavis in something as ordinary as jeans and a T-shirt. Even if the
T-shirt stopped a couple inches above the waist and was covered with
red and yellow fringe, it was pretty tame on the Mavis Freestone scale
of fashion.
Her hair was quietly brown, with only one red and yellow tuft poofed at
the crown to liven it up.
She looked a little pale, Eve noticed as she started down, then
realized Mavis was wearing no lip dye or eye enhancements.
"You been to church or something?" Eve asked.
"No."
With a frown, Eve took another survey. "Wow, you're sort of starting to
poke out. I haven't seen you in a couple of weeks, and-"
She broke off in horror when Mavis burst into tears.
"Oh shit. Oh damn. What did I say? Am I not supposed to say you're
poking out?" Frantic, she patted Mavis's shoulder. "I thought you
wanted to poke out with the baby and all. Oh boy."
"I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know what to do."
"Is something wrong with the . . . thing? The baby?"
"No. Nothing's wrong. Everything's wrong," she wailed. "Nothing.
Everything. Dallas." On a pathetic sob, she threw herself into Eve's
arms. "I'm so scared."
"We should call a doctor." She looked desperately around the foyer as
if a medic would magically appear. In her panic, she actually wished,
fiercely, for Summerset. "Or something."
"No, no, no, no, no." Mavis wept on Eve's shoulder in great, gulping
sobs. "I don't need a doctor."
"Sitting down's good. You should sit down." Lie down? Eve wondered. Be
sedated? Oh, help me. "Maybe I should see if Roarke's back yet."
"I don't want Roarke. I don't want a man. I want you."
"Okay, okay." She eased Mavis onto a couch, tried not to be freaked
when her friend all but crawled into her lap. "You've got me. Um . . .
I was thinking about you today."
"You were?"
"I had lunch at the Blue Squirrel, and . . . Oh, Mother of God," she
muttered when Mavis's sobs increased. "Give me a hint, give me a clue.
I don't know what to do if I don't know what's going on."
"I'm so scared."
"I got that part. Why? Of what? Is somebody bothering you? You got a
crazed fan or something?"
"No, the fans are great." Her shoulders shook as she burrowed into Eve.
"Ah . . . you and Leonardo have a fight?"
Now her head shook. "No. He's the most wonderful man in the world. The
most perfect human being in the universe. I don't deserve him."
"Oh, that's just crap."
"It's not crap. I don't." Mavis jerked back, turned her tear-ravaged
face up to Eve's. "I'm stupid."
"No, you're not. It's stupid to say you're stupid."
"I never even finished school. I ran away when I was fourteen, and I
wasn't even worth looking for."
"If your parents were stupid, Mavis, it doesn't mean you are."
If mine were monsters, it doesn't mean I am.
"What was I when you busted me? On the grift. That's all I knew, cons
-short cons, long cons, lifting wallets or playing the beard for some
other grifter."
"Look at you now. You've got the most perfect human being in the
universe crazy about you, you've got a mag career, and this baby thing
going. Oh God, oh God, please don't cry like that anymore," she begged
when Mavis dissolved again.
"I don't know anything."
"Yeah, you do. You know . . . stuff. Music stuff." Such as it was.
"Fashion stuff. And you know about people. Maybe you learned it on the
grift, Mavis, but you know about people. How to make them feel good
about themselves."
"Dallas." Mavis swiped her hands over her face. "I don't know anything
about babies."
"Oh. Ah . . . but you're listening to all those discs, right? And
didn't you say you were going to go to some class about it? Something?"
Not my area, she thought frantically. Definitely out of my orbit. Why
the hell had she sent Peabody to Jamaica?
"What good's any of that?" Exhausted from the crying jag, Mavis flopped
back, resting her head on the pillows on the end of the couch. "All
that's just how to feed a baby, or change one, or pick them up so you
don't break them. Like that. How to do things. They can't tell you how
to know, how to feel. They can't tell you how to be a mom, Dallas. I
don't know how to do it."
"Maybe it just comes to you. You know, when you finally push it out, it
just happens. And you know."
"I'm scared I'm going to mess it up. That I'm not going to be able to
do it right. Leonardo's so happy and excited. He wants this so much."
"Mavis, if you don't-"
"I do. I want it more than anything in the world and beyond. That's
what's so scary. Dallas, I don't think I could stand it if I messed
this up. If I have this baby and I don't feel what I'm supposed to,
don't know what it needs -the real needs, not the food and the diapers.
How will I know how to love it when nobody ever loved me?"
"I love you, Mavis."
Mavis's eyes filled again. "I know you do. And Leonardo. But it's not
the same. This . . ." She laid a hand on her belly. "It's supposed to
be different. I know it is, but I just don't know how. I guess I
panicked," she said on a long sigh. "I couldn't talk about it to
Leonardo. I just needed you."
She reached for Eve's hand. "Some stuff you can only tell your best
pal. I'm better now. Probably just hormones weirding me out."
"You're the first real friend I ever had," Eve said slowly. "You had it
stuck in your head to get close to me, and I just couldn't shake you
off. Before I knew it, there we were. We've seen each other through
some rough spots."
"Yeah." Mavis sniffed, and the first hint of a watery smile touched her
lips. "We have."
"And because you're my first real friend, I'd tell you if you were
stupid. I'd tell you if I thought you'd make a crappy mother. I'd tell
you if I thought you were making a mistake having the baby."
"You would? Really?" Mavis clutched Eve's hand, stared hard at her
face. "Swear to God?"
"Swear to God."
"That makes me feel better. It really does." She let out a long, shaky
breath. "Oh boy, it really does. Could I hang for a while? Maybe call
Leonardo and tell him to- Oh God. Oh my God."
Eve popped up as Mavis's teary eyes went wide, as she sat straight up,
pressing a hand to her belly. "What? Are you going to get sick or
something?"
"It moved. I felt it move."
"What moved?"
"The baby." She looked up at Eve, and now her face glowed, as if
someone had flicked a switch under her skin. "My baby moved. Like . . .
like little wings fluttering."
Eve felt her own color drain, right down to the bone. "Is it supposed
to do that?"
"Uh-huh. My baby moved, Dallas. Inside me. It's really real."
"Maybe it's trying to tell you not to worry so much."
"Yeah." Mavis wiped away fresh tears and smiled beautifully through
them. "We're going to be fine. Better than best. I'm glad you were here
when it happened. When I felt it. I'm glad it was just you and me and
the baby, this one time. I'm not going to screw it up."
"No, you're not."
"And I'll know what to do."
"Mavis." Eve sat beside her again. "Looks to me like you already do."
Roarke walked into the house and saw Eve sitting on the steps, head in
hands. Alarm twisted through his belly as he hurried to her.
"What's wrong? What's happened?"
She blew out a huge breath that hitched on the end. "Mavis."
"Ah, God. Is it the baby?"
"It's all about the baby. At least I think. What do I know? She wasn't
even wearing lip dye. What was I supposed to do?"
"I think we'd better start over. I'll go first. Is everything all right
with Mavis and the baby?"
"It must be. It moved."
"Where?" He caught himself, cast his gaze to heaven. "Now you've got me
turned around. She felt the baby move, then? Isn't that a good thing?"
"She thought so, so it must be."
She sat back, looked at him. He was holding her hand still, studying
her face. Waiting.
All so normal, unless you felt, as she felt, that subtle change of
rhythm. Things weren't normal between them right now, and maybe they'd
never be again. But they were both willing to pretend otherwise.
The pretense that there was nothing hanging over them was oddly
terrifying.
But if it was all she had, she was as willing to hide behind it as he
was.
"She was all down and teary when I got back," Eve continued. "Figured
she'd mess up with the kid because she was messed up as a kid, or
something. Afraid she wouldn't know what to do or how to feel. Had
herself a serious weep."
"I've heard that's fairly normal for pregnant women. The weeping. I
imagine she's a bit scared. It must be considerably scary if you think
about the whole process."
"Well, I don't want to think about it, that's for sure."
He'd let go of her hand, and he'd shifted, just the slightest bit away
from her. So she knew he felt it, too.
She called herself a coward, but she pushed it out of her mind.
"Anyway, she calmed down mostly, then the baby did whatever it did in
there and she got all happy again. She was practically doing
handsprings when she left to go tell Leonardo."
"Well, then, why are you sitting here looking miserable?"
"She's coming back."
"That's good. I'd like to see her."
"She's bringing Trina." Eve's voice rose nearly an octave as she
gripped Roarke's shirt. "And their instruments of torture."
"I see."
"You don't. They don't gang up on you and come at you with strange,
sharp implements or goop unknown substances all over your face and
body. I don't know what they're going to do to me, and whatever it is,
I don't want it."
"It's hardly as bad as all that, but you could actually have used work
as an excuse and put all this off for a while."
"I couldn't fight her." She dropped her head back in her hands. "She
had me with that naked face, how often do you see Mavis with a naked
face?"
He touched her hair, the lightest stroke. "Never."
"Exactly. And her eyes are all puffy and red -and shiny. And her
belly's poking out. This little white lump sticking out. What was I
supposed to do?"
"Exactly what you did." He shifted to kiss the top of her head. "You're
a good friend."
"I'd rather be a bitch. It's easier, and more satisfying emotionally,
to be a bitch."
"And you're so good at it. Well, this should be a fine time for me to
fire up that barbecue grill again."
"I can't believe you'd kick me when I'm down."
"I've a handle on it now. I've been practicing on the side. We'll have
burgers. They're the simplest."
She could've told him she'd had a burger for lunch, but that would have
put too glossy a shine on what she'd swallowed at the Blue Squirrel.
"I just want to work," she complained. But it was for form. It might do
them, do everything some good, to have people around. Making noise,
taking up energy.
Keeping the illusion all was normal, in place.
"I just want to spend a regular evening working through the insidious
and murderous plots of the HSO and foreign techno-terrorists. Is that
too much to ask?"
"Of course not, but life will intrude. Would you like me to tell you
how Feeney and I did in Queens?"
"Shit. Shit!" She threw out her hands and nearly caught Roarke on the
chin with a fist. "See? This has got me so messed up I didn't even
remember what's going on with my own case. Where's Feeney?"
"He stayed back in Queens to supervise the removal of some of the
sculptures. They're being impounded. You were dead-on about the bugs."
Look how you watch me, he thought. Trying to see inside my head, to
read what's there. So we won't have to talk about it again. What are we
going to do about this? he wondered.
"We found six sculptures -three out and three in- that were bugged." He
smiled. He couldn't make it reach his eyes, but he smiled. "Very sexy
technology, too, from the looks of it. It'll be fun to take one of the
devices apart for analysis once we hack it out of the metal."
"Eyes or ears?"
"Both. From preliminary study, using a satellite bounce. No question
whoever was watching and listening knows we've found them."
"Good." She pushed to her feet. "If Bissel was spying on his own wife
for the HSO, they already know we're making moves. I had a meet with an
assistant director today."
"Did you?" He said it very softly, very coolly, and sent a chill up her
spine.
"Yeah. And if Bissel turned and was working with the other side, though
I don't see a hell of a lot of differences between sides here, they'll
be scrambling. I'm going to handle it," she said, and let the pretense
drop, for a moment. "I'm going to handle it."
"No doubt. I don't intend to tell you how to handle it," he added, very
carefully. "Can you say the same?"
"It isn't the same. It-" She pulled back, like a woman who felt herself
sliding over a cliff. "Let's just table that. Concentrate on what is."
"Happy to. What is?"
"The investigation. We should take this upstairs, fill each other in."
"All right." He touched her face, then leaned in, brushed his lips over
hers. "We'll do what's most normal for us, for now. Go up and talk
about murder, then have a meal with friends. That suit you?"
"Yeah, it does." She made the effort, kissed him back. Then got to her
feet. She rolled her shoulders. "This is better. Briefing and a burger.
Keeps my mind off Trina and her scary bag of tricks."
Because he wanted her to smile, needed her to, he walked his fingers up
her arm as they started upstairs. "What flavor skin cream do you
suppose Trina will put on you?"
"Shut up. Just shut up."
* * *
"This," McNab said as he took in a gulp of tropical air, "is living."
"We're not living. We're investigating. There'll be no living until
we've completed the investigative purpose of this trip."
He cocked his head, studied her from behind his fuchsia-tinted
sunshades. "You sounded just like Dallas. I find that strangely
arousing."
She elbow-jabbed him, but didn't put much behind it. "We're going
straight to Waves and interview Diesel Moore regarding Carter Bissel.
We'll go by Bissel's residence, speak to any neighbors or associates."
"Now you sound bossy." He gave her butt, currently covered in thin
summer pants, a friendly pat. "I like that, too."
"You've got a grade on me, but I'm Homicide." And boy, did she love
saying that. "So I'm in charge of this hunting party. And I say first
we do the job, then we . . . live."
"I hear that. Still, we gotta rent transpo."
He slid his gaze to a line of scooters chained outside a hut beside
their hotel. They were as colorful and bright as a circus parade, and
screamed tourist.
Peabody grinned. "And I hear that."
* * *
Waves was a hole-in-the-wall joint screwed into a clapboard building on
one of Kingston's less welcoming streets. They'd gotten lost twice-or
had pretended to get lost as they'd scooted along narrow streets with
the island breeze fluttering over their urban cheeks. After some heated
debate, they'd agreed that he'd drive to, and she'd drive from. Peabody
found it just as much fun to ride pinion with her arms clutched around
his waist as it would've been to man the controls.
But as they made their way into the poorer and less hospitable section
of the city, she was glad she had her weapon strapped under her
summer-weight jacket.
She saw three illegals transactions in a two-block radius, and spotted
a pair of funky-junkies jittering together on a stoop. When a flash
all-terrain sportster cruised by, and the driver aimed his dark,
dangerous eyes at her, she almost wished she was wearing her uniform.
Instead, she aimed hers right back, and deliberately, visibly, laid her
hand on her weapon.
"Nasty vibes," she said into McNab's ear as the car gunned and slid off
down a side street.
"Oh yeah. Penalties for illegals are stiff as a teenager's dick down
here, but nobody seems to care in this sector."
There were sex shops and clubs, and the street LCs who sold the same
commodity. But none of them looked particularly alluring. She could
hear music pumping out of a few doorways, but the exotic charm of it
was lost in the bored and repetitive come-ons of the hookers and the
front men.
Tourists might wander in here, she thought, but unless they were
looking for sex, illegals, or a blade in the back, they'd hurry out
again quick.
They parked the scooter in front of the mean little bar, and while
McNab used the chain the rental agent had provided to lock it to a
lamppost, Peabody looked around.
"I'm going to try something," she said. "You might have to back me up."
She selected the two young men, one black, one white, sitting on a
stoop and smoking Christ knew what out of a black pipe they passed
between them. Gearing herself up, she put on her coldest cop face and
swaggered up to them. And ignored McNab's hiss of warning from behind
her.
"See that scooter?"
The black man smirked, took a long slow drag on the pipe. "Got eyes,
bitch."
"Yeah, looks like you've got a pair each." She shifted her weight, used
her elbow to ease the jacket back so her badge and weapon peeked out.
"If you want to keep them in your skulls, you'll keep them on that
scooter. Because if I come back out and it isn't where I left it, in
the same condition I left it, my associate and I are going to hunt you
down like sick dogs. While he's shoving that pipe up your ass," she
said, showing her teeth to the white guy, "I'm going to pop your fellow
asshole's eyes out. With my thumbs."
The white guy bared his own teeth. "Hey, fuck you."
Her stomach jittered, a little, but she kept the fierce and toothy
expression in place. "Now, if you talk like that you're not going to
earn the nice prize I have for you at the end of our contest. The
scooter's there, untouched, when I come back out, I don't haul your
ugly asses into a cage for possession and use, and I give you a nice
shiny ten credits."
"Five now, five later."
She shifted her gaze to the black. "None now, and none later unless I'm
happy with you. Hey, McNab, what happens when I'm not happy?"
"I can't talk about it. Gives me nightmares."
"Do yourselves a favor," Peabody suggested. "Earn the ten."
She turned, sauntered toward the bar. "I've got sweat running down my
spine," she said out of the corner of her mouth.
"Doesn't show. You even scared me."
"Dallas would've gotten in their faces more, but I thought that was
pretty good."
"Frigid, babe." He yanked open the door, and they were hit by a blast
of cold air that smelled of smoke, liquor, and humans who didn't have a
working arrangement with soap and water.
It wasn't yet sundown and business was sluggish. Still there were
pockets of patrons, such as they were, huddled at tables or slumped at
the bar. On a narrow platform that stood as stage, a malfunctioning
holographic band played bad reggae. The image of the steel drummer kept
winking out, and the looping was just a hair off so that the singer's
lips moved out of synch, reminding McNab of the really poorly dubbed
vids his cousin Sheila got such a charge out of.
His toeless airsneaks made little sucking sounds as he crossed the
sticky floor.
Moore was manning the bar. He looked a little thinner and a lot more
harassed than he had in the ID photo they'd studied. He wore his hair
in dreadlocks, a kind of explosion of horsey black tails McNab admired.
They suited the mahogany cast of his face, the diamond point of his
chin.
There was a necklace of what looked like bird bones around his neck,
and his skin was glossy with sweat despite the chilly pump of air.
His eyes, an angry black, skimmed over Peabody and McNab as if they
were one unit. He shoved a muddy-looking brown brew into the waiting
hands of a customer, then used his dingy bar rag to wipe at the shiny
chest exposed by a snug electric-blue tank.
He stepped down the bar, and curled his tattooed lip. "I'm paid up for
the month, so if you've come in here to shake me down for another
deposit go fuck yourselves."
Peabody opened her mouth, but McNab set his foot over hers to keep her
quiet. "We're not local badges. The locals got a Survivors' Fund going
here, we're not in that mix. Fact is, we'll be happy to make a
contribution to your personal fund if you have information that merits
it."
Peabody had never heard that cool and faintly bored tone out of McNab
before.
"Cop offers to give me money, he usually finds a way to skin me for it."
McNab took a twenty out of his pocket, palmed it on the bar while
keeping his attention on Moore. "In good faith."
The money was exchanged, slick as a magic trick. "What're you paying
for?"
"Information," McNab repeated. "Carter Bissel."
"Asshole son of a bitch." Somebody hammered a fist on the far end of
the bar and called for some goddamn service. "Shut the fuck up," Moore
shouted back. "You find that goddamn Carter, I want a shot at him. He
owes me two large, not to mention the ass pain I've had running this
place solo since he decided to go on fucking holiday."
"How long did you run the place together?" Peabody asked him.
"Long enough. Look, we had some previous business, you could call it
shipping. Decided we'd go into this little enterprise here, and each
anted up the rent. Carter, he's got a good head for business in that
asshole brain of his. We did okay. Maybe he'd go on a bender time to
time. Guy likes his rum and his Zoner, and you run a place like this
you can get 'em. Couple days off and on maybe he'd be no-show. I'm not
his fucking mother, so what? He takes off, next time I take off. Works
out."
"But this time," Peabody prompted.
"This time he's just gone." Moore pulled a bottle from under the
counter, poured something brown and thick into a short glass, then
downed it. "Took two thousand from the operating expenses, which damn
near wiped them for the month."
"No warning?"
"Shit. He talks about a big score. Big score and living high, maybe
getting us a class place. Carter, he's full of that crap. Always going
to score big, and ain't never gonna 'cause he's small-time. Enough rum,
he'd really get rolling on it, and how his brother got all the luck."
"You ever meet his brother?" Peabody asked.
"Nope. Figured he was making it up till I saw this scrapbook deal
Carter kept at his place. Full of media reports and some shit on his
brother, the artist."
"He kept a scrapbook on his brother."
"Yeah, loaded with shit. Don't know why 'cause the way he talked Carter
hated the son of a bitch just for being."
"Did he ever talk about going to New York to see him?"
"Shit. Carter, he talked about going everywhere to see everybody. Just
talk."
"Did you ever hear him mention Felicity Kade?"
"Mmm. Slick blonde." Moore licked his lips. "She's some number. She
came around a couple of times."
"No offense," Peabody said pleasantly, "but this doesn't look like the
sort of place a woman like that would spend much time."
"You never know what's going on with a fancy piece like that. Why I
steer clear of them. Come in one night and made a play for Carter.
Didn't have to play very hard. Didn't get the nitty-gritty out of him.
Usually, he'll brag on the women he bags. Likes to think he's king in
the sack. But with this one, he buttoned up. Sly-like." Moore shrugged.
"No big to me. I get my own action."
"She spend much time with Carter?"
"How the hell do I know? She come in a couple of times. They went out
together. Sometimes he'd take a couple of days. If you're thinking he
went off with that piece of work, your aim's off. No way she'd take him
for more than the quick ride."
"Did he have any other business, any other women, something along those
lines that he might've gone off with?"
"Been through all this with the locals. He banged women when he could
get them. Didn't shack with any for long. If he had any side jobs, he
didn't let me in. In or not, likely I'd've heard. It's a small island."
"Small island," Peabody agreed after they'd finished with Moore. "Not
many places to hide."
"Not many ways to get off either. You got air, you got water."
She stepped out, saw with pleasure the scooter was in place, and
apparently untouched. "Pay those guys off."
"Why do I have to pay them?"
"I lined them up."
McNab grumbled, but he flipped them a ten before unchaining the scooter.
"You handled that business about the shakedown really smooth." She
wanted to pinch his butt in appreciation, but decided it wouldn't look
professional. So it would wait. Instead, she climbed on the scooter.
"Just as glad we're getting out of this sector before dark."
"You and me both, She-Body." Apparently he wasn't as concerned with
professional image as she was 'cause he pinched her butt as he slid on
behind her. "Let's ride."
* * *
Carter Bissel lived in a two-room shack that was hardly more than a
tent pitched on a mix of sand and crushed shells. It had what Peabody
considered a very slight appeal due to its proximity to the beach, but
that same proximity made it a handy target for tropical storms.
She could see where patches had been slapped on, just as she could see
from the sagging rope hammock that Carter had preferred to spend his
free time swinging rather than worrying overmuch about household
maintenance.
Scraggly tufts of beach grass poked up through the shells. An ancient
and thoroughly rusted scooter was chained to a dead palm.
"A long way from Queens," McNab commented as he kicked a broken bottle
aside. "He might have beat his brother out on the view, but the rest of
the living conditions put him way back on the sib rivalry chart."
"When you look at this, you can see that he might just walk away."
Peabody took out the key they'd picked up from the local PD.
"Everything we're seeing spells out loser."
"It doesn't spell out what Felicity Kade wanted down here."
"I've been thinking about that. Maybe they wanted to use him for a
setup. It's not the kind of place you'd expect an HSO branch office or
a terrorist cell. And that could've been just the point."
She unlocked the door, creaked it open. Inside, the air was stale and
hot. She saw an enormous bug scurry into the shadows and had to bite
back a squeal. She was no particular fan of anything that skittered or
slithered.
She tried the lights, found them inoperable. Both she and McNab drew
out penlights.
"I've got a better idea. Hold on a minute."
She struggled not to cringe when he left her alone. She could almost
hear the spiders spinning. She shined her light over the living area.
There was a single couch. One cushion had exploded and left a kind of
gray mushroom of filler growing up from the torn fabric. There were no
rugs, no art, a lone unshaded lamp on a crate that served as a table.
But the entertainment screen was new, top of the line, and, she noted
after a quick scan, bolted to the floor.
Not the most trusting of men, she decided. In addition to being a slob
and a loser.
The kitchen was along one wall of the living quarters. A counter
cluttered with take-out boxes and a blender, a cheap AutoChef and a
grimy minifridgie. She'd just opened the fridgie to peruse the contents
of home-brew, a withered fuzzy tube that might have once been a pickle,
and a golf ball-sized lime when McNab puttered in on the scooter.
The headlight beamed brightly.
"Good thinking," she decided. "Strange but good." She opened the lone
cupboard and found three glasses, two plates, and an opened bag of soy
chips.
"You know, his financials weren't stellar, but he had enough to live
better than this." She turned around as McNab poked under the cushions
of the couch. "And you can bet not all his money was reported."
"Probably couldn't hold onto it. Slippery fingers. Spent it on women
and illegals." He held up a small bag of white powder he'd pulled out
of the damaged cushion.
"How'd the locals miss that?"
"Didn't care enough to look. My question is why'd he leave it behind?"
"Because he left in a hurry and planned to come back . . . or he didn't
leave voluntarily." She started toward the bedroom. "Bring the scooter."
The bed was unmade. But the sheets, Peabody noted, were prime quality.
They matched the entertainment unit more than the rest of the house.
The skinny closet held three shirts, two pair of trousers, and one
bunged-up pair of gel-sandals. The dresser held four pair of boxers, a
dozen T-shirts or tanks, five pair of shorts.
There was a 'link, but it had been turned off. The data unit sat on the
floor and looked as if it had been through several wars. She left McNab
to fiddle with it while she searched the tiny bathroom.
"No toothbrush, but there's a half tube of toothpaste," she called out.
"No hairbrush or comb, but there's shampoo. There's another set of
sheets-whoa, baby, very smelly sheets-stuffed in the hamper in here,
along with a moldy towel."
She stepped back out. "Looks to me like he packed up a few essentials,
and before he did, he had company. Female company who earned the fresh,
fancy sheets."
"What're you doing?" McNab asked absently.
"We're taking the sheets in for testing. He put them on, but the bed's
not made. That tells me they got used. That says sex, so maybe there's
some DNA."
He grunted and continued to work with the computer.
"I'll tell you what else isn't here, besides his toothbrush and comb.
There's no scrapbook on his brother. That's interesting."
"So's this." He scooted around until he faced her, with the headlight
from the scooter shining on his face. "It's really interesting that
this unit is fried. That it appears to have been infected with the same
worm as the ones in New York."
* * *
In New York, Eve paced Roarke's locked-down office with her secured
'link on privacy mode as she listened to Peabody's report. It was, she
supposed, still possible for someone to copy the transmission even
through the lockdown, even through the layers of security, but it would
take time and effort.
"I'm going to pull strings, and pull them hard with the locals," she
told Peabody. "And get you cleared to transport any and all items from
that location that you deem applicable to this investigation. It may
take a few hours, but I'm going to see to it that you and those items
are on a transport in the morning. Sit tight. I'll be back to you."
She broke transmission, then paced a moment longer as she calculated
how best to start the wheels turning.
"If I may suggest," Roarke put in. "I could have a private shuttle
bring them back, circumventing any of the red tape with the local
police."
She frowned, but considered it. "No. I don't want to circumvent. It'll
take a little more time this way, but we'll keep it clean. When this
comes out, and I'm going to make damn sure it does, I want our end to
sparkle. I'll start by playing diplomat with the local chief, and if
that doesn't work, I'll toss him to Whitney. But it should work. What
do they care if we haul off a busted data center and some sheets?"
"Then I'll leave you to it and go back to our company. Some grilled
meat should set you up for the ordeal yet to come."
"Don't remind me. I don't like the way Trina was eyeballing me."
He lifted the lockdown and left her alone. Once she'd reestablished it,
she sat down at his workstation. She could stay here all night, she
mused. Locked in, nice and safe, away from hair products. There was
access to food, to drink, to communications. It would be so . . .
soothing to hunker down and work alone again.
Then she thought of Mavis, who'd bounced in twenty minutes before with
a beaming Leonardo.
At times like this, Eve decided, alone was nothing but a fond and
distant memory. She engaged the 'link and prepared to grease the wheels.
Eve considered it strength of character not to keep the room sealed,
with her inside. But she braced herself, went downstairs, then wound
her way through the house to the back patio.
And stared at the scene.
She knew her scenes. Normally, there would've been a corpse somewhere
in the vicinity, but she still knew how to read a scene where death
wasn't part of the landscape.
There was a bird singing a two-note repetitive chirp that was both
cheery and insistent. Butterflies with wings of bold orange and black
massed like a fanciful army on the purple spires of a bush that
fountained just beyond the west corner of the stone patio.
Roarke's newest toy, an enormous silver monstrosity on wheels, was
smoking away, with the man himself at the helm with a long-handled
spatula. The smoke smelled like meat-real meat from real cows. Several
individuals were currently chowing down on it in the form of thick
burgers on buns.
They were seated at tables or standing around chatting, in full party
mode.
The city's medical examiner was swigging beer from the bottle and
having what appeared to be an amusing conversation with Mavis. Mira-and
where the hell had she come from -was seated at a table scattered with
food and flickering candles while she held some sort of confab with
Leonardo and the terrifying Trina.
The captain of EDD stood munching a burger one-handed and giving Roarke
advice on the mysteries and mystiques of outdoor cooking.
Everyone seemed pretty damn jolly and well-fed, and to Eve's mind out
of place. Hadn't she just left a sealed room where she'd spent
considerable time picking her way through red tape and the land mines
of diplomacy and palm greasing? Wasn't she in the messy middle of a
murder investigation involving covert organizations and state secrets?
Now it was burgers and beer in the twilight with birds and butterflies.
Her life, she decided, was just plain strange.
Leonardo spotted her first, and with a wide grin splitting his big
caramel-colored face, glided over to her in what Eve supposed was his
casual cookout-wear of shimmery white pants and a bright yellow shirt
that crossed over his impressive chest in a skin-tight X. He bent down,
his soft, curling hair brushing her cheek just before his lips.
"Mavis told me she'd been upset, and came to you. I wanted to thank you
for being there for her, for giving her this time tonight to feel
normal and steady again."
"She just needed to spew."
"I know." Then he wrapped his big arms around Eve, pressing her hard
against the rock wall of his chest. This time when he spoke, his voice
was thick and shaky. "The baby moved."
"Yeah." She wasn't quite sure what response was called for, and
gingerly patted him somewhere on the miles of exposed skin of his back.
"She said. So, ah, everything's good now."
"Everything's perfect." He heaved a sigh. "Perfect." He drew back, and
his gold eyes were gleaming. "Good friends, the woman I love with our
child inside her. Life is so precious. I realize that now more than
ever before. I know Dr. Mira needs to speak with you, but I just wanted
to have a moment first."
Drawing her close to his side he all but carried her to the table where
Mira sat.
"Now don't start." He wagged a finger at Trina. "Dallas needs to speak
with Dr. Mira, and to have a moment to relax."
"I can bide my time." Trina grinned, a wide magenta smile that sent a
chill up Eve's spine. "I have plans. Lots of plans." She scooped up her
plate and wandered off on six-inch platform sandals.
"Oh my God."
With a look caught between sympathy and amusement, Mira patted the
chair beside her. "Sit. What a gorgeous evening. I'm stealing an hour
of it to be here, on what was supposed to be a quick professional call.
Now I'm having this lovely glass of wine and this rather magnificent
hamburger."
"Did he actually cook it?" Eve glanced back at Roarke. "On that thing?"
"He did. I'm probably telling tales out of school, but he talked to my
Dennis at some length about how to use the grill." Mira took another
bite. "He seems to have figured it out."
"Nothing much gets over on Roarke. A professional call?" she prompted.
"Yes. I could've waited until tomorrow, but I thought you'd like to
know as soon as possible that Reva Ewing passed her level-three."
"Thanks. How's she doing?"
"A little shaky and tired. Her mother took her straight home. I think
she's in good hands there."
"Yeah, Caro's another who always seems to know what she's doing."
"She's afraid for her daughter, Eve. However efficient and steady she
is on the surface, under it, she's desperately worried. I could speak
with her, or Roarke could. I'm sure he will. But the fact is you're the
one in authority. And you're the one whose thoughts and opinions she'd
respect most in this."
"Did you come by to tell me about the level-three, or to tell me I
should talk to Caro?"
"Both." Mira patted her hand. "Also, I looked over the results of her
blood tests taken just after she was taken into custody."
"There was nothing. No chemicals, illegal or otherwise. And the
medicals found no trauma to indicate she'd been physically knocked out."
"No." Mira picked up her wine. "But we both know there are some
anesthetics that can debilitate quickly, and dissipate without a
discernible trace within two or three hours."
"The sort of thing Homeland would have in its pantry."
"I imagine so. When I had Reva under, I took her back through the steps
and stages of that night. She recalled a movement to her left as she
was facing the bed. She doesn't remember this, not clearly, except
under hypnosis. A movement," Mira went on, "then a scent, something
strong, bitter, and the taste of it in the back of her throat."
"Probably sprayed her." Eve looked over the gardens, but she wasn't
seeing the busy butterflies now, or hearing the insistent bird. She saw
the candlelit bedroom, the bodies curled close together on bloody
sheets. "Waited for her to come up, came in on her on her off-side, hit
her with the spray. Set the rest of it up while she was out."
"If so, it was organized thinking. Cold and organized. And still . . .
much of what was done was overly dramatic-beyond the violence that
shows the capability for brutality, there were added steps,
complications that were unnecessary for the result we're assuming was
desired."
"Because he was having fun with it."
"Yes." Pleased, Mira enjoyed her hamburger. "He was. Several
misjudgments and flourishes-when simplicity would have served his
purposes better-indicate to me that he gets caught up in the role he's
playing. Enjoying it, and perhaps wanting to prolong it."
"Adding touches to a pretty tight and simple plan that unbalance the
whole. What do they call it? Ad-libbing."
"Very well put. You have organized thinking but impulsiveness as well.
I doubt he was working alone. I also doubt that the one who conceived
the core of the plan was the one to carry it out. Now I'm going to pass
you to Morris so you can get the business over with and enjoy some of
your evening."
"It's a little tough to enjoy anything when I know Trina has plans."
But Eve rose, walked over to Morris. "Got something for me?"
"Dallas!" Mavis popped up. "Did you know Morris played the sax?"
"The what?"
"Saxophone," Morris said. "Tenor. It's a musical instrument,
Lieutenant."
"I know what a saxophone is," she muttered.
"He used to play with a band in college," Mavis went on. "And sometimes
they still get together for private gigs. They're The Cadavers."
"Of course they are."
"We're going to jam sometime, right?" Mavis asked Morris.
"Name the time, name the place."
"Too mag to lag!" she danced off and into Leonardo's arms.
"That's a very happy young woman."
"You wouldn't've thought so if you'd seen her two hours ago."
"Gestating ladies tend to swing. They're entitled. Want a beer?"
"What the hell." She snagged one from the cooler. "What've you got for
me?"
"Nothing as wonderful as this cow patty. Chloe McCoy. No evidence of
recent sexual activity. But . . . it would appear she'd expected some
as she'd inserted protection. An over-the-counter product called
Freedom. This coats the vaginal area with both spermicide and a
lubricant, which protect against STDs and conception."
"Yeah, I know what it is. You can use it up to twenty-four hours before
you rock. When did she use it?"
"My best guess? An hour, possibly two pre-mortem. And she'd also
ingested fifty milligrams of Sober-Up at approximately the same time."
"Well now, isn't that interesting?"
To show their unity on that point, he tapped his bottle of beer against
hers. "At least one hour before she ingested the termination pills. And
if those were purchased on the black market, someone has a very
valuable source. They weren't generic or clones or homemade. And, the
kicker: They were dissolved in the wine before they were ingested."
"So she protects herself against pregnancy or STD, sobers herself up,
cleans her apartment, gets herself a sexy outfit, and does her face and
hair. Then drops a couple of fatals in her wine and offs herself." Eve
took a long pull on the beer. "And you said you didn't bring me
anything as interesting as that burger."
"You haven't tasted the burger yet."
"I'll get to it. What's the ruling on this matter by the Chief Medical
Examiner of New York City?"
"Homicide, staged to look like self-termination. That girl didn't
knowingly eat those pills."
"No, she didn't." And that made Chloe McCoy hers. "Termination pills
require a prescription-after considerable testing and counseling. If
she didn't get them that way, and she didn't, and they weren't
black-market, would you say that a strong possible source for meds of
that type and potency would be a covert government organization?"
"I wouldn't say no."
"Neither would I." She pondered for a few minutes. "There's something
I'd like you to check out."
When she was finished with Morris, Eve headed over to the grill. "I've
got some new juice," she said to Feeney, then found a plate shoved into
her hand.
"Take a minute. There's always time for meat."
The scent of the burger had saliva pooling in her mouth. "A lot of new
juice, Feeney. ME's ruling homicide on McCoy, and I've got the gears
oiled in Jamaica so Peabody and McNab can haul the evidence back here.
Mira says-"
"Go ahead." Roarke lifted the burger off her plate and to her mouth.
"Take a bite. You know you want to."
"This isn't the time for a family picnic."
"Think of it as a combination family and company event."
"You gotta eat, Dallas," Feeney told her. "That's primo cow. You don't
wanna waste it."
"Fine. Fine." She bit in. "Mira says -okay, this is really good, and I
see absolutely no reason I can't sit down and eat this while I brief
you."
"Just let me set this on auto, and you can brief both of us."
She moved to a table, and sitting, gripped the burger in both hands.
Even as she took another bite, Roarke was dumping some sort of grilled
vegetables on her plate.
"To balance it out," he told her.
"Whatever." If he wanted to play as if everything was dandy between
them, she could get on board. There was enough inside her head without
marriage weirdness. "Okay, here's how I think it went down, and I need
EDD to dig into McCoy's links and verify. Whoever took her out
contacted her. She's happy and excited enough to take some Sober-Up to
counteract the wine she's been guzzling with her neighbor. She uses
birth control. She fixes up the place, and herself."
"Sounds like someone expecting a hot date, not a girl getting ready to
pop termination pills." Feeney shook his head. "She's been rolling with
Blair Bissel, and Bissel's dead. You figure she had another guy
dangling?"
"Possible. More possible that whoever contacted her made her think one
of several options. That he had news on Bissel-the whole thing was a
mistake, a cover-up, maybe an operation. He's going to bring Bissel to
her place, for hiding out until it's safe. Or he made her think he was
Bissel."
"That'd be a trick."
"Not if you're the man's brother. You got a strong resemblance, and you
could augment that. You've been jealous of the bastard all your life,
and here's your chance to get some young stuff on his back."
Feeney contemplated the beer he'd brought to the table. "That's a good
one. Damn good one. Had to contact her, though, if she had time to prep
herself. We'll go deep on the 'links, and put her unit in the mix. If
he used e-mail, it's going to be a bitch to find."
"That's your deal. I'm looking at Carter Bissel. He knows what big
bro's been up to. He's had a side deal going with his trainer. Blair's
working with Kade, and sleeping with her. She knows about McCoy, and
about whatever Bissel gave her that was secreted in the locket. There's
a reason that was taken from the scene. McCoy's a loose thread, and she
has to be snipped."
"I said it's good, but why not just go in and snip?" Feeney questioned.
"Why the big show?"
"Same deal as Ewing. Lots of bells and whistles, lots of show and
smoke. He likes to improvise. He's having fun with this. And maybe
because the need for cover seemed to warrant it, maybe for the drama.
Maybe both."
"Follows." Feeney nodded at Roarke. "I did a good job with her."
"You did, yes. She's cop to the bone."
"Let's try to stick with the point." But Eve took a healthy and
satisfying bite of burger. "Either way, it's the same MO under the
surface. Kill, and go to considerable lengths to make it seem like what
it's not. Hang the murder on somebody else. Ewing in the first case,
McCoy herself in the second."
"Plays well," Roarke agreed. "When her killer arrived, however,
wouldn't she question or object if Bissel wasn't along?"
"He gets inside. Tells her they have to be careful. They need her help.
The more theatrical the story, the quicker she'd buy it and go along.
All he has to do is talk her into starting a note. Hell, she might've
written it herself beforehand, just a dramatic sort of touch. He slips
the meds into her wine. After she drinks it, all he has to do is lie
her out, then walk away."
"Or" -Eve ate a grilled pepper without thinking about it- "the HSO
could've staged the whole thing. Gotten in, disabled her. But that
doesn't explain the BC, or the Sober-Up. Whoever killed her didn't know
she'd used either. He's not as smart as he thinks he is."
Roarke remembered the young woman clinging tearfully to Eve's shins in
the gallery. It fit. It was just sad enough to fit. "You're heading
back to Bissel's brother."
"Yeah, I'm liking the looks of him. He's been MIA for almost a month.
Plenty of time to have a little face work done, make himself look more
like his brother." She polished off her burger, took another drink of
beer. "But there's one more possibility, a little out-there, but
interesting."
"Blair Bissel killed her," Roarke put in.
"You're pretty quick for a guy who grills burgers in his spare time."
"Smoke's gotten to you two," Feeney said. "Bissel's in a cold drawer at
the morgue."
"It looks that way. It probably is that way," Eve agreed. "But let's
take this into spy vid territory for a minute-which Reva said was one
of his hobbies -and which we know was his profession. What if Bissel
was playing both sides? Or he was doing a double agent thing with, or
without, HSO sanction. They find out Kade's turned, or he's just pissed
she's playing with his brother. He sets them up, knocks them down, and
handily frames his wife, who he's done with. He snips McCoy and gets
back whatever she was holding for him in the locket."
"You don't think somebody as sharp as Morris would see the body didn't
match the ID photo? Even with the couple of bashes in the face, there's
dental. There's fingerprints. There's fricking DNA. All of it matches
Blair Bissel's."
"Yeah, and he's probably on ice. I said it was out there, and Carter
Bissel heads my list. Morris is going to run a scan and see if he had
any recent facial surgery. And because, if this is true, it would be
another thread, I need you to hit IRCCA, find me a recently deceased
face fixer. I'm betting Carter Bissel had work done -either to play
Cain or to be tricked into playing Abel. One of the Bissel brothers is
alive. We just need to figure out which."
* * *
Eve told herself not to think about what was being done to her.
Otherwise, she might scream like a girl. Her hair was plastered to her
head with a thick pink goop. A new product according to Trina,
guaranteed to add luster, body, and bring out the natural highlights.
None of which, to Eve's mind, mattered.
Her face and throat were slathered with something green, and sealed
with some sort of spray. Before that, her skin had been buffed and
scrubbed, examined and critiqued. And not just the skin on her face and
throat, Eve thought, still inwardly shuddering, but every inch that
covered her body. From the throat down she'd been painted yellow, then
sealed with the same spray before having her mortified body wrapped in
a heat sheet.
At least she was covered. Small blessings.
She'd quietly turned off the VR goggles Trina had programmed when Trina
had given the delighted Mavis her full attention. Eve didn't want the
mindless nature sounds or the soft, swimming colors of the relaxation
program.
She might have been naked on a padded table and covered from head to
feet in goo. But she was still a cop, and she wanted to think like one.
Back to the victims. It was always back to the victims.
Bissel, Kade, McCoy, with Bissel as the focal point. Who or what stood
to gain from their deaths?
The HSO. During the early days of the Urban Wars, the government had
formed the arm as a way to protect the country, to police the streets
and gather intel covertly from radical factions.
It had done the job. It had been necessary. And over the years since,
some said it had morphed into something closer to a legalized terrorist
group than a protection and intel operation.
She happened to agree.
So, the murders could have been a cleanup operation. If Bissel and Kade
had turned, and McCoy unwittingly knew too much, all three might have
been terminated to protect some global security project. The Code Red
was the obvious linchpin. The data units had been corrupted. What data
needed to be eliminated? Or was the use of the worm simply a ploy to
point toward the techno-terrorists?
The Doomsday Group. Assassinations, terminations, large- and small-
scale destruction and loss of life through technological sabotage were
their reasons for being. Kade and Bissel could have been playing both
ends, or on assignment to infiltrate. They could have been targeted by
the terrorists, taken out, and McCoy treated as collateral damage.
But then why weren't they taking credit? Media play with a lot of
bloody fist-pumping and skewed messages were a big part of the program
for any terrorist group. There'd been enough time for an acknowledgment
to have been leaked to the mainstream press.
In either case, why the frame on Ewing? Why -if either organization for
reasons of its own wanted to keep the lid on the terminations-go to so
much time and trouble to implicate Reva Ewing?
To slow, hamper, or eliminate her work on the extermination program,
and utilize whatever data Bissel had gathered from his devices to
create one first, in the HSO's case, or to reformulate the worm to
override the extermination, in Doomsday's case.
Possible, and she wouldn't close those doors. She'd run probabilities
and give them a push.
But with either of those scenarios she still had Carter Bissel floating
around like a goddamn dust mote. Had Kade recruited him with or without
HSO sanction? With or without Blair Bissel's knowledge?
And where the hell was he?
She tried to bring a picture of him into her mind, but it was blurry
and kept dissolving in all the melting colors that swirled lazily in
her brain.
She'd stopped hearing Mavis's and Trina's birdlike chatter at the edge
of her focus, so there was only the gentle whoosh, like a heartbeat
inside a womb.
Even as she realized the relaxation program had been reactivated, she
sank under it.
* * *
In Roarke's home computer lab, Feeney sat back at his station and
pressed the heels of his hands hard against his aching eyes.
"You ought to take something for that eye-strain headache," Roarke
commented. "Before it blows on you."
"Yeah, yeah." Feeney puffed air into his cheeks, let it out. "Don't do
as much geek work as I used to." He studied the unit currently laid out
in sections and small bits over his counter. "Got spoiled handing this
sort of detail over to one of my young guns."
He glanced over at Roarke's station and was somewhat mollified to see
the civilian's progress was as slow and exacting as his own. "You got
an estimate on when we might have one of these up and running
again-working like this, just the two of us?"
"I figure sometime in the next decade if we're lucky, into the fourth
millennium if we're not. This bitch is toasted." Roarke shoved back,
scowled at the burned-out guts of his current project. "We can replace,
repair, reconfigure, and beat it with a hammer. We'll retrieve data.
I'm annoyed enough at the moment to make it my bloody life's work. But
Christ knows we could do it all faster and easier with a few more hands
and brain cells. McNab's good. He's got the hands and the geek quotient
to keep him at something like this for hours on end, but he won't be
enough."
They sat in brooding silence for a moment, then eyed each other.
"You talk to her," Roarke said.
"Oh no, I'm not married to her."
"I'm not a cop."
"It's your setup here."
"It's an NYPSD investigation."
"Like that means a damn to you. Okay, okay." Feeney waved a hand before
Roarke could speak again. "Let's settle this like men."
"Want to arm wrestle?"
Feeney let out a snort, then dug into his pocket. "We'll flip a coin.
You call it."
* * *
Eve heard what sounded like flutes. For a moment she saw herself
running naked through a flower-strewn meadow where small, winged
creatures played long, reed-like instruments. Birds sang, the sun
shone, and the sky was a perfect bowl of cerulean blue.
She woke with a start and said: "Gak."
"Wow, Dallas, you were really out."
Blinking, Eve focused on the figure spread out on the table beside her.
She thought it was Mavis. It sounded like Mavis, but it was tough to
make a positive ID when the form was covered with hot pink from
shoulders to toes, the face coated with electric blue, and the hair
plastered down with a mix of green, red, and purple.
She'd have said gak again, but it seemed redundant.
"You didn't drool or anything," Mavis assured her. "In case you were
worried."
"Let out a couple of sex moans." Trina's voice came from somewhere near
her feet, and Eve froze.
"What are you doing?"
"My job. You're all rinsed off. Blissed right through that part. Got
your derma revitalizer rubbed in. Your man's going to like this one.
Going to finish up with your hair and face after I do your feet."
"Do what to my feet?" Gingerly, Eve boosted herself on her elbows and
looked down. "Oh my God! God almighty! You painted my toes."
"Just a delux ped. It's not a satanic ritual."
"My toes are pink."
"Yeah, I went conservative with you. Sun-kissed Coral. Nice with your
skin tone. Your feet were a disgrace," Trina added as she sprayed on
sealer. "Good thing you were under VR while I was working on them."
"How come she's not under?" Eve demanded, pointing at Mavis.
"I get more out of it if I'm aware of the treatments. I like getting
souped and rubbed and scrubbed down and painted. It's the ult of ults
for me. You hate it."
"Mavis. If you know I hate it, why do you make me do this?"
Mavis smiled an electric-blue smile. "'Cause it's fun."
Eve lifted a hand to rub her face, then gaped in shock as she saw her
nails. "You painted my fingers. People will see them."
"Neutral French job." Trina walked back up, slid a finger over one of
Eve's eyebrows. "Need trimming. You oughta chill, Dallas."
"Do you understand that I'm a cop? Do you understand that should I have
to restrain a suspect and he gets a load of my shiny yet neutral French
job, he's going to break his neck laughing? Then I'll be under IAB
investigation for the death of a suspect at my hands."
"I know you're a cop." Trina showed her teeth in a smile. The left
eyetooth was decorated with a tiny green stud. "That's why I threw in
the little boob tat gratis."
"Boob? Tattoo?" Eve sat up as if she'd been propelled out of a
catapult. "Tattoo?"
"Just a temp. Came out really good."
She was almost too horrified to look. To counter the fear, she took a
handful of Trina's glossy black hair, yanked her tormentor's head down.
If necessary, she would beat that head against the padded table until
unconsciousness ensued. Ignoring Trina's yelps and struggles, and
Mavis's giggling calls for peace, Eve tipped down her chin and looked
at her breast.
There on the curve of the left was a painted replica of her badge,
minutely detailed though it was no bigger than her own thumbnail. Her
grip loosened a bit as she tilted her own head to read her name. And
Trina escaped.
"Jesus, are you whacked? I said it was a temp."
"Did you give me any hallucinogenic substance while I was under VR?"
"What?" Obviously steamed, Trina shook back her abused hair, folded her
arms, and glowered at Mavis. "What is wrong with her? No, I didn't give
you anything. I'm a certified personal body and style consultant. I
don't have illegals on my menu. You ask me something like that, and-"
"I asked something like that because I'm looking at what you painted on
a personal area of my body, and I kind of like it, so I want to make
sure I'm not under some illusionary drug haze."
Trina sniffed, but there was a light that was both pleasure and humor
in her eyes. "You like it, I can make it permanent."
"No." In defense, Eve slapped a hand on her breast. "No, no, no. No."
"Got it. Just the temp. Mavis has to cook a while more, so we'll finish
you up." Trina pressed a mechanism on the table and a section lifted up
like the back of a chair.
"How come you've got all those colors in the gunk on your hair?"
"I'm getting multied," Mavis explained. "I'm going to have some red
curls, and purple spikes, and-"
"There wasn't any of that in mine." Fear clutched at her throat. "Was
there?"
"Relax." To get back some of her own, Trina yanked Eve's head back by
the hair. "The pink streaks'll wash out."
"She's just kidding," Mavis said as Eve went pale. "Honest."
* * *
By the time it was over, Eve was limp as a noodle. The minute she was
alone, she dashed into the nearest bathroom, shut the door, and braced
herself for a look in the mirror.
Her knees went weak with relief when she saw there were no streaks of
pink, or anything else, in her hair. Nor were her eyebrows the carnival
of colors Mavis's had been when Trina finished with them. She wasn't
vain, Eve assured herself. She just wanted to look like she looked.
There wasn't anything wrong with that. And since she did, the ball of
tension between her shoulder-blades dissolved.
Okay, maybe she looked a little better than usual. Trina did something
to her eyebrows whenever she got her hands on them that made the arch
more defined and framed out her eyes. And her skin had a nice glow to
it.
She shook her head, pleased when her hair fell into place without any
fuss.
Then her eyes widened in shock. She was vain, or edging perilously
close to it. And it had to stop. Deliberately, she turned away from the
mirror. She needed to get out of this stupid robe and into clothes. As
soon as she did, she'd check on the lab.
Work, she assured herself, was the only thing worth being vain about.
She'd barely nipped into the bedroom when Roarke stepped in from the
elevator.
"I just need to change, then I was coming by the lab."
"Well, I need a minute to speak with you, and saw that Mavis and Trina
had gone."
"What about?" She started rummaging through her dresser for old,
comfortable sweats. It gave her something to do with her hands as she
prayed it had nothing to do with a field operation in Dallas. "Did you
guys have a breakthrough?"
"No. It's painstaking and exacting work. Slow and tedious. Feeney's
taking an hour restorative. It's hell on the eyes."
"Okay." She could hardly complain about the break when she'd spent a
good chunk of the evening flat on her back and covered with goo. "I'm
not much help in the comp-jock area, but I've got some probabilities to
run, some theories I want to play with. Mind's clear. I hate that."
"You hate that your mind's clear?"
"No." Her shoulders relaxed again. She was tuned to every nuance in his
voice, and everything was all right. For now. "I hate that the stuff
Trina does actually works-on the brain. I'm pumped," she said, hauling
out a ragged and ancient short-sleeved sweatshirt she'd buried under a
stack of silk and cashmere tees. "And I'm thinking . . . what're you
looking at?"
"You. Darling Eve, you look-"
"Don't start." She waved the shirt at him and backed up two steps. Even
that was a fake, she thought. It was such a tremendous relief to know
he could look at her that way. To know, when he did, her blood warmed,
her body tightened. "Don't even start."
"You've had a pedicure."
Instinctively, her toes curled in embarrassment. "She did it while I
was under VR, and she won't tell me how to get it off."
"I like it. Sexy."
"What's sexy about pink toes? What could possibly be sexy about that?
Wait, I forgot who I was talking to. If she'd painted my teeth pink,
you'd think it was sexy."
"A fool in love," he murmured and stepped close enough to brush a thumb
over her cheek. "Soft."
"Stop it." She slapped his hand away.
"And you smell . . . exotic," he said after easing closer for a testing
sniff. "A bit tropical. Like a lemon grove in spring, with just a hint
of . . . jasmine, I think. Night-blooming jasmine."
"Roarke. Down."
"Too late." He laughed and gripped her hips. "A man needs his
restorative, you know. Why don't you be mine?"
She was his, but still she gave him a shove as his lips came down on
hers. "I've already had my break."
"You're about to extend it. You taste incredible." His lips skimmed
over her jaw, then under it, and his busy hands had already unbelted
her robe, slipped beneath it. "Let's just see . . ." -he tugged on her
bottom lip- ". . . what else Trina's been up to."
He eased the robe off her shoulders, skimmed his teeth over bare skin.
The little ball of lust that had curled in her belly expanded. She
tipped her head to the side to give him better access. "I'm giving you
twenty minutes, thirty tops, to get yourself under control."
"Thirty should give me just enough time to . . ." He trailed off as his
gaze lowered to her breast. "Well now." His voice came out in a purr as
he rubbed his thumb lightly over the replica of her badge. "What have
we here?"
"One of Trina's little brainstorms. It's just a temp, and actually I
got kind of a kick out of it after I got over the shock."
He said nothing, only continued to stroke and circle the image with his
thumb.
"Roarke?"
"I'm amazed to find myself ridiculously aroused by this. How odd."
"You're kidding."
His gaze lifted to hers, and that hot blue slammed through her. "Okay."
Nerves danced under her skin. Over it. "Not kidding."
"Lieutenant." He gripped her hips again, and hitched her up in one
clean jerk until her legs wrapped his waist. "You'd best brace
yourself."
There was no bracing against that kind of assault on the senses, that
sort of brutal invasion of the system. Since the bed was too far away,
he simply spilled them both onto the sofa and took her over with lips
and hands.
She clamped around him. It seemed if she didn't hold on, hold tight,
she might shoot out of her own body. Sensations crowded inside her,
careening through blood and muscle and nerve until she was quivering,
until she was coming in a screaming rush.
Staggered, she fought for air, then met, finally met, those hungry lips
with her own. Partly in lust, partly in desperate relief that they were
together, at least here, they were together, she tugged at his shirt.
He wasn't the only one who wanted the taste and texture of flesh. His
was hot, as if he burned from the inside out for her.
Her miracle.
"Let me." She fought with his belt. "Let me."
And they rolled off the sofa, hit the floor with a solid thud. Her
breathless laugh shimmered through him. God, he'd needed to hear her
laugh.
He'd needed to hold her, and be held.
Her scent, her shape, her flavor all burned through the lines on his
already straining control. He wanted to lap her like cream, to devour
her like a feast after famine. He wanted to bury himself in her until
the world ended.
If it was possible to love, to want, to need too much, he'd already
passed the boundary with her. There was no going back. She shuddered
under him, moved under him. Her hand reached out and closed over him,
and took the hard length of him into the wet, wild heat of her.
Pleasure swamped him, drenched him, a saturation of mind and body as
her hips plunged up, and he drove down.
He could watch her dark amber eyes that were blurry with arousal, and
he could see her lips tremble an instant before her head arched back
and the throaty moan escaped her.
Undone, he pressed his lips to the symbol of what she was, and felt the
heart that thundered for him beneath it. His cop. His Eve. His miracle.
He gave himself over to it, surrendered himself to her.
Her pulse was nearly back to normal when he rolled so she was sprawled
over his chest instead of pinned under his weight. From that vantage
point, she folded her arms and propped her chin on them to study his
face.
He certainly looked relaxed at the moment, she thought, all loose and
satisfied, like a guy about to take a nice little nap.
"Pink toenails and boob tats. What is it with men?"
His lips curved, though he didn't yet open his eyes. "We're so easily
played. Really, we're at the mercy of the female, with all her
mysterious wiles."
"You're at the mercy of your glands."
"That as well." He sighed happily. "Praise God."
"So you really go for all that stuff? The potions and lotions and
paints and all that?"
"Eve. Darling Eve." He opened his eyes now and stroked a hand over her
hair. "I go for you. That should be obvious."
"But you get off on all the jazz."
"With or without the jazz." He scooted her up until he could brush his
lips to hers. "You're my own."
Her lips twitched. "Your own what?"
"Everything."
"Slick talker," she murmured and gave in to nuzzle him. "You're some
slick talker. Just so you know, I'm not keeping the tattoo, even if it
turns you into my sex slave. Just a few days, and that's it."
"Your body, your choices. But I can't say I'd want you to make it
permanent. Something about the surprise of it certainly flicked a
switch in me. A bit baffling, really."
"Maybe I'll surprise you every now and again."
"You always do."
She liked knowing that, and gave him a quick pat on the cheek before
she rolled away. "Restorative period's over."
"There's no surprise in that."
"Get some clothes on, civilian, and report."
"I'm not entirely sure I used up my full thirty minutes. Someone was in
a bit of a hurry."
She picked up his pants, threw them into his face. "Cover up that
pretty ass of yours, pal. You said you needed to speak to me before you
were overcome by my pink toenails. What about?"
"Before I get to that, I'd like to express the hope that you remain
barefoot as much as possible the next several days. And moving on," he
said with a laugh when she sent him a steely stare. "Feeney and I both
agree we need more jocks in the lab. With just the two of us this
restoration may take weeks at best."
"McNab will be back tomorrow."
"So that's three of us, except when at least one of us is pulled off
for something else. If you want answers, Eve, you have to give us the
tools to get them."
"Why isn't Feeney, as head of EDD, requesting this?"
"Because I lost the bloody flip, which wouldn't have happened if I'd
gotten my hands on the coin long enough to switch it for one of my own.
But he said -I believe this is a direct quote- 'you don't get bit by
the same dog twice.' Which is his colorful way of saying he's aware
I've rigged a coin toss on him before."
"He's no easy mark."
"He's not, no. And neither of us is green when it comes to electronics,
nor are we slackers. As much as it pains both of us to admit it, we
need help. I've some in mind who-"
"If you're thinking Jamie Lingstrom, forget it. I'm not dragging a kid
into an unstable situation like this."
"I wasn't. Jamie's in classes, and I'm set on his remaining there. I
want Reva. She's already aware of the situation," he continued before
Eve could speak. "She's one of the best, her clearance is top level,
and she already knows what's going on."
"Because she's one of the elements. It's a tricky business to bring in
one of the prime elements. To bring in another civilian."
"She won't have to be brought up to speed, which saves us all time. She
has a personal investment so she'll work harder than anyone. She's not
a suspect, Eve, but another kind of victim." He paused, and his tone
was cooler when he continued. "Shouldn't a victim have a right to stand
for herself, as much as to have someone stand for her, if the
opportunity's there?"
"Maybe." They were veering toward it, toward that gulf with the jagged
edges. She wanted to step back from it, and worse, pretend it wasn't
there. But the gap was building even as she stood with her body still
warm from him.
"Did you run this by Feeney?"
"I did. And circled the same ground you and I are dancing on now. Then
I showed him her qualifications. He's anxious to work with her."
"You seduced him."
That made him smile, just a little. "That's a bit of an uncomfortable
image for me. I prefer that I convinced him. Regarding Reva, and
Tokimoto."
"Another of yours. Another civilian?"
"Yes, and there are several reasons for the choice. First, civilians
with as high a security rating as these two are less likely to leak
something to the media. Don't blow," he said, mildly, when she showed
her teeth. "These choices would be less likely to leak than any others.
Reva for obvious reasons, and Tokimoto because he's in love with her."
"Well, fucking A."
"She doesn't know it," Roarke continued without missing a beat. "And he
may never move in that direction, but the facts are the facts. Due to
his feelings for her, and his natural interest in the work, he'll put
more energy and effort into it than most. Love does that sort of thing
to you."
When she didn't respond to that, he turned to open a panel, and the
minifridgie behind it. He took out a bottle of water. Opened it, sipped.
It wet his throat, but didn't cool the anger that was starting to
build. "Aside from that, if you bring in cops, you have to do the
paperwork, deal with the budget, clear them for this level of
operation, and so on. I have a bigger budget than the NYPSD."
"You have a bigger budget than Greenland."
"Perhaps, but the point is I have a vested interest in solving this
problem, and protecting my Code Red contract. I've quite a bit to lose
if we don't find the answers with some expediency. Because of that,
because of what was done to a friend of mine, because I know what the
bloody hell I'm about in this area, I'm recommending we bring in the
best people for the job."
"You don't have to get pissy about it."
"I feel pissy about it. About the whole shagging thing. I don't sit
easy when people I care about are in this kind of turmoil, and it's
fucking frustrating to be picking my way through the holy mess of those
units working toward retrieval, and to be doing that, spending my time
there instead of spending it finding out exactly who was responsible
for what happened in Dallas."
A small, hard ball of ice dropped in her belly. And there it was, the
big, glowing elephant in the room she'd hoped to ignore, and it was
trumpeting. "That's what's under it, isn't it? All of it."
"Aye, that's under it and over it, it's around it and through it."
"I want you to put it away." Her voice stayed calm even as her belly
clenched. "I want you to put it aside before you cross a line I can't
ignore."
"I have my own lines, Lieutenant."
"That's right, that's right. Lieutenant." She picked up her badge that
lay on the dresser, and slapped it down again. "Dallas, Lieutenant Eve,
NYPSD. You can't stand there and talk about doing murder to a murder
cop and expect me to ignore it and pretend it's nothing."
"I'm talking to my wife." He slammed the bottle down so water sloshed
out and onto the glossy surface of the table. "A woman I vowed to
cherish. There's no cherishing, there's no living with myself if I
stand back and do bloody nothing. If I fold my hands while those
responsible for what happened to you go on with their lives as if that
was nothing."
"Their lives don't matter to me. Their deaths, at your hands, do."
"Goddamn it, Eve." He spun away from her and dragged on his shirt.
"Don't ask me to be what I'm not. Don't ask it of me. I never ask it of
you."
"No." She steadied herself. "No, you don't. You don't," she repeated,
very quietly as that one point struck her as truth, inarguable truth.
"So I can't talk about this. I can't think about it or fight about
something we'll never come close to agreeing on. But you'd better think
about it. And when you're thinking, you should remember I'm not a child
like Marlena. And I'm not your mother."
He turned slowly, and his face was cold, and set. "I never mistake who
you are, or who you're not."
"I don't need your kind of justice because I survived what happened to
me, and made my own."
"And you cry in your sleep, and shake from the nightmares."
She was close to shaking now, but she wouldn't cry. Tears wouldn't help
either of them. "What you're thinking about won't change that. Bring in
whoever Feeney agrees to. I have to work."
"Wait." He walked to his own dresser, opened a drawer. He was angry, as
she was, and wished he knew how they'd so seamlessly turned from
intimacy to temper. He took out the small, framed photograph he'd
placed there, then walked over to hand it to Eve.
She saw a pretty young woman with red hair and green eyes, healing
bruises on her face, and a splint on the finger of a hand she held
against the boy.
The gorgeous little boy with the Celtic blue eyes who had his cheek
pressed against the woman's. Against his mother's.
Roarke and his mother.
"There was nothing I could do for her. If I'd known . . . I didn't, so
that's that. She was dead before I was old enough to fix her face in my
memory. I couldn't even give her that much."
"I know it hurts you."
"It isn't about that. They knew about him. The HSO, Interpol, all the
global intel organizations. They knew about Patrick Roarke long before
he traveled to Dallas to meet with Richard Troy. But she, the woman who
birthed me, the woman he murdered and tossed away didn't even merit a
footnote in their files. She was nothing to them, as a small, helpless
child in Dallas was nothing to them."
She hurt for him, for herself, and for a woman she'd never met. "You
couldn't save her, and I'm sorry. You couldn't save me, and I'm not.
I'm good at saving myself. I'm not going to argue with you about this
because it doesn't fix anything. We've both got a lot of work to do."
She set the photo on his dresser. "You should leave this out. She was
beautiful."
But when Eve left the room, he put the photo away. It was still too
painful to look at those images for long.
* * *
They gave each other a wide berth, working in their separate areas
late into the night. Sleeping, for once, with a sea of bed between them
and neither attempting to bridge it. In the morning, they circled
around the distance that had spread between them, carefully avoiding
each other's territory, and cautious of their moves when that territory
overlapped.
She knew Reva Ewing and Tokimoto were in the house, and was leaving
them to Feeney while she bunkered in her office, waiting for Peabody
and McNab to get in.
She could focus on the work at hand for long periods, running her
probabilities, then sifting through data to create other scenarios. She
could study her murder board, and reconstruct the crimes, the motives,
the methods from what evidence she had and begin to see a picture.
But she only had to shift that evidence to one side and a different
picture formed.
And if her concentration wavered, even for an instant, there was yet
another image. One of herself and Roarke on opposing sides of a
bottomless chasm.
She hated that her personal life interfered with work. Hated more that
she couldn't stop it from creeping into her thoughts when she needed to
train them on the job.
And what was she upset about, really? she asked herself as she stalked
back into the kitchen yet again for coffee. That Roarke wanted to hunt
up and bloody some HSO agent she didn't even know? She was fighting
with him, and just because they weren't yelling and slamming around
didn't mean they weren't fighting still.
She'd figured out that much of the marriage game.
They were fighting because he had a rage like a trapped tiger about
what had been done to her as a child. Layered over it, sharpening the
claws and teeth of the trapped tiger was the rage over what had
happened to his mother.
Brutality, violence, neglect. Christ knew they'd both lived with it and
survived. Why couldn't they live with it still?
She shoved through the kitchen door to stand on the little terrace
beyond, and just breathe.
And how did she live with it? The work-and, yes, sometimes she used the
work until it dragged her down to exhaustion, even misery, but she
needed what it gave her, through the process, through the results.
Standing not just over the victim but for the victim, and working to
find whatever balance the system allowed. Even hating the system from
time to time when that balance didn't meet her own standards.
But you could respect something, even when you hated it. The
nightmares? Weren't they some sort of coping mechanism, an unconscious
outlet for the fear, the pain, even the humiliation? Mira could
probably give her a whole cargo-load of fancy terms and psychiatric
buzz on the subject. But at the base they were just triggers, for
events she could stand to remember. Maybe a few she wasn't sure she
could stand. But she coped.
God knew she coped better with Roarke there to pull her out of the
sticky grip of them, to hold onto her, to remind her she was beyond
them now.
But she didn't deal with what had been done to her by meeting brutality
with more of the same. How could she wear her badge if she didn't
believe, at the core, in the heart and soul of the law?
And he didn't.
She scooped a hand through her hair as she stared out over the riotous
late-summer gardens: the full green trees, the sheen and sparkle of the
world he'd built, his way. She'd known when she met him, when she'd
fallen in love with him, when she married him, that he didn't, and
never would, have the same in-the-bone beliefs as she had.
They were, on some elemental plane, opposite. Two lost souls, he'd once
said. So they were. But as much as they had in common, they would never
meet smoothly on this one point.
Maybe it was that opposition, the pull and tug of it, that made what
was between them so intense. That gave that terrible and terrifying
love such power.
She could reach his heart-it was so open to her, so miraculously open.
She could reach his grief, give a kind of comfort to him she hadn't
known herself capable of. But she couldn't, and never would, fully
reach his rage. That hard knot inside him he covered so skillfully with
elegance and style.
Maybe she wasn't meant to. Maybe if she could reach in, take hold of
that knot and loosen it, he wouldn't be the same man she loved.
But God, my God, what would she do if he killed a man over her? How
could she survive that?
How could they?
Could she continue to hunt killers knowing she lived with one? Because
she was afraid of the answer, she didn't look too deeply. Instead she
stepped back inside, filled her cup again.
She walked back into her office, stood in front of her board, and
pushed her mind back into work. Her answer was an absent and faintly
irritated "What?" when someone knocked on her door.
"Lieutenant. I'm sorry to disturb you."
"Oh. Caro." It threw her off to see Roarke's admin in her sharp black
suit at her office door. "No problem. I didn't know you were here."
"I came in with Reva. I'm going into the midtown office, to work. I
needed some details from Roarke on a project. Well, that doesn't
matter." She lifted her hands in a rare flustered move, then dropped
them again. "I wanted to speak to you before I left, if you have a
moment."
"Sure. Okay. You want coffee or something?"
"No. Nothing, thank you. I . . . I'd like to close the door."
"Go ahead." She saw Caro's gaze go to the board, the stills of the
murder scenes, the garish ones of the bodies. Deliberately, Eve moved
to her desk and gestured to a chair that would put the images out of
Caro's line of vision. "Have a seat."
"You look at this sort of thing all the time, I imagine." Caro made
herself take a long look before she ordered her legs to move, and took
the chair. "Do you get used to it?"
"Yes. And no. You look a little wobbly yet. Maybe you shouldn't be
going back to work so soon."
"I need to work." Caro straightened her shoulders. "You'd understand."
"Yeah, I get that."
"As does Reva. I know getting back to what she does will help her state
of mind. She's not herself. Neither am I. We're not sleeping well, but
we pretend we are, for each other's sake. And this isn't at all what I
came here to say. Rambling isn't like me either."
"Guess not. You always struck me as being hyper-efficient. Have to be
to handle Roarke's stuff. But if something like this didn't throw you
off-stride, I'd have to figure you for a droid."
"Just the right note." Caro nodded. "You know what note to take with
victims and survivors, witnesses or suspects. You were brisk, even
brusque with Reva. That's the sort of tone she responds best to when
she's stressed. You're very intuitive, Lieutenant. You'd have to be . .
. to handle Roarke."
"You'd think." Eve tried not to let the words that had passed between
them the night before replay in her head. "What do you need, Caro?"
"Sorry. I know I'm taking up your time. I wanted to thank you for
everything you've done, and are doing. I realize you look at variations
of what's on that board every day. That you deal with victims and
survivors, listen to statements and questions, and work toward finding
the answers. It's what you do. But this is personal for me, so I wanted
to tell you, to thank you, in a personal way."
"Then you're welcome in a personal way. I like you, Caro. I like your
daughter. But if I didn't, I'd be doing the same thing I'm doing now."
"Yes, I know. But that fact doesn't change my gratitude. When Reva's
father left us, I was devastated. My heart was broken, and my energies
scattered. I was only a bit older than you," she added, "and it seemed
the end of the world. I thought, 'What will I do? How will I get
through this? How will I get my baby through it?'"
She stopped, shook her head. "And this isn't of any possible interest
to you."
"No." Eve gestured Caro back down when she started to rise. "Finish it
out. I am interested."
Caro sat again, sighed. "I will, then, as all this keeps running
through my mind. I had, at that time, very few personal resources -some
secretarial skills I'd let rust as I'd wanted to be a professional
mother. There were debts, and though he'd incurred most of them, he was
smarter and, well, meaner than I was."
"Must've been pretty smart, then."
"Thank you. I wasn't as . . . seasoned then as I am now. And he had
better lawyers," she added with a ghost of a smile. "So I was in a pit,
financially, emotionally, even physically as I let myself become ill
with the stress and grief. I was very, very frightened. But it was
nothing-no more than a bump that leaves you momentarily off-balance
-compared to this. Reva might've been killed."
Caro pressed a hand to her lips, visibly fought for control. "No one's
said that, but it's there, the possibility of what might have been.
Whoever did this thing might have killed her instead of using her to
cover the tracks."
"She wasn't. Might-have-beens shouldn't scare you."
"You don't have children," Caro said with another, stronger smile, but
her eyes were beginning to shine with the tears she was fighting off.
"Might-have-beens are the monster in the closet for parents. She might
have been killed, or she might be in prison waiting for trial if you
weren't so very good at what you do. If you and Roarke hadn't been
willing to help. I owe him a great deal. Now I owe him, and you, a
great deal more."
"You figure he wants payback for pitching in for you and Reva?"
"No. He never does." She opened her purse, took out a tissue and dabbed
at her cheeks. Every movement was economical. "It annoys him. And you,
I imagine. You're so well-suited."
Eve felt her throat close, and only managed a shrug.
"I wondered if you would be. When you first came to the office, so
fierce and tough. And cold. At least that's how I saw you. Then I saw
him, after you'd gone. He was baffled and dazzled and frustrated. A
rarity for Roarke."
"Really? Well, that made two of us."
"It's been an education watching the two of you find each other." She
replaced the tissue, closed her neat black handbag. "He's an important
part of my life. It's good to see him happy."
She didn't know what to say to that, so asked a question that was
circling in her brain. "How did you come to work for him?"
"I took a secretarial position, entry level, and did drone work at an
advertising agency here in New York. My skills weren't as rusty as I'd
thought, and I'd scraped together the money for some classes to
reacquaint myself with them. For the most part I was a gofer in one of
the legal departments for a time. Then I was a revolving clerk, moving
from department to department, filling in where and how I was needed."
"Getting a little bit of everything."
"Yes. It pleased me, and I thought of it as training. It was good work,
and paid well. At a point, I suppose it's been about a dozen years ago
now, Roarke took over the company where I worked, and the company
-along with several others- moved into the midtown building." Her
voice was stronger now as she took herself back. Took some distance
from the present. "Shortly after, I was promoted to an assistant to an
assistant in one of the project development arms of the company. A year
or so into that, I was asked to sit in on a meeting-just to keep notes,
fetch coffee, and look presentable as Roarke himself would be
attending. The New York branch was quite young then. There was such
energy, and most of it came from him."
"He's got more than his share," Eve added.
"He certainly does. During the meeting, one of the execs snapped at me
when I didn't move fast enough to suit him, and I responded with
something about his manners being as unattractive as his suit, or some
such thing."
"So Reva gets her temper from you."
Caro let out a half-laugh. "I suppose she does. Roarke ignored the
little altercation-or so I thought-and continued with the meeting. At
some point he asked me to run the holo of the building he was
designing, and later to bring up the data on something else. He had me
hopping around, doing tasks that weren't in any particular domain, but
those years of revolving had paid off. Still, once my annoyance with
the exec was cleared, I was terrified I was going to be fired. The
meeting lasted more than two hours, and it seemed like years. When it
was over, all I wanted to do was find a corner and collapse. But he
gestured to me. 'It's Caro, isn't it,' he said in that wonderful voice
of his. 'Bring those files and come with me, would you?'"
"Now I knew I was going to be fired, and I was frantic thinking of how
I'd find another job, keep Reva in college, make the payments on the
condo I'd bought three years before. He took me in his private
elevator, and I was shaking inside, but I wasn't going to let him see
it. I'd had enough humiliation from my ex-husband to last me a
lifetime, so I wasn't going to let this young Turk see how frightened I
was."
"He knew," Eve commented, picturing it.
"Of course. He always knows. But at the time I was proud of my
composure, and assumed it was about all I had left. He asked me what I
thought of . . ." Her forehead creased. "I've forgotten his name. The
exec who'd snapped at me in the meeting. I answered back, very crisply
as I thought I was already heading out the door, did he mean personally
or professionally, and he grinned at me."
She paused a moment, angled her head. "I hope you won't take offense if
I add something here."
"Go ahead. I don't offend all that easy."
"I was old enough to be his mother, and when he looked down at me and
grinned, I felt it in the pit of my belly. The power of his sexuality,
in a situation that wasn't, in any way, sexual. I'm surprised I could
form a coherent thought or word after the exposure."
"I get that, too."
"Undoubtedly you do. When he grinned at me and said he was interested
in both my personal and professional opinion of this exec, I was just
mortified and stunned enough by my own completely inappropriate
reaction to tell him I thought the man was competent enough in his job,
but on a personal level he was an ass."
"The next thing I know I'm in his office, and he's offering me coffee,
and asking me to wait just a moment. He went to his desk and went to
work while I sat there in complete confusion. I didn't know then that
he'd pulled up my file, was checking my work evals, my security
ratings."
"And very likely what you'd had for breakfast that morning."
"It wouldn't surprise me," Caro agreed. "Then he said, pleasantly, that
he was looking for an administrative assistant who could think on her
feet, who had good judgment of situations and people, and who wouldn't
serve him a plate of bullshit when he wanted the truth. She'd have to
be efficient, tireless, and loyal, as she'd answer only to him and
there would be times he'd ask the . . . unusual. He continued on,
outlining the job description, but I'm not sure I was hearing it all
clearly. And he named a salary that made me very grateful I was sitting
down. Then he asked me if I was interested in the position."
"Guess you were."
"I said, with heroic calm, that, yes, sir, I would be very interested
in applying for the position. That I'd be happy to sit for an interview
and any tests required. He said we'd just had the interview and I'd
already passed the tests, so I might as well start now."
"He'd had his eye on you before."
"Apparently so. And because of it, I was able to finish raising my
daughter in comfort, in security. And to discover myself. So I owe him
a great deal. You've settled me down," Caro said with a sigh. "Just by
taking me through all that. You've reminded me that you get through a
crisis by doing what needs to be done next. So I'll leave you to do
what you have to do next." She rose. "Thank you for taking the time."
"I figure Reva's got some of your spine. So she'll get through this and
out the other side."
"I'm counting on that." Caro walked to the door, then turned. "This is
a small thing, but I think it might please you, that it might be just a
little something I can give back. A lot of busy people have their
assistants or admins select gifts for their spouses. Birthdays,
anniversaries, tokens to make up for an argument. He never does.
Whatever he gives you comes from him. Perhaps that's not such a small
thing after all."
Peabody hustled in on lime-green high-tops. She no longer clopped, Eve
noted, but sort of . . . boinged. It was just something else to get
used to. She also had a big, toothy grin and a line of colorful little
beads worked into her hair from crown to chin.
"Hey, Dallas. I gotta say, Jamaica rocks."
"You have beads in your hair."
"Yeah, I got this little braid." She tugged on it. "I can do that now.
I'm not in uniform."
"But why would you? Never mind. Where are the units?"
"Detective McNab and I transported the units, personally, through
customs and security and accompanied them directly here to the off-site
lab for analysis and study. They were never out of our control. McNab
is with the EDD team at this location now. I left him there to come
report to you. Sir."
"No point in getting sulky because I ragged on your beads."
"Maybe I just won't give you your present."
"Why would you get me a present?"
"To commemorate my first out-of-town as detective." She dragged it out
of her bag. "But you don't deserve it."
Eve stared at the little plastic palm tree with the little plastic
naked man lounging under it. He held a tiny bowl-shaped glass filled
with shimmering green liquid. Alcoholic in nature, no doubt, Eve
concluded, from the goofy grin on his face.
"You're right. I don't deserve this."
"It's kitschy." Miffed, Peabody set it on Eve's desk. "And amusing. So
there."
"Uh-huh. I'm going to bring you and the rest of the team up to speed
momentarily. We'll have a short briefing that includes the civilians,
then . . . Hold on," she said when her 'link beeped. "Dallas."
"We've got trouble."
From the tone of Morris's voice, and the grim look on his face, Eve
knew the trouble was serious. "You at the morgue?"
"I'm at the morgue," he confirmed. "Bissel isn't."
"You lost the body?"
"Bodies aren't lost," he snapped, though he'd spent the last
thirty-five minutes doing both a computerized and a personal search and
scan.
"And our guests rarely get up and take a walk to the corner deli for a
bagel and schmear. Which means someone came in here and helped
themselves to him."
"Okay." He sounded more insulted than angry. She was about to change
that. "Lock the place down."
"Excuse me?"
"Lock it down, Morris. Nobody in, nobody out-living or dead-until I get
there. And it's going to take me close to an hour."
"An hour to-"
"Seal off the room where the body was stored. Retrieve all security
discs for the last twenty-four, and have any and all records of your
work on Bissel copied for me. And I want to know everyone who had work
or business in the dead zone since the last time you, personally, saw
the body. Kade still there?"
"Yes, Kade's still here, damn it, Dallas."
"I'll be there as soon as I can." She cut him off. "Get the rest of the
team," she told Peabody, then let out a curse of her own when her 'link
beeped again. "Move." She snapped out the order and had Peabody
hot-footing it to the door. "Dallas."
"Lieutenant." Whitney's face filled the screen and looked no cheerier
than Morris's. "Report to the Tower for a meeting with the chief and
Assistant Director Sparrow of the HSO. Nine hundred."
"It'll have to wait."
He blinked once, and his voice went to ice. "Lieutenant?"
"Sir, I'm about to brief my team. I'll keep it to the bones, but it has
to be done. My presence is then required at the morgue. I've just
spoken to Chief Medical Examiner Morris. Bissel's body is missing."
"Misplaced or gone?"
"I assume gone, sir. I've ordered a lockdown, seal, and retrieval.
Detective Peabody and I will meet with Morris and evaluate within the
hour. I believe this takes precedence over the Tower meeting. Homeland
and Sparrow will just have to wait their turn to dance with me."
"I want the details, every last one of them, ASAP. The meeting will be
rescheduled for eleven hundred. Be there, Lieutenant."
She didn't bother to respond as he'd cut her off as neatly as she'd cut
off Morris. So she just scowled at the 'link and said, "Fuck."
Then she rose, turned the murder board face to the wall.
She got her first look at Tokimoto when he walked in beside Reva, and
had to remind herself to trust Feeney and Roarke to pick their own
people, even when she didn't know who the hell they were. She decided
Reva looked sturdy enough, if a bit gaunt in the face, and that Roarke
was off on the love vibes as Tokimoto didn't touch her, or so much as
glance at her as they took seats.
"Captain Feeney will have briefed you on the electronics area," she
began, "so I'm not going there except to say that I need data, any
data, and I need it fast. Retrieval is first priority. The Code Red is
now secondary."
"Lieutenant." Tokimoto spoke in his modulated voice, with his
interesting face carefully bland. "May I say that by its very nature a
Code Red cannot be secondary. In order to retrieve the data, we have to
know how it was corrupted. Learning how it was corrupted will lead us
to prevention. It is all of a piece, you see."
"No, I don't, which is why I'm not EDD. You were brought in to assist
in a homicide investigation. Since the units were corrupted, there was
data on said units that concerned person or persons unknown who have
killed at least three people. When I see the data, I'll know why this
was of concern, therefore the data is my priority. Understood?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Good. The units that Detectives McNab and Peabody transported from
Carter Bissel's residence are now in-house. Carter Bissel is missing.
It must be assumed he is or was part of this. The extent of his
involvement is yet to be determined."
"Blair rarely mentioned him, but if he did he talked about him as a
screw-up. I don't know if that helps at all," Reva said to Eve. "But he
gave me the impression that Carter was an embarrassment to him more
than anything else."
"As far as you know, when was the last time they communicated with each
other?"
"I think about a year ago Carter might've contacted Blair and asked for
money. I walked in while he was setting up an e-transfer and he said
something about pissing away money on the monkey on his back named
Carter. He was upset, and didn't want to talk about it, so I let it go.
Looking back, I can see I let a lot of things go."
"Is that the term he used? Monkey on his back?"
"Yeah. He was upset, and pissed off. I remember being surprised he'd
lend Carter money, and said so. He shut down the machine and yelled at
me that it was his money, his business, and slammed out. Since it was,
and I didn't see the point in having a fight about some jerk I'd never
met, I let it pass."
"Interesting. Roarke, squeeze out some time and find me whatever
private and secret accounts Blair Bissel may have had. I'd like to see
how often he fed the monkey." She paused, scanned the room. "It will
have been explained to the civilian members of this team that any and
all information learned or imparted during this investigation is not to
be discussed with anyone on the outside. Friends, neighbors, lovers,
media, or the family pets. I'm going to reiterate that and add that if
any information is passed, it will be considered an obstruction of
justice. If there's a leak, the leak will be plugged, prosecuted, and
will spend some quality time in a cage. I don't have time to play
nice," she added, reading Roarke's mind. "These may be your people, but
they're not mine."
"I don't believe anyone in this room could mistake your stand on that,"
he said. "Lieutenant."
"If anyone's offended by that," she said evenly, "that's the breaks. I
don't think Chloe McCoy's too concerned about sensibilities and tender
feelings just now. On another level, Bissel, working on his own or in
conjunction with the HSO, inserted spy devices into his artwork. We
know these devices were in place in various locations in the home he
shared with Reva Ewing, and must assume the purpose was to gather intel
on projects she was involved in for Securecomp."
She watched Reva as she spoke, saw her jaw tremble, then firm.
"We'll need the records of sales so we can track the locations of his
other sculptures. They'll have to be scanned. When that happens, this
is going to blow out of the water. You're going to get wet, Reva, by
association."
"I can handle it."
"Surely as someone who was victimized, and so intimately, by this very
plot, Ewing can't be blamed for the actions of a man who used and
deceived her."
Reva offered the irate Tokimoto a weak smile. "Sure I can. It's the way
of the world."
"Some of that backlash may come sooner than later," Eve continued.
"Bissel's body is missing."
She watched, watched carefully. Reva's face went blank as if she'd just
heard a phrase in an unknown language. Beside her, Tokimoto jerked in
his chair, then reached out without looking and closed his hand
directly over Reva's.
So, Eve surmised, Roarke was right again. She should never bet against
the house.
"I don't understand what you mean." Reva spoke carefully. "I don't
think I understand."
"I've spoken with the ME, who informed me that Bissel's body is no
longer in the morgue. We'll proceed on the assumption that it was
removed."
"But . . . why would anyone take . . ." Reva's hand came up, rubbed at
her throat as if pushing the words out of a clog. "I just can't follow
this."
"It's my job to follow it. Can you verify your whereabouts last night?"
"You're cruel," Tokimoto said softly.
"I'm thorough. Reva?"
"Yes. Yes. Um. We had dinner in. My mother and I. We watched screen.
Her idea, all comedies. We ate popcorn, drank wine. I had a lot of
wine." She sighed. "We sat up until about one. I fell asleep on the
couch. I woke up about four. She'd covered me up. I just rolled over
and went back to sleep. Best sleep I've had in days."
"All right. I need the civilians to go back to the lab." She looked
directly at Roarke. "I'd like a complete progress report by fourteen
hundred."
"Yes, I'm sure you would." He walked to Reva, offered her a hand to
bring her to her feet. "Would you like some air first, or a moment to
yourself?"
"No. No, I'm fine. Let's get to work. Let's just get to work."
Eve waited until Roarke shut the door, after one last cool look at her.
"Wow." McNab gave a mock shudder. "Chilled down in here."
"Button it, moron," Peabody said under her breath. "Sorry, Lieutenant,
the five hundred tiny little braids have cut off the circulation to his
brain."
"Hey."
"Let's move on. I've run numerous probabilities, none of which has been
satisfactory or particularly enlightening. It all depends on how I
input the data. But what it comes down to is we don't yet know what
we're dealing with. Covert operations, a rogue agent, family violence.
What we do know is we have three murders, one missing body, a
connection in Jamaica."
"Chloe McCoy was killed for what she knew or had in her possession. The
autopsy confirmed that she had inserted birth control. She was
expecting a lover. The only lover who has come to light is Blair
Bissel."
"Who's dead, and among the missing," Feeney put in.
"There's little doubt she believed she was expecting Blair Bissel. This
was a naive, theatrical, and gullible young woman. Play it right and
she would've believed her lover had risen from the dead and was coming
over to play-to tell her all, to seek her help, to ride off into the
sunset with her. The killer had only to gain access to her apartment,
keep her calm, induce her to drink the drugged wine. I'm Blair's
friend, associate, brother. He asked me to explain everything to you.
He'll be here as soon as it's safe."
"She'd have let him in," Peabody agreed. "She'd have loved the
excitement of it."
"She certainly would have let him in if it was Blair Bissel."
McNab stifled a snort. "Risen from the dead."
"He wouldn't have to, if he'd never died at all. If he'd set it up."
"The body was identified, Dallas," Peabody said. "Prints, DNA, the
whole shot."
"He was HSO, so I'm not ruling out falsified identification. But McCoy
throws it off for me. If she had something, knew something, why not
take care of it before you perform the main act? Then there's motive.
Why die -taking your lover, setting up your wife? There's nothing in
his files to indicate he was in any trouble with Homeland. From all
appearances, he had it locked. Sexy secret job, loving wife who
unknowingly feeds you regular intel, a couple of lovers to add variety,
a successful career, financial security. Life's pretty damn good, so
why die?"
She sat on the side of her desk. "We could move to the brother.
Jealousy, resentment. We know Kade went to see him in Jamaica, and have
reason to believe she took him as a lover. Was this HSO-sanctioned? Or
was she working on her own, or in league with Blair Bissel? And why?
Maybe it was a setup that went wrong. Maybe it was a Cain and Abel, and
Carter upped the stakes, took out his brother -too bad about the woman-
and set Reva up. It's a nice nest egg, the estate. If Reva's tried and
convicted of the murders, she won't inherit. He'd get a chunk of it."
"Maybe he was blackmailing Blair," Peabody suggested. "The monkey on
his back."
"Good, that's what Roarke's going to help us find out. Carter has
something on Blair -the HSO connection, the extramarital, something
else-and taps him regularly. Blair's had about enough of that and
decides to shake off the monkey. But killing three people seems a
little over the top. Why not just slip down to the islands, do the
brother, and go back to your life? Some of these answers have to be on
those units. Feeney, I need some answers."
"Got one for you. Top-drawer face sculptor out of Sweden was killed in
what appears to be a botched burglary at his office. Two weeks ago. His
patient records have not been retrieved as his data unit was damaged."
"Damaged?"
"According to the report. Jorgannsen, that was his name, had his throat
cut. His drug supply was taken, and his data unit damaged. I'm figuring
infected, but there's no way to verify without seeing the unit."
"See if you can play nice with your counterpart in Sweden, maybe
they'll transport it to us."
"Give it a shot."
"Shoot fast." She pushed to her feet. "I've been called to the Tower at
the request of the fucking HSO. I'm taking steps to cover all of our
asses because this isn't going to be neat and pretty. The shit's going
to hit the fan, and if it blows the way I'm hoping, the spooks are
going to be up to their knees in it. But there's bound to be some
backdraft. For the duration of this area of investigation, we bunker
down here."
"God." McNab grinned like an idiot. "How will we stand it?"
"And work twenty-four/seven," Eve added and watched the grin turn to a
wince. "In shifts. Let's get started. Peabody."
"Yes, sir. I'm with you."
"Communication by secured lines only," she added as she walked out the
door and nearly into Roarke.
"Lieutenant, a moment of your time."
"Walk and talk. I don't have any moments to spare."
"I'm just going to ah . . ." Be somewhere else, Peabody thought, and
hurried past them.
"If you've got a beef about the way I handled your people, you'll have
to save it. I'm in a hurry."
"It would take more than a moment to discuss the areas of your
sensitivity and people skills. I realize you're not looking at Reva and
were, in your way, establishing her alibi."
"So?"
"I won't work in the dark, Eve. If you want my help you can't give me
tasks to perform one moment, then close me out the next. I expect you
to trust me with the details."
"You know all you need to know. When you need to know more, I'll tell
you more."
He grabbed her arm, spun her around. "Is this your way of slapping at
me because I refuse to stand on the same elevated moral ground as you?"
"If I slap at you, pal, believe me, you'll feel it. This, and that, are
two separate issues."
"Bollocks."
"Oh, fuck you and the big-ass dick you rode in on." She jerked away
from him and lost control long enough to shove him back.
She saw his eyes fire, but he didn't shove back, didn't touch her. She
hated herself for resenting that he could keep that violence in line
when she couldn't.
"This is my work, goddamn it, and I don't have the time or the luxury
to think about anything else right now. You don't like the way I'm
running this investigation and this team, then step out. Step the hell
out. You don't know what I'm dealing with."
"You've just made my point. I've some concerns, reasonable concerns,
about having my wife go up against the HSO. This isn't just a murderer,
or even organized crime. It isn't some wild-eyed group of terrorists.
This is one of the most powerful organizations in the world. If they're
involved in this, as it seems they must be in some aspect, it logically
follows that they'd have little compunction about harming a New York
City cop who got in their way. Personally or professionally harming
that cop. My cop."
"Deal with it. That's part of the package you took on. You want to keep
my ass out of the sling on this, get me the information. That's what
you can do. That's all you can do."
"It's part of the package I took on," he agreed in a tone that was
dangerously soft. "You'd do well to remember the whole of the one you
took on. The whole of it, Eve. You have to live with that, or without
it."
She stood, shocked to the bone, when he turned and walked away from
her. Her skin went cold with it, and her stomach cramped and twisted as
she rushed down the stairs out of the house. Something of it must have
shown on her face as Peabody turned to her when she climbed into the
car.
"Dallas? You okay?"
She shook her head. She wasn't sure she could get out words. Her throat
was burning. Punching the accelerator, she sent the car speeding down
the drive, which was flanked by lovely trees and bushes beginning to
fire with the first hints of autumn.
"Men are tough nuts," Peabody said. "The more I'm around them, the
tougher they get. It seems to me that one like Roarke would be tougher
than most."
"He's pissed that's all. Really pissed." She had to press a hand to her
troubled stomach. "So am I, goddamn it, so am I. But he got under my
guard. He's really good at getting under your guard. The son of a
bitch." Her breath wanted to hitch so she sucked it in, sucked it in
hard. "He knows just where to jab."
"The more somebody loves you, the better their aim."
"Christ, he must really love me. I can't do this now. He knows I can't
do this now."
"Never a convenient time for relationship upheaval."
"Who the hell's side are you on?"
"Well, since I'm sitting beside you, and you punch really hard, I'm on
yours. You bet."
"Gotta put it away." But she was afraid the sickness in her belly was
going to plague her throughout the day. Still, she engaged the dash
'link and took the next step.
"Nadine Furst."
"I can't make lunch. We'll have to reschedule. As soon as possible."
"All right." Nadine didn't bat a carefully groomed lash. "I'll clear
some time and let you know."
"Looking forward to it." Eve signed off.
"What the hell was that?" Peabody demanded.
"Spooks aren't the only ones who can be covert. That was me telling
Nadine to break the story that Blair Bissel was HSO, with a few
selected details to confirm and expand upon. We're going to see whose
ass is red by the end of the day."
"Roarke's not going to be the only one who's really pissed."
"Thanks." Eve managed a weak smile. "That makes me feel considerably
better."
* * *
Morris had done exactly as instructed. Because it took ten full minutes
to clear her and Peabody into the morgue, she decided he was more than
a little annoyed. He admitted them personally, then led the way through
the chilly white tunnel toward the autopsy and viewing rooms.
"What time did you get here this morning?" Eve asked his rigid back.
"Around seven. Early, as I was doing a cop a favor, or had intended to
do one by coming in ahead of schedule and running tests on Bissel to
see if he'd had any recent facial enhancements or sculpting. I got
coffee and reviewed my previous notes on the case, then came down here,
about seven-fifteen."
He used his pass and a voice command to open the secured doors on one
of the storage/viewing areas.
"Was this door locked?"
"It was."
"I'll have Crime Scene check it for tampering," Peabody said.
"Bissel's slot was empty," Morris continued, and approached the wall of
stainless-steel refrigerator drawers. He opened one and it let out a
whoosh of air and chilly white vapor. "Initially I was annoyed,
assuming he'd been moved or misfiled, so I checked the last log-in,
which verified he'd been stored properly. I called the AME, Marlie
Drew, who was on the night shift. She was still here as she wouldn't
end shift until eight. She had no record of anyone entering this area,
adding or removing anything."
"I'll need to speak with her."
"She's in her office, waiting. We ran a thorough search. His data is
still here, his body is not."
"How many bodies do you have in at this time?"
"Twenty-six. Four came in last night. There was a vehicular accident
logged in at two-twenty."
"You've checked all storage areas?"
Insult flashed over his face. "Dallas, this isn't my first day on the
job. When I tell you a body isn't here, it isn't here."
"Okay. So you only had twenty-two before the new ones checked in at
two-twenty?"
"No, we had twenty-three. Two were scheduled for disposal-city expense.
Two sidewalk sleepers, unclaimed."
"Disposal."
Now, fresh irritation layered over the insult and made his voice an icy
slash. "You know the damn drill. Unclaimed, indigent, the city cremates
after forty-eight hours. We deal with them during the night shift, send
them out to a crematorium."
"Who goes with them?"
"Driver and orderly." Because he saw where she was heading, he set his
teeth. "They wouldn't have taken Bissel by mistake, if that's what
you're thinking. We don't run a damn comedy hour around here. It's
serious and sensitive work to care for the dead."
"I'm perfectly aware of that, Morris." Her own temper was beginning to
fray as she stepped up to and into his face. "But Bissel's not here, so
let's go through the steps."
"Fine. There's a staging area. Bodies slated for transfer and disposal
would be logged out from storage-and the records checked-by the AME on
duty, and those records would be crosschecked to avoid any mistakes.
The transfer team would take them to the staging area, log them out
through another series of checks. This isn't a matter of someone
mistakenly slating Bissel for disposal and leaving one of the city jobs
behind. I've got a damn body missing. The count's wrong."
"I'm not thinking it was a mistake. Contact the crematorium first. See
how many they did for you last night. And I want the names of the ones
who transported the bodies. Are they still on site?"
"Different shifts." Looking more worried than angry now, Morris led the
way out, resecured the door. "They'd have been off by six." He walked
quickly toward his office. He called up the previous night's schedule
even as he engaged his 'link.
"Powell and Sibresky. I know both these men. They're big on jokes but
they're efficient. They're careful. This is Chief Medical Examiner
Morris," he said into the 'link. "I need to verify a delivery for
disposal, city contract, made early this morning."
"One moment please, Dr. Morris, I'll connect you with Receiving."
"Does anybody but me think this is kind of sick?" Peabody wondered. "I
mean, Receiving. Yuck."
"Shut up, Peabody. Do a quick run on this Powell and Sibresky, get me
pictures."
"I gave you pictures," Morris objected. "People around here don't just
fry up any loose body. There's a very exacting system in place to . . .
Yes, this is Morris," he said when Receiving got on the line. "We
delivered a John and a Jane Doe early this morning for disposal. Order
numbers NYC-JD500251 and 252. Will you verify?"
"Of course, Dr. Morris. Just let me pull those up. I have those
deliveries, and disposal was completed. Do you need the verification
numbers?"
"No, thank you. That's enough."
"Do you need to verify the third delivery?"
Eve didn't need to see his stomach to know it sank. It showed by the
way he slowly lowered his body into his desk chair. "A third?"
"NYC-JD500253. All three were delivered and signed for by the Receiving
supervisor, Clemment, at one-oh-six A.M."
"Disposal is completed?"
"Oh yes, Doctor. Disposal was completed at . . . three-thirty-eight
A.M. Is there something else I can help you with?"
"No. No. Thank you." He broke transmission. "I don't know how this
could happen. It makes no sense. The order is here, right here." He
tapped his screen. "For two, not three. There's no third disposal
order, no third body cleared from Staging."
"I need to talk to Powell and Sibresky."
"I'm going with you. I need to follow this through, Dallas," he said
before she could object. "This is my house. The guests may be dead, but
they're still mine."
"All right. Get Crime Scene in here, Peabody. And let's get Feeney to
pick us a hotshot from EDD to look at Morris's unit. I want to know if
any of the data's been altered in the last twenty-four."
* * *
They got a very irritated Sibresky out of bed. Though he mellowed a bit
when he saw Morris, he still scratched his butt and bitched.
"What the hell? Me and the old lady work nights. You gotta sleep
sometime. You day people think everything runs on your clock."
"Real sorry to disturb your sleep, Sibresky," Eve began, "and I'm real
sorry you didn't use a mouthwash before this little conversation."
"Hey."
"But the fact is I'm conducting one of those pesky daytime
investigations. You took a delivery to the crematorium early this
morning."
"Yeah, so what? That's my fricking job, lady. Hey, Morris, what the
fuck?"
"Sib, this is important. Did you-"
"Morris," Eve interrupted, more gently than she might have with anyone
else. "How many did you take in?"
"Just the one run from the city morgue. We do 'em in groups if it's
under five. Five or more, you gotta take it in two trips. More of that
in the winter when the sleepers kick off from exposure and shit. Good
weather like this, it's pretty slow."
"How many in the run?"
"Shit." He poked out his bottom lip in an expression Eve gauged as
concentration. "Three. Yeah, three. Two Johns, one Jane. Jesus, we went
through the routine, the logs, the paperwork, the sign-off, sign-in,
and shit. Not my fault if somebody decided to claim one of the bodies
after the forty-eight."
"Who authorized the transport for you and Powell?"
"Sal, I guess. You know, Morris, Sally Riser. She logs 'em out usually
from Staging. It was already done when I clocked in, but it wasn't
Powell."
"What wasn't Powell?"
"Powell called in sick, so the new guy was working. Real hotdogger,"
Sibresky said with a grimace. "Had all the paperwork done when I
clocked on. Don't matter a shit to me. I just drive 'em."
"What was the new guy's name?" Eve demanded.
"Shit, I gotta remember everything at ten in the fricking morning?
Angelo, I think his name was. What the hell do I care, he was just
filling in for Powell. Wanted to do all the paperwork himself, and
that's fine with me. Like I said, he was a real hotdogger."
"I bet he was. Peabody."
Understanding, Peabody pulled photos of Blair and Carter Bissel out of
her file bag. "Mr. Sibresky, are either of these the man you know as
Angelo?"
"Nah. Hotdogger had a big, stupid mustache, lots of eyebrows, hair all
slicked back and hanging to his butt like some kinda fag-ass vid star.
Scar on his face, too." He tapped a finger on his left cheek. "Nasty
one, went from the corner of his eye nearly to his mouth. Teeth bucked
out, too. Guy was pretty damn ugly."
"Sibresky, I'm going to ruin your day," Eve told him. "You'll need to
get dressed, and come down to Central. I need you to look at pictures
and work with a police artist."
"Ah, come on, lady."
"That's Lieutenant Lady. Go get your pants on."
She wasn't surprised to find herself standing over Joseph Powell's
body, but she was furious. She had to control the fury, coat it thickly
before it clouded judgment.
He'd lived alone, and that had been one of the many breaks for his
killer. He'd been scrawny, with little meat on his bird bones and a
crop of hair cut short around the ears and trained, somehow or other,
to stand up straight from his head in a six-inch crown dyed
lightning-blue.
From the looks of his place, he'd liked music and cheese-flavored soy
chips. He was still wearing his headphones, and an open bag of the
chips was in bed with him.
There were no privacy screens on the single bedroom window, but a
shade, blue as his hair, had been drawn. It blocked out the sun well
enough, turned the room to gloom, and let all the traffic sounds-air
and street-rumble against the glass like a storm rolling in.
He'd toked a little Zoner along with his chips. She could see the
remnants of paper and ash in the dish shaped like a stupendously
endowed naked woman on the table beside the bed.
Another break for the killer. He'd been zoned out, music pounding in
his head, and couldn't have weighed more than one-thirty. It was
unlikely he'd even felt the jolt from the laser pressed to his carotid
artery.
Small blessings.
Across from the bed, tacked up for the view she was sure, was a
life-sized poster of Mavis Freestone, exploding into a midair leap,
arms extended, grin wide and full of fun. She wore little more than the
grin and strategically placed glitter.
MAVIS!
TOTALLY JUICED!
The sight of it, hanging on the dingy beige wall, laughing down at the
dead made Eve incredibly sad and sick.
Because Morris was there, and she knew he needed to take some control,
she stayed back and let him handle the initial exam.
"One jolt," he said. "Full contact. Burn marks from the weapon are
clearly evident. No other visible trauma. No signs of struggle or
defensive wounds. His neurological system would have been immediately
compromised. Death instantaneous."
"I need positive ID, Morris. If you want I can-"
He whipped around. "I know the drill. I know what the fuck has to be
done here, and don't need you . . ." He lifted both hands. His breath
shuddered in, then out. "And that was so uncalled for. I'm sorry."
"It's all right. I know this is rough on you."
"Close to home. This hits very, very close to home. Someone came into
this room and killed this . . . boy as carelessly as you might swat a
fly. He did that without knowing him, without having any feelings about
him. Did this only to remove a small barrier so he could walk into my
house. This really meant nothing more to him than putting on his shoes
so he wouldn't stub his toe. Victim is positively identified as Powell,
Joseph. I'm going to take just a minute, Dallas, to pull myself
together so I can do him, and you, some good."
She waited until he left the room. "Peabody, I need you to work this.
Do the on-scene, call the sweepers, start the knock-on-doors. I have to
get to the Tower."
"I need to be there."
"They ordered me, not you."
Peabody's jaw tightened. "I'm your partner, and if your ass is getting
fitted for a sling, mine is, too."
"I appreciate the sentiment, however strange the visual, but I need my
partner to pull the weight here. He needs you," she said, looking down
at Powell. "You have to start the process for him, and you need to help
Morris. And if they're fitting my ass for a sling, Peabody, I need you
to keep pushing this investigation through, to keep the team solid. I'm
not protecting you. I'm counting on you."
"Okay. I'll handle it." She stepped up, stood with Eve over Joseph
Powell. "I'll take care of him."
She nodded. "Do you see what happened here? Tell me."
"He let himself in the door. He knows how to bypass security, and
there's not much here to bypass. No cams, no doorman. He picked Powell
instead of Sibresky because Powell lived alone, and as orderly,
probably handled more of the paperwork. It was business here, and he
went straight for it. Powell's in bed, zoned or asleep, probably both.
He just leaned down, pressed the weapon to his throat, zapped him. Um .
. ."
She took a quick scan of the room. "There's no pass or ID sitting
around. He might've taken it, altered it for his own use. We'll check
on that. Then he just walked out again. We'll get time of death, but it
was probably middle of the day yesterday."
"Start with that. I'll head back to the house as soon as I can. Morris
may want to notify next of kin himself. If not-"
"I'll take care of it. Don't worry about this end, Dallas."
"Then I won't."
She started out, paused in front of the poster of Mavis. "Don't ever
tell her," she said, and left the scene.
* * *
Inside the lab, Reva worked side by side with Tokimoto. They rarely
spoke, and when they did it was in an abbreviated computerese only the
true data jock could translate. But for the most part, there were no
words between them. One thought, the other anticipated.
But Reva couldn't anticipate how badly he wanted to speak, how the part
of his mind not focused on the work formed and re-formed the words and
phrases.
She was in trouble, he reminded himself. She was just widowed, and
widowed by a man she'd learned was using her. She was vulnerable, and
emotionally fragile. It was . . . ghoulish-wasn't it?-to even consider
approaching her on any personal level at such a time.
But when she leaned back on a quiet sound of exhaustion, the words
simply popped out.
"You're pushing too hard. You need to take a break. Twenty minutes. A
walk in the fresh air."
"We're close. I know it."
"Then twenty minutes will make little difference. Your eyes are
bloodshot."
She worked up a twisted smile. "Thanks for pointing that out."
"You have lovely eyes. You're abusing them."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." She shut them on a sigh. "You don't even know what
color they are other than red."
"They're gray. Like smoke. Or fog on a moonless night."
She opened one eye, peered at him. "Where'd that come from?"
"I have no idea." Though he was flustered, he decided to push on.
"Perhaps my brain is as bloodshot as your eyes. I think we should take
a walk."
"Why not?" She studied him as she got to her feet. "Sure. Why not?"
Across the room, Roarke watched them step out. "About damn time," he
muttered.
"You got something?" Feeney asked, and nearly pounced on him.
"No. Sorry. I was thinking of something else."
"You're a little off today, aren't you, boy?"
"I'm on right enough." He reached for his coffee mug, found it empty,
and had to struggle against the urge to just heave it against the glass
wall.
"Why don't I fill that up for you." Feeney nipped it handily out of
Roarke's hand. "I was about to do my own."
"Appreciate it."
When he'd done so, Feeney came back, swiveled his chair beside
Roarke's. "She can handle herself. You know that."
"Who would know it better?" Roarke took a tool as thin as a dentist's
probe and scraped delicately at corrosion. Then because Feeney merely
sat and sipped, he set the tool aside once more.
"I gave her a difficult time before she left. She deserved it, by God,
didn't she deserve it. But I regret the timing of it."
"I'm not getting between a man and his wife. Those who do usually come
out looking like they've been set on by wild dogs. I will say when the
wife's in a mood to cook my brains for breakfast, I can usually save
myself with flowers. Pick 'em up from a street vendor, take them home
to her-with a big sappy look on my face." He sat, he sipped. "Flowers
wouldn't work on Dallas."
"Not in a million years," Roarke confirmed. "A sack of diamonds from
the Blue Mines on Taurus I wouldn't work on her, unless you knocked her
in that block of wood she calls a head with them. Christ Jesus, that
woman's a frustration to me. Beginning, end, and all the middle."
Feeney said nothing for five humming seconds. "See, you want me to
agree with you. To say something like, 'Oh yeah, that Dallas sure is a
blockhead.' If I did, you'd end up kicking my ass. So I'm just going to
drink my coffee."
"That's a big help to me."
"You're a smart boy. You know what you have to do."
"And what would that be?"
He patted Roarke on the shoulder. "Grovel," he said, and scooted his
chair out of harm's way.
* * *
It wasn't over. No, by God, it wasn't over, and he was in the pilot's
seat now.
He paced and prowled his rooms-rooms he was so proud of, rooms he'd
celebrated having completely to himself. No one knew about them.
Well, no one living.
They were a perfect place to strategize his moves. And to congratulate
himself on yet another job well done.
The blue-haired freak had been child's play. Absolute child's play. He
took a minute hit of Zeus to keep his energies up, keep his mind alert
as he had business, very personal business, to conduct shortly.
He was protecting himself, step by stage by layer. And that,
self-preservation, was paramount. The quick thrill of the kill, of
outwitting those who would have erased him, was a nice benefit, but it
wasn't the point.
The point was to cover his ass, which he had done-and beautifully, if
he did say so himself. The cops were up the creek now, without a body
to work with.
The next was funding. And he couldn't quite figure out, yet, how to get
his hands on the money due him.
He paused to study his reflection in a mirror. He was going to have to
change that face, and it pained him. He liked the face that looked back
at him. Still, sacrifices would have to be made for the good of the
whole.
Once he finished his work, tied up some more loose ends, he'd find a
surgeon who wouldn't ask too many questions. He had enough to pay for
that, sure he did. And he'd find a way to get the rest, all the rest,
when he could just think without all these complications springing up
on him.
So that was level one and two. But the third level was payback, and he
knew exactly how to collect that debt.
He wasn't going to be used and betrayed, and played for a fool.
What he was going to do was take care of business.
* * *
Eve blanked everything out of her mind but the moment. She kept her
sights on the goal, striding briskly toward the waiting area outside
the vaulted office of Chief Tibble. And had to check that stride when
Don Webster cut across her path.
"Move it. I've got business."
"So do I. Same place, same business."
Her heart tripped. Webster was Internal Affairs. "I wasn't informed IAB
was part of this. That's a serious breach, Webster. I'm entitled to a
departmental rep."
"You don't need one."
"Don't tell me what I need," she hissed. "Somebody sics the rat squad
on me, I get a rep."
"The rat squad's on your side." He took her arm, then released it
quickly when her eyes went to hot slits. "I'm not hitting on you, for
God's sake, Dallas. Give me a minute. One minute." He gestured her
around the corner.
"Make it fast."
"First, let me say this isn't personal. Or let me say this isn't
intimate. I don't want Roarke trying to beat my brains into veggie hash
again."
"I don't need him to do that."
"Acknowledged. I'm here to help you."
"Help me what?"
"Kick a little Homeboy ass."
They had a history, Eve reminded herself as she studied his face. That
history included a single night between the sheets, years before. For
some reason she never quite understood, that night had gotten under
Webster's skin. He had a . . . thing for her, which she was fairly sure
Roarke had tramped out of him before she could do so herself.
She supposed they were, in some strange way, friends by this point. He
was a good cop-wasted, in her opinion, in IAB, but a good cop. And an
honest one.
"Why?"
"Because, Lieutenant, IAB doesn't like outside organizations trying to
mess with what's ours."
"No, you like to mess with us yourselves."
"Ease back, would you? We're informed the HSO is looking at one of our
cops, we're obliged to take a look at that cop. That cops comes up
whistle-clean-and you do-we take exception to the waste of our time and
resources. Somebody outside tries to target a good cop, IAB offers a
shield. Consider me your knight in shining fucking armor."
"Get out." She turned away.
"Don't ditch a shield, Dallas. IAB's required to be in on this meet. I
just want you to know going in where I'm standing."
"Okay, okay." It wasn't easy, but she buried her temper and her
resentment. She was probably going to need all the help she could get.
"It's appreciated."
She kept her head up as she approached Tibble's office. "Dallas,
Lieutenant Eve," she said to the uniformed admin stationed outside.
"Reporting as requested."
"Lieutenant Webster, IAB, as directed."
"One moment."
It didn't take long. Eve stepped into Tibble's office just ahead of
Webster.
Tibble was at the window, hands loosely held at the back of his waist,
watching the city below. He was a good cop, in Eve's opinion. Smart,
strong, and steady. It had helped put him in the Tower, but it was his
political dexterity, she knew, that kept him there.
He spoke without turning, and his voice carried authority. "You're
late, Lieutenant Dallas."
"Yes, sir. I apologize. It was unavoidable."
"You know Agent Sparrow."
She glanced at Sparrow, who was already seated. "We've met."
"Have a seat. And you, Lieutenant Webster. Webster is here representing
Internal Affairs. Commander Whitney is present per my request." He
turned, swooped his hawk's gaze over the room, then moved to his desk.
"Lieutenant Dallas, it seems the HSO has some concerns about the nature
of your current investigation, the direction thereof, and your
techniques. They have requested, through me, that you halt the
investigation and turn over all notes, data, and evidence to AD
Sparrow, thereby passing this case into HSO aegis."
"I am unable to comply with this request, Chief Tibble."
"This is a matter of global security," Sparrow began.
"It's a matter of murder," Eve interrupted. "Four civilians have been
killed, in New York City."
"Four? "Tibble asked.
"Yes, sir. I was detained due to the discovery of a fourth victim.
Joseph Powell, a city employee assigned to transportation and disposal
at the morgue. My partner and ME Morris are on scene."
"How is this connected?"
"Dr. Morris contacted me this morning to inform me that the body
identified as Blair Bissel had been removed from storage."
Sparrow lunged out of his chair. "You lost the body? You lost a key
factor in the investigation and you sit there and refuse to hand it
over to us?"
"The body was not lost," Eve said evenly, "but removed. Covertly. That
sort of thing falls under your aegis, doesn't it, Assistant Director?"
"If you're accusing the HSO of stealing a corpse-"
"I've made no such accusation, but merely commented about the covert
nature of your work." She reached into her pocket and drew out a
microtracker. "This is the sort of thing you play with, right?" She
held it up, turning it between her thumb and forefinger. "Funny. I
found this on my vehicle-my official police unit-which was parked
outside the morgue. Does the HSO consider it a matter of global
security to track and spy on a NYPSD officer while she is carrying out
her sworn duty?"
"This is a sensitive matter, beyond your-"
"Electronic surveillance of a police officer, who has not been charged
or is not suspected of a crime or an infraction of law," Webster put
in, "violates federal and state privacy codes as well as departmental
regs. If Lieutenant Dallas is suspected of a crime or an infraction by
the HSO that requires said surveillance, Internal Affairs would like to
see the paperwork, the order, the charge, the evidence that led to the
surveillance."
"I am unaware of any such surveillance by my agency."
"Is that what you call plausible deniability, Sparrow?" Eve asked. "Or
just a big, fat lie?"
"Lieutenant," Tibble said, quietly, authoritatively.
"Yes, sir. I apologize."
"Chief, Commander, Lieutenants." Sparrow paused, let his gaze scan the
faces. "The HSO wishes to cooperate with local law-enforcement whenever
this cooperation is possible, but global matters take priority. We want
Lieutenant Dallas removed from the investigation and all data
pertaining thereto given over to me, as representative."
"I am unable to comply with the request," Eve repeated.
"Chief Tibble," Sparrow continued. "I've given you the letter of
request and authorization from the director."
"Yes, I've read it. As I've read the reports and the case file provided
by Lieutenant Dallas. Of the two, I find hers more compelling."
"I can, if this request is denied, obtain a federal warrant for those
reports and case files, and authorization to have the investigation
terminated."
"Let's cut the bullshit here, Assistant Director." Tibble folded his
hands and leaned forward. "If you could have, you would have rather
than wasting this time. Your agency is hip-deep in the mud on this. Two
of yours are dead, and they were, allegedly, exploiting an innocent
civilian without her knowledge or consent to gather information from a
private concern."
"Securecomp is on the agency's watch list, Chief Tibble."
"I can only imagine what's on your agency's watch list. Regardless of
this, or the very legitimate reasons you may have for that list, Reva
Ewing was unforgivably-and illegally-used, her reputation impugned, her
life turned inside out. She is not one of you. Chloe McCoy is dead. She
was not one of you. Joseph Powell is dead. He was not one of you."
"Sir-"
Tibble merely held up a finger. "My count makes it three victims to
two, weighed on this side of the fence. I will not compel my lieutenant
to step out of an active investigation."
"During the course of her investigation, your lieutenant illegally
received or accessed data from the HSO. We can pursue charges on that
issue."
Tibble spread his hands. "You are free to do so. It may be necessary
for you to pursue charges against Commander Whitney and myself as well,
as we have both received that data from the lieutenant."
Sparrow kept his seat, but Eve watched his hands ball into fists. The
way things were going from his side, she couldn't blame him for wanting
to punch something.
"We want her source."
"I'm not required to divulge my source."
"You're not required," Sparrow snapped out the words, "but you can be
charged, you can be held, and you can very possibly lose your badge."
The more anger and frustration she read from him, the less she felt
herself. "I don't think you're going to charge me, because if you do,
it's going to look really bad for your team. The media gets their teeth
into some of the dirty little games the HSO authorized Bissel to
play-and they start speculating that he was taken out, he and his
partner brutally murdered by your organization, which then callously
staged a frame for Bissel's innocent and exploited wife-why they'll
just tear you to bloody pieces."
"Bissel and Kade were not HSO-sanctioned terminations."
"Then you really better hope I find the answers that prove your agency
is not responsible."
"You hacked into government files," he tossed at her.
"Prove it," she tossed right back.
He started to speak, or, more likely from his expression, spew, but his
'link beeped. "I'm sorry for the interruption, but that's a priority
signal. I have to take it. Privately."
"Through that door," Tibble told him with a gesture. "There's a small
office you can use." When Sparrow closed the door at his back, Tibble
tapped his fingers on the edge of his desk. "They may charge you,
Dallas."
"Yes, sir, they may. But I don't think they will."
He nodded, seemed to drift off into thought. "I don't like their use of
private citizens in this maneuver. I don't like them planting devices
to spy on my officers, and circumventing the standards of privacy and
decency and law to do so. These organizations have their purpose, and
require a certain amount of latitude, but there are lines. Those lines
were crossed with Reva Ewing, and she's a citizen of New York, of the
goddamn United States, and as such has a right to expect her government
to treat her fairly. As such, she deserves the full efforts of this
police force. I'm backing you on this, but I'm warning you, get it
wrapped quickly. They're bound to send bigger guns than Sparrow to
knock you out."
"Understood. Thank you, sir, for your support."
Sparrow stormed back in, and his face was a study in barely suppressed
fury. "You went to the media."
Nadine worked fast, Eve thought, and kept her face blank. She'd just
fall back on a little plausible deniability herself. "I don't know what
you're talking about."
"You leaked Bissel's association with the agency to the press. And
Kade's. You've involved the HSO in a goddamn media circus to protect
your damn hide."
Slowly, very slowly, Eve got to her feet. "I leaked nothing to the
media to protect my hide. I can protect my own hide. You make
accusations like that, Sparrow, you'd better be able to back them up."
"They didn't pluck it out of thin air." He spun toward Tibble. "With
this development, it's more vital than ever that this officer be
removed from the investigation and her case files be turned over to the
HSO."
"Media attention directed at the HSO doesn't, in any way, alter the
circumstances of my lieutenant's position."
"Lieutenant Dallas has a personal vendetta against the agency and is
using this investigation to revenge herself for what transpired over
twenty years ago in-"
"Hold it." Her stomach shuddered. "Hold it right there. Sir," she said
to Tibble. "Assistant Director Sparrow is about to bring up a personal
matter. One that has no bearing whatsoever on this investigation, or on
my conduct as an officer. I'd like to discuss that matter with him, to
resolve it. I request, respectfully, sir, that I be given that
opportunity. In private. Commander . . ."
Don't lose it, she ordered herself. God, don't lose it.
"Commander Whitney is aware of the matter. I have no objection to him
being present."
Tibble said nothing for a moment, then rose. "Lieutenant Webster, let's
step out."
"Thank you, sir."
She used the time it took to clear the room to gather herself. And
still, she couldn't quite manage it. "You son of a bitch," she said
softly. "You son of a bitch, you'd throw that in my face. You'd use
what was done to me-by him, by your precious agency-to get your way in
this."
"I apologize." He seemed nearly as shaken as she. "I apologize,
sincerely, Lieutenant, for allowing my temper to cloud my judgment. The
incident has no place here."
"Oh yes, it does. You bet your ass it does. You read the file?"
"I read it."
"And you stomached it."
"Actually, Lieutenant Dallas, I couldn't quite stomach it. I believe in
the work we do, and I know that sometimes sacrifices have to be made,
that choices are made that seem-that are-cold. However, I could find no
rationale, no purpose, no excuse for the lack of intervention in your
case. Knowingly leaving a minor in that situation was . . . inhumane.
You should have been removed, and the decision to leave status quo was
ill-advised."
"The HSO was aware of your situation in Texas?" Whitney asked.
"They were surveilling him, due to his connection with Max Ricker. They
knew what he did to me, they listened to it. They listened while he
raped me, and while I begged. While I begged."
"Sit down, Dallas."
She could only shake her head. "Can't. Sir."
"Do you know what I'll do with this information, AD Sparrow?"
"Commander," Eve began.
"Stand down, Lieutenant." Whitney pushed to his feet, towered over
Sparrow. "Do you, or your superiors, understand what I can and will do
with this information if you continue to harass my officer, or in any
way attempt to infringe on her duties or smear her reputation? It won't
be leaked to the media. It'll be flooded to them. You will be washed
away in the tidal wave of the public outcry. Your agency will need
generations to recover from the legal tangle and the public relations
nightmare. You take that back to whoever holds your leash, and you make
sure they know who it came from. Then, if you want to take me on, you
come ahead."
"Commander Whitney-"
"You're going to want to walk away now, Sparrow," Whitney warned. "Walk
away before you end up taking the punch for something that happened
when you were still drooling on your bib."
Sparrow walked over to retrieve his briefcase. "I'll relay this
information," he said and went out.
"You need to pull yourself together, Dallas."
"Sir. Yes, sir." But the pressure in her chest was outrageous. In
defense, she dropped into a chair, lowered her head between her knees.
"Sorry. Can't breathe."
She waited until the worst of the weight eased and air squeezed down
her throat, into her lungs.
"Steady it out, Lieutenant, or I'm going to have to call the MTs." She
sat up, had him nodding. "Thought that would do it. Need water?"
She could have swallowed a small ocean of it. "No, sir. Thank you. I
understand that Chief Tibble may need to be apprised of-"
"If Tibble needs to be apprised of incidents that took place in another
state more than two decades ago, he will be so apprised. But in my
judgment this is a personal matter. I think you can rest assured it
will stay one. You fired the first volley with the media leak. They'll
have their hands full trying to spin and swim through that. They won't
want to risk a second whirlwind. You'd already calculated all that."
"Yes, sir."
"Then you'd better get back to work and close this up. And if you have
to fry a few spooks along the way, that's just a nice bonus." He showed
his teeth in a grin. "A real nice bonus."
Eve walked out on the garage level at Central, and laid her hand on her
weapon as Quinn Sparrow stepped out from behind a column.
"You take chances, Sparrow."
"You don't know the half of it. I shouldn't be speaking to you outside
of authorized parameters, Lieutenant. But between us, we've got a hell
of a mess on our hands. You won't back off so we have to find some
level ground, some area of compromise."
"I've got four bodies. Well, had four." She eased her hand away from
her weapon and moved toward her vehicle. "I don't compromise."
"Two of those bodies are ours. You may not think much of our
organization, of me, of our directives, but it matters when we lose
people."
"Let's get this straight. What I think or don't about your organization
isn't relevant, but the fact is I'm not naive enough to think it
doesn't serve a purpose. Covert operations helped end the Urban Wars,
prevented numerous terrorist attacks on U.S. soil, and globally. I
might find some of your methods questionable, at best, but that's
beside the point."
"Then what is the point?"
"You wired, Sparrow?"
"You paranoid, Dallas?"
"Oh yeah."
"I'm not wired," he snapped. "I shouldn't even be talking to you."
"Your choice. Here's the point. Four people are dead, and your
organization is part of it."
"The HSO does not murder its own operatives, then frame a civilian."
"No?" She lifted her eyebrows as she slid a scanner out of her pocket.
"They just sit back and watch while a child is brutalized, raped, and
tortured, then tidy up after her when she takes a life desperately
defending her own. When she's traumatized and broken. And they leave
her alone, to wander the streets."
"I don't know what happened." He looked away from her. "I don't know
why. You've read the file, so you know data was deleted. Covered up.
I'm not denying it, or the poor judgment of-"
"Poor judgment?"
"There's nothing I can say to you. Nothing that can balance the scales
after what was done. No excuses I can make, so I won't make them. But I
will say, as you have to me, that's not the point."
"Score one for you." She moved away from him to run a program on the
scanner, checking her car for devices. "I'm pissed, Sparrow, and I'm
tired, and it's very, very difficult for me to accept that strangers
know my private business. Because of that, I've got no reason to trust
you, or the people you work for."
"I'd like to try to give you one, and to find some area of compromise
that will satisfy us both. But I've got to ask you, where the hell did
you get that thing?"
She found herself amused, and she hadn't expected to be, by the look of
fascination and avarice on his face. "I have my connections."
"I've never seen one quite like it. Very compact. Will it multitask?
Sorry." He laughed a little. "I'm big on gadgets. One of the reasons I
got into this line of work. Look, if you're satisfied your car's clear,
maybe we could take a ride. I'll give you some data that may convince
you to find that compromise."
"Open the briefcase."
"No problem." He set it on the trunk of her vehicle, manually entered a
code on the lock. When he opened it, Eve blinked.
"Jesus, Sparrow, got enough hardware?"
She saw a stunner, a miniblaster, a complex little palm 'link, a
recharger, and the smallest data system she'd ever come across. There
was also a number of the same sort of tracking devices she'd taken off
her vehicle earlier in the day.
She took one out, held it up, and looked him dead in the eye.
He gave her a winning smile. "I didn't say the tracker you removed from
your vehicle wasn't HSO, I just said I was unaware of any directive to
place said tracker on your vehicle."
"Smooth." She tossed the tracker back in the briefcase, and watched as
Sparrow meticulously fit it back in its slot.
It occurred to her that under other circumstances he and Roarke would
have bonded like brothers.
"I like gadgets," he repeated. "I didn't bug your vehicle. That's not
to say I-or someone else from the organization-won't do so if ordered,
but I didn't lay the tracker today. Nothing in here's activated. Your
scanner will verify."
When it did, she looked him up and down. "What about you?"
"I've got a lot on me." He held his arms out to the side for the
scanner. "All deactivated. You see, we're not having this conversation.
We will have had it if the outcome's satisfactory. Otherwise, we left
things up in Tibble's office."
Eve shook her head. "Get in. I'm heading uptown. I don't like what you
have to say, I'll dump you in the most inconvenient spot I can manage.
And I know all the inconvenient spots in this city."
He got in the passenger seat. "You really mucked up the works with that
media leak."
She sent him her version of a winning smile. "I don't believe I
confirmed playing any part in any media leak." She set the scanner on
the seat beside her, activated. "Just in case you decide to flip
something on," she said when Sparrow frowned at it.
"With that level of cynicism and paranoia, you ought to be one of us."
"I'll keep that in mind. Start talking."
"Bissel and Kade were not in-house terminations. We believe, though we
have no confirmed intel, that Doomsday broke Bissel's cover, and took
them out."
"Why?" She backed out of her slot. "If they knew about him, and his
connection to Ewing and hers to the Code Red, it would make more sense
to watch him, or haul him off and pull data out of his toenails."
"He was working a double. We worked over a year to set him up with a
Doomsday operative. Look at his profile, and what do you see? An
opportunist, a man who cheats on his wife-and his mistress, who likes
the good life, spends lavishly. That's how we wanted him to look, and
that part was easy as what you see with Bissel was what you got. It's
how and why we used him to pass carefully arranged data to Doomsday. He
took their money. There was no way they'd believe he was behind their
philosophies. Just in it for the shine."
"You set him up to get close to Ewing to spy on Securecomp, and you set
him up to get close to Doomsday to screw with them. You guys are
something."
"It was working. The worm they're developing, have developed," he
corrected, "could undermine governments, give the terrorists an open
door. If our data banks and surveillance apparatus are severely
compromised, we can't track, we can't know how and when they might hit.
That doesn't touch on internal crises: banks, military, transport. We
needed to slow them down, and to gather intel, to have our defenses
fully in place."
"And to steal the technology from them to create your own version of
the worm."
"I can't confirm that supposition."
"You don't have to. Where does Carter Bissel come in?"
"Loose cannon. He has serious issues with his brother, and took the
time and trouble to learn about the extramaritals. Blackmailed him.
That actually worked for us. Solidified Bissel's cover, gave him
another reason for needing quick money. We don't know where he is, or
if he's alive or dead. Maybe they took him out, maybe they just took
him. Maybe he ran or is on a fucking bender." Frustration eked through.
"But we'll find him."
"This just doesn't jibe for me, Sparrow. Not all the way." She paused
at the exit of the garage. "Terminating Bissel and Kade in that manner
was sloppy. And Doomsday hasn't taken credit. They like credit."
"Yeah, but they don't like being conned. He conned them for months.
We've gathered significant intel on the worm through Bissel. Enough
bits and pieces that we should be able to develop the shield before . .
."
"Before Securecomp? God, you're a piece of work."
"Look." He shifted in his seat. "Personally, I don't give a flying fuck
where the shield comes from, as long as we have it in place. But there
are some who don't like the idea of a man with Roarke's . . .
questionable connections having his fingers in a pie this sensitive."
"So you undermine Securecomp, get busy like bees to beat Roarke to the
punch, so you can beat your red, white, and blue chests and add the big
fee to your budget."
"Everything about the NYPSD is sunshine and roses, Dallas? You got a
perfect system here?"
"No, but I don't screw somebody just so I can take the collar." She
eased out into traffic. "I'm seriously thinking about ditching you in
front of this nice little café where Zeus addicts hang."
"Come on, Dallas, give a little, get a little. We need a look at the
units you confiscated, and have locked down. The ones you took from the
various crime scenes. Or at least the scan and analysis reports.
Doomsday has the worm. Even Roarke can't put together the brain trust
we can to complete the shield and complete it now. Without it, we could
be facing a crisis of goddamn biblical proportions."
At those words, the wrath of God hit. She felt the intense blast of
heat, and saw the blinding flash of light. Glass imploded, and the dust
of it spewed into her face.
Instinctively, she wrenched the wheel sideways, slammed the brakes, but
her tires were no longer in contact with the road. Dimly she realized
they were airborne.
She choked out a warning for Sparrow to hang on, and through the haze
of smoke saw the world revolve. They hit, and the impact snapped her
safety harness. She tumbled, stomach pitching, head ringing, and
thudded hard on the safety bags that deployed with an explosive snap.
The last thing she remembered was the taste of her own blood in her
mouth.
* * *
She wasn't out long, the stink of the smoke, the quality of the screams
told her she hadn't lost consciousness more than a minute or two. That,
and the fact that the pain hadn't had time to fully process in her
brain. Her vehicle-what was left of it-was on its top, like a turtle
lying on its shell.
She spat out blood and shifted enough to reach Sparrow, to check for a
pulse in his throat. She found a weak one, though her hand came away
slick with blood that was still running down his face.
She heard the sirens now, and the rush of feet, the shouted orders that
said cops. Dimly she thought, If you are going to take a sudden,
unexpected air trip while still in road mode, it is good to do so
within a block of Cop Central.
"I'm on the job," she called out and began to try to wriggle her way
back, out of the smashed driver door and window. "Dallas, Lieutenant.
There's a civilian pinned in here-bleeding bad."
"Take it easy, Lieutenant. MTs are on the way. You probably don't want
to move until-"
"Get me the hell out of here." She tried to dig into the roadbed with
the toes of her boots, searching for traction. She made it two inches
before hands gripped her legs, her hips, and eased her out of the
wreckage.
"How bad you hurt?"
She managed to focus on the face, recognized Detective Baxter. "I can
still see you, so I'm in considerable pain. But I think I'm just banged
up. Passenger's bad."
"They're getting to him."
She winced as Baxter ran his hands over her, checking for breaks. "You
better not be using this to cop a feel."
"Just one of those little bonuses life hands you. Got some lacerations,
probably going to have contusions all over that nifty bod of yours."
"Shoulder burns."
"You gonna punch me if I take a look?"
"Not this time."
She rolled her head back, closed her eyes as he unbuttoned her ruined
shirt. "Friction burns from the harness, looks like," he told her.
"I want to stand up."
"Just take it easy until the medicals look at you."
"Give me a damn hand up, Baxter. I want to see the damage."
He helped her up, and when her vision didn't waver, she figured she'd
gotten off lucky.
The same couldn't be said of Sparrow. The passenger side had taken the
brunt when it rammed a maxibus on one of its revolutions. Trueheart was
working with another uniform to sheer away the metal trapping Sparrow
inside.
"He's pinned between the door and the dash," Trueheart called out.
"Looks like his leg's broken, maybe his arm, too. But he's breathing."
She stepped back as the MTs hustled up. One wriggled into the driver's
side where she'd wriggled out. The calls turned to medical jargon and
orders. She heard talk about spinal and neck injuries, and cursed.
Then she looked at the car.
"Holy Jesus Christ."
The front end was all but disintegrated. Metal was blackened, melted,
fused to metal. Window glass had gone to powder and continued to smoke.
"It looks like . . ."
"Like it was hit with a short-range missile," Baxter finished. "You'd
be toast if it'd broadsided you instead of skimming the front end. I
was heading in to Central, and saw this flash, this streak. Big boom,
and a vehicle, yours, flew right over mine. Flew up, came down, flipped
three times then spun around like a top. Smashed a couple of civilian
vehicles, laid waste to a glide-cart, skipped the curb, skipped back,
then plowed into a maxi like a torpedo."
"Civilian casualties?"
"I don't know."
She could see some of the injured, and hear weeping, some screaming.
Soy dogs, soft drink tubes, candy sticks were scattered over the street
and sidewalk like some nasty buffet.
"Harness held, until the last minute." She wiped absently at a trickle
of blood on her temple. "It held, or God knows . . . Reinforcements in
the roof kept us from being crushed like a couple of recycled milk
cartons. Major damage on the passenger side from the crash. He got the
worst of it."
Baxter watched the MTs fix the unconscious man to a back-and-neck
board. "Friend of yours?"
"No."
"You piss somebody off enough to fire missiles at you or did he?"
"Good question."
"You need to have the MTs look you over."
"Probably." The pain was seeping through now, making mincemeat of the
adrenaline and shock. "I hate that. Really do. And you know what else?
The guys in requisitions are going to slap me around for this. They're
going to slap me around, then give me some piece of shit transpo to
punish me."
She hobbled over to the curb, sat among the confusion and noise. Then
sneered in warning at the MT who headed, with his kit, in her
direction. "You even think about using a pressure syringe on me," Eve
told her, "and I'm taking you down."
"You want the pain, you keep the pain." The MT shrugged and opened his
kit. "But let's have a look."
* * *
It took her another two hours to get home, and then she had
to catch a ride with Baxter as she'd been ordered not to drive. Since
she didn't have anything to drive, it wasn't hard to follow orders.
"I guess I'm supposed to ask you in for a drink now or some happy shit."
"That's right, but I'll take a rain check. I got a date. Scorching
date, and I'm running behind."
"Appreciate the ride."
"That's your best comeback? You're in bad shape. Take a pill, Dallas,"
he suggested as she eased her aching body out. "Flake out a while."
"I'm okay. Go bang the bimbo of the week."
"Now that's more like it." He gave a cheery chuckle and drove away.
She limped into the house, but couldn't quite limp past Summerset.
He looked down his nose, sniffed. "I see you've managed to destroy
several more articles of clothing."
"Yeah, I thought I'd rip and burn them while wearing them, just to see
what happened."
"I assume your vehicle suffered similarly as it's not in evidence."
"It's trash. But then, it always was." She headed for the stairs, but
he blocked her path, then scooped up the cat who was trying to climb up
her legs.
"For God's sake, Lieutenant, take the elevator. And you may as well
take something voluntarily for the pain before you have to be
humiliated into it."
"I'm walking it off so I don't stiffen up and start to look like you."
She knew it was stubborn, she knew it was stupid, but she took the
stairs. The worst was, if he hadn't been there at the door, lurking,
she'd have taken the damn elevator in the first place.
She was dripping with sweat by the time she made it to the bedroom, so
she simply stripped off her ruined clothes, tossed her weapon and her
communicator on the bed, and whimpered her way into the shower.
"Jets on half power," she ordered. "One hundred degrees."
The soft spray of hot water stung, then soothed. She braced her hands
against the tile wall, dipped her head, and let it flow over her.
Who had they been after? she wondered. Her or Sparrow? She was betting
on herself. Sparrow, and the civilians in the line of fire, were just
what they'd call collateral damage. So why try to take her out, and why
hadn't they done a better job of it?
Sloppy, sloppy, she thought. It's all been sloppy.
"Jets off," she grunted, and feeling a bit steadier, stepped out of the
shower.
She knew her heart shouldn't have jolted when she saw Roarke. Summerset
-the big, fat tattletale- would have told him.
"The MTs cleared me," she said quickly. "I'm just banged up, that's
all."
"I can see that. You don't want the drying tube. The hot air won't do
you any good. Here." He picked up a bathsheet, walked to her, and
wrapped it gently around her. "Do I have to force a blocker on you?"
"No."
"Well, that's something." He feathered his fingers over the abrasions
on her face. "We may be angry with each other, Eve, but you should have
contacted me. I shouldn't have heard you'd been in an accident from a
damn media bulletin."
"They didn't release names," she began, then trailed off.
"They didn't have to."
"I didn't think. I'm sorry, I really didn't think about it. It's not
because I'm-whatever I am with you right now. I didn't think about the
media, or that you'd hear anything about it until I got back and could
tell you myself."
"All right. You need to lie down."
"I'll take the blocker, but I'm not going down. AD Sparrow's bad. He
was with me. His spine's messed up, and there's severe head trauma. The
passenger side was -shit. Shit. I don't know how he lived through it.
It was a short-range missile."
She scooped her hair back and went into the bedroom to sit.
"You said missile."
"Yeah. Probably one of those nifty one-man jobs. Handheld launcher. He
must've fired from the roof across from Central. Had me staked out.
Maybe Sparrow, but I'm thinking me. To mess up the investigation? To
mess you up? Both?" She shook her head. "Maybe to put the HSO on the
hot seat, taking out a cop when they couldn't get her to pass the
investigation over to them. Maybe to throw the suspicion onto the
terrorists."
He handed her a small blue pill and a glass of water. "Your word you'll
swallow it or I'll check under your tongue."
"I'm not quite feeling up to sex games. Leave my tongue alone. I'm
swallowing it."
Some of the warmth came back in his eyes as he sat beside her. "Why
isn't it the HSO or Doomsday?"
"Not very covert to launch a missile at a cop car in New York traffic
in the middle of the day. If they wanted me out, they'd find a more
subtle way and without losing one of the assistant directors in the
process."
"Agreed."
"So, this is like a quiz?"
"The MTs may have cleared you, but you look as if you've been run over
by a truck. I'd like to see if you're thinking clearly at least. Why
not Doomsday, then? Subtle isn't their style."
"First, technos don't send a man out to shoot missiles. That's why
they're technos. And if they did break pattern, they wouldn't have
missed. And it was a miss. Couple of feet down, hit the car broadside,
and we're gone. They send somebody to take out a cop and/or an
operative, they're not going to be so half-assed about it. Plus, I
think they'd have gone bigger. If they could get a man into position,
why not use a bigger toy, and take out a chunk of Central? Hit Cop
Central and you've got the kind of media foray they love. Take out a
car, and it's a little bulletin. Not big. This has the earmark of
desperation or temper, not organization. How'm I doing?"
"Your brain doesn't appear to have been unduly scrambled." He rose,
wandered to the window. "Why didn't you tell me you'd been called to
the Tower?"
"We're straddling a line here," she said after a moment. "I don't like
it, I don't like feeling . . . apart from you. But that's the reality
of it."
"So it seems."
"Someone tried to kill me today. Will you hunt them down?"
He didn't turn. "It's entirely different, Eve. I've had to . . . adjust
myself when it comes to your work, what you do, what may be done to
you. I love you, and loving you I have to accept that you are what you
are, and do what you do. It costs me."
He turned now, looked at her with those wild blue eyes. "Considerably."
"It was your choice. It was always your choice."
"As if I had one, from the minute I saw you. What you face now, I can
accept, and admire you for facing it. What you faced then, what was
forced on you when you had no defense, I can't accept."
"It won't change anything."
"That's a matter of perspective. Does it change anything to put a
killer in a cage after his victim's in the ground? You believe it does,
and so do I. And debating this now is only going to push us both
further over on our own sides of that line. We both have work."
"Yeah, we both have work." She got to her feet. She would stand, she
thought. Had to. Even if she couldn't stand with him.
"Before we were so rudely interrupted, Sparrow told me that Bissel was
a double agent. The HSO was using him to get intel from Doomsday.
Giving them structured intel in return for payment. It was a long con.
They wrapped Ewing up in it due to her position at Securecomp. They
wanted a handle on your technology and projects, and most particularly
in recent months, whatever they could get on your Code Red. They want,
and apparently seriously want, to scoop you on the shield."
"I suppose the idea of the private sector having that kind of
technology irritates them. Using Bissel was sensible. He plays all
ends-using Reva to gain data on Securecomp, posing as the greedy
turncoat to gain knowledge of Doomsday."
"His brother was blackmailing him over the extramaritals. But that
suited their purposes. Sparrow claims they don't know where Carter
Bissel is. He might be telling the truth, but I'm not buying little
brother as your standard blackmailer. No reason to corrupt his personal
units, no reason for him to disappear or be disappeared. Doesn't jibe."
"He who can play turncoat can actually be one."
She smiled. "There you go."
* * *
She hated to admit it but the blocker helped. Even so the thin cotton
pants and loose T-shirt felt heavy on her abused body. When Peabody
took one look at her and winced, Eve decided she probably looked worse
than she felt.
"You don't look like you can hit me at the moment," Peabody began, "so
I'm going to ask. Don't you think you should be in the hospital?"
"Don't let appearances deceive you. No, I shouldn't be in the hospital,
and yes, I can still hit you. Bring me up on Powell."
"Single full-contact, full-power shot with hand laser, as evaled on
scene. Time of death, ten-fifteen yesterday morning. No forced entry.
CSU believes a master was used, Powell's ID, his vehicle code, his
employee pass were all missing from the premises. He'd made no
transmissions from his home 'link since the previous afternoon when he
ordered pizza from a local place. But he did receive one at just after
eight A.M. on the morning of his death. The caller cut transmission
after Powell answered, groggily. We traced it to a public 'link at a
subway station three blocks away from the scene. Conclusion: The killer
verified Powell was home, and in bed. Gave him enough time to fall back
to sleep, then entered the premises and killed him."
"Sweepers?"
"Only the prelim, but they haven't identified any prints other than the
victim's, no DNA, no trace. But I do have a neighbor, Mrs. Lance, who
was coming back home from the deli. She saw a man coming out of the
building at about ten-thirty. Description matches the one Sibresky gave
us of this Angelo."
"How about the artist's rendering? We got that?"
"Working on it. When I checked I was told Sibresky isn't being
particularly cooperative or open-minded. I promised the artist a
backstage pass to the next Mavis Freestone concert in the city if he
got us something this afternoon."
"Good bribe. I'm so proud."
"I had an excellent trainer."
"Suck up later. Have you been in to see McNab?"
Peabody pokered up. "I only stopped by the lab to check on the progress
of their work."
"Yeah, and to give his bony ass a pat."
"Unfortunately, he was sitting on said bony ass at the time of my
visit, so I was unable to complete that part of my mission."
"Because, despite all my efforts, the image of that bony ass is
starting to form in my fevered mind, tell me about the rest of the
mission. How's it going in there?"
Peabody wanted to ask why Eve hadn't been in to see for herself, but
from the snags of tension around her and Roarke, she thought she knew.
"Well, there's a lot of techno-talk, some pretty creative cursing. I
like how Roarke says 'bugger.' Tokimoto stays iced, and Reva's like a
woman on a religious quest. McNab's in heaven, hacking away. But what
tipped me was Feeney. There's this gleam in his eyes. I think they're
getting close."
"While they're making the world safe for democracy, let's see if we can
solve a few murders."
"Excuse me, Lieutenant," she said when her communicator signaled. "I'll
get on that little task as soon as I take this. Detective Peabody," she
announced. "Hey, Lamar, you got something for us?"
"You got my backstage pass?"
"My word's my bond."
"Then I got your face. How do you want me to send it?"
"Laser fax," Eve ordered from her desk. "And a file to my unit here. I
want a hard copy, and I want one on my computer."
Peabody relayed, then walked over to retrieve the fax herself. "Lamar's
good. Could probably make a better living doing portraits than
detailing bad guys. Not the prettiest petal on the flower," she added,
passing the printout to Eve. "But not as ugly as Sibresky said. The
scar just messes up the face."
"Yeah, it draws the eye, too, doesn't it? You're going to think scar
when you see this face. Big, nasty scar, so maybe you don't look too
close, because, gee, that's rude."
"Sibresky doesn't seem to have had that problem."
"I get the feeling Sibresky's not too big on sensitivity and etiquette.
Let's play a game, Peabody."
"Really? Okay."
"We'll start by you going in the kitchen, getting a pot of coffee and .
. . something. There's gotta be something to eat."
"You want food?"
"No, my stomach's still shaky. You get food."
"Hey, so far I like this game."
"Don't come back in until I tell you."
"No problem."
Eve turned to her computer, rubbed her hands together. "Okay, let's
play."
It didn't take long because the process and the possibility had been
brewing in her brain for some time. She used the imaging program,
shooting the visuals on the wall screens as she worked the details.
"Okay, Peabody, you're up, and bring me coffee."
"You should have some of this apple-cranberry cobbler." She came in
with a bowl of it, and a mug for Eve. "It's really mag."
"What do you see?"
Peabody eased a hip onto the edge of the desk, spooned up cobbler. "The
artist's rendering of the suspect known only as Angelo."
"Okay. Computer split screen, keep current image and display image
CB-1."
Working . . . Images displayed.
"Now what do you see?"
"Carter Bissel, split screen with Angelo." She frowned, and though she
understood immediately what direction Eve was taking, she shook her
head. "I'll go with the Angelo person being a disguise. I don't see
Carter Bissel in there. There's no data on him being an expert on
disguise. Buy a wig, slap on a mustache, sure. Even maybe manage the
scar. But the line of the jaw's off-an implant for the bucked teeth
would change the shape of the mouth, but not the jaw. He'd need more
for that, and even if Kade was working him, or with him for a few
months, how'd he get so skilled in disguise?"
She scooped up more cobbler and continued to study and compare the two
images. "And Carter Bissel's ears are bigger. That's the tip. Ears are
a good giveaway. He could make them bigger for Angelo, but not smaller."
"You've got a good eye, Peabody. But watch and learn."
Peabody ate cobbler and watched as Eve and the computer added the hair
from image one onto the head of image two.
"You know, you can do it all with one command if you-"
"I know I can do it all with one command," Eve said irritably. "It
doesn't make the same damn point that way. Who's running this game?"
"You know, getting shot at with a short-range missile makes you really
testy."
"Keep it up, and the next short-range missile's going straight up your
ass."
"Dallas, you know how I love that sweet talk." Shifting to a more
comfortable position, Peabody licked her spoon, then waved it at the
screen. "Okay, you add the bad hair, but it doesn't change jaw
structure or ear size and shape. Also, the witness makes Angelo
slimmer, considerably slimmer than Carter Bissel. Fifteen pounds, easy.
Bissel carried some extra weight according to his ID stats. The witness
said Angelo was trim, in good physical shape. Again, you can add weight
in a disguise, but you can't shave off fifteen pounds overnight. If you
could, I'd be signed up for the program."
"If you don't want to play, take your cobbler and scram. Computer,
replicate facial scar from image one onto image two."
"The entry into Powell's apartment, as in the Bissel home, was slick."
Peabody scraped at the bowl, looking for any escaping cobbler as the
computer complied with the command. "Has to be someone with experience
or training. And all the murders in this case have been particularly
cold, even the first ones, which were staged to look hot-blooded. It's
the very staging that makes them cold."
"Nobody's arguing that. Give me motive. Computer, assume front top
teeth of image one is an implant. Calculate and replicate same on image
two."
"Covert organization screw-up -either one. Or, I've been thinking about
this-a kind of gang war. The worm is complete so Doomsday must want to
utilize. They know a shield's being created. HSO and its associates
create havoc to slow technos down or circumvent, or destroy the worm.
Doomsday creates havoc to scatter resources, create havoc, which is
what terrorists do anyway, and circumvent the creation of the shield
until they get some use out of all the time, trouble, and expense
they've gone to. One side murders a couple of operatives, the other
snips off a potential loose thread -McCoy. One side grabs operative's
brother. The other steals dead operative's body, and does the overkill
attack on the primary investigator. Escalated espionage," Peabody said
with a shrug. "Not as iced as Bond, but plenty convoluted. It seems to
me spies convolute everything."
"Look at the images, Peabody."
Peabody complied, and tapped the spoon gently on her teeth. "I see a
resemblance, largely superficial, between the two images. Dallas, you
put my image up there and do computer composites, you could make me
look like Angelo. But don't, okay, 'cause I just ate."
"Still hung up on the variation of jaw-line and the ears?"
"If you tried to take this into court, they'd throw you out."
"Guess you're right. Computer, remove image two and replace with image
three."
Peabody's brows knit when the split screen showed two images of Angelo.
"I don't get it."
"Don't get what?"
"Why are you projecting two images of the same guy?"
"Am I? You sure they're the same guy? Maybe getting tossed around
earlier's messed up my vision."
"You got Angelo up there side by side." Concerned, Peabody shifted to
study Eve's face. "Look, if you don't want to go to the hospital, maybe
you could call Louise. She'd make a house call for you."
"I don't want to bother the busy Dr. Dimatto. Let's just see what I . .
. oh yeah, that's right. Here's what I meant to do. Computer, remove
all replications from image three and display original."
Eve sat back with a very satisfied grin as Peabody dropped the spoon.
"That's Bissel. That's Blair Bissel."
"It sure is, isn't it? You know, I'm thinking reports of his death have
been largely exaggerated."
"I know you ran that theory, but I never thought you put real weight on
it. The DNA, the prints, were Blair Bissel's. His own wife ID'd him."
"HSO training, several years on the job, even at a lower operative
level, should give a guy the skills to doctor records, change his to
his brother's. Add overkill, the blood, the gore, the fact that Ewing
was shocked, and the fact that in all probability Carter Bissel had
undergone some recent surgery to enhance his fairly strong family
resemblance to his brother. Body weight was high for Blair's records,
but not more than a lot of people lie about on official documents
anyway. Nobody pays any attention to an extra ten or fifteen pounds."
"I skim ten off mine. I don't know why. It's a compulsion."
"We expect to see Blair Bissel, so we see him. Why should we question
the identity of the victim?"
"But why would he go along with it? Carter? There wasn't any sign of
force, no ligatures. How do you induce somebody to undergo surgery,
change appearance?"
"Could've paid him. Money, sex -probably both. Let's screw with big
brother and screw his girlfriend while we're at it. No love lost
between the brothers."
"There's a wide gulf between no love lost and deliberately, coldly
murdering your brother and your lover. If Kade was helping to set
Carter up-"
"Then Blair planned to do her all along. Yeah, that's what I think. You
want to fake your own death, do it in a big way. A vicious way that
tosses the blood in your wife's face, at least initially, and gets rid
of the monkey on your back and one of the people who knew you
intimately enough to muck the deal. They'll say you were a cheat, a
liar, a bastard. What do you care, you're dead."
"I have to think about this." Peabody pushed away from the desk to
pace. "With this theory, Blair and Kade did a number on Carter outside
the HSO directive."
"Maybe they started inside, probably did, but I figure they started
coloring outside the lines at some point."
"As a solution for the blackmail."
"Partially. It's money, it's adventure, it's risk. All those fit their
profiles. But they had bigger goals. Keep going."
"Crap. Blair was a liaison, doubling under HSO directive, as a liaison
for Doomsday. Feeding them selected data for payment, and establishing
himself as a source, a traitor, a free agent. Part of this cloak was
his marriage to Reva Ewing, blueprinted by the HSO."
"Corporate espionage on one hand-a lucrative game, and with so much
privatization of intel- and data-gathering sources over the last couple
of decades, the HSO has to compete with civilian companies for revenue."
"Like Securecomp."
"Like that, and the dozens of others on and off planet they arranged
for Blair to plant his listening posts. And think about this, Peabody.
You always have to have a backup plan. You require plausible
deniability. What contingency plan do you suppose the architects of
this blueprint drew up in the event one of the sculptures was detected?"
Peabody stopped in front of the screens, studied the faces. "Blair
Bissel, fall guy."
"You bet, and by association, Reva would fall with him and Securecomp
is compromised. It could-and I think would-have been said that they'd
worked together. After all, they were husband and wife."
"So they were building a frame after all."
"Contingencies. Blair'd been in the organization long enough for this
to occur to him. And if not him, it occurred to Kade."
"So he took steps to protect himself?" Peabody shook her head. "Really
big steps."
"Not only protection. Factor in the satisfaction of getting back at his
blackmailing brother, Homeland-the people, the government who'd use and
discard him if things went wrong. Then add a big shit-pile of money."
"From the technos? He makes a deal with them. Unauthorized information.
Something big."
"He's the bridge between points A and B, and he knows more about both
points, in this aspect, than either point knows of each other. Because
he's the one passing the data. He's in control of that. Heady stuff for
a guy with his personality profile. Why not take more? More control,
more power, more money, and get out? Only one way out. Go rogue, and
they'll hunt you down. Both sides."
"But they won't hunt if they think you're dead."
"There you go. Add to that the HSO busy trying to cover up the mess you
left behind, the cops busy investigating a prime suspect handed them on
a platter, and the death of the only person who had knowledge of your
plans, and you're in the cozy part of fat city."
"What went wrong? Why isn't he sitting in the surf on some island
paradise, slurping rum punch and counting his money?"
"Maybe the payment wasn't made. You don't want to go putting all your
eggs in a terrorist's basket. They often end up scrambled. But he'd
been trained well enough to have a contingency plan of his own. He gave
McCoy something. He had to go back for it. She had to die for it."
"And meanwhile, the primary isn't buying his served-on-a-platter prime
suspect. With the cops taking a closer look, so's everyone else."
"Yeah, things got screwed for him, almost from the start. Roarke's into
this Yeats guy who's an old, dead Irish writer. He said something about
things falling apart. The center doesn't hold. The center hasn't been
holding for Blair Bissel."
"And it's been falling apart since you walked into the first crime
scene."
"He's desperate, and he's pissed, and he over-thinks. He's so worried
about covering his ass, he keeps exposing it. He needs to stay dead,
needs to collect his fee. Hard to do both. Killing Powell and
destroying the body identified as his own was stupid. It prevents
positive ID, but it also turns the trail around and heads it right back
at him. He's the only one who'd want that evidence destroyed."
"Then he tries to take you out."
"Like I said, he's pissed. And he's desperate. And you know what he is,
under all this espionage, artsy, woman-sniffing bullshit, Peabody? He's
a screw-up. The kind that keeps making bigger, splashier mistakes to
cover up the last one. He thinks he's a stone-cold killer, but he's a
selfish, spoiled little boy playing-what's that guy's name -James Bond-
then having a tantrum when he doesn't quite pull it off."
"He may not be stone-cold, but he's killed four people, knocked you
around pretty good, and put an assistant director of the HSO in the
hospital."
"I didn't say he wasn't dangerous. Kids having temper tantrums are
pretty damn dangerous. Scare the hell out of me."
"So, according to your theory, we have a cranky, immature, HSO-trained
killer."
"Pretty much."
Peabody blew out a breath that fluttered her ruler-straight bangs.
"That is pretty scary. How do we catch him?"
"Working on that." Eve started to prop her feet on the desk, had the
twinge of revolting muscles shoot straight through her body. "Shit."
"You'd better work on those bruises."
"I don't have bruises on my brain. I can still think. Let's get the
rest of the team in here, civilians included, and kick this ball
around."
"You want Ewing in on this?"
"She was married to him for two years. It might have been a convenience
to him, but she still would've learned something about him. Habits,
fantasies, hangouts. If Sparrow lives, regains consciousness, and opts
to share information on Bissel, that may help, but right now, Reva
Ewing's our best source."
"You're going to tell her that the husband she was accused of murdering
is not only alive, in your opinion, but is the one who set her up?"
"If she can't deal with it, she's no help and we're no worse off. Let's
see if she inherited any of her mother's spine."
* * *
Feeney came in muttering figures and command codes into a PPC. His chin
was stubbled with ginger and gray and the bags under his eyes could've
held a week's marketing for a family of three -but there was a gleam in
them.
"Bad time to interrupt, kid," he said to Eve. "We're on the verge."
"There's another prong to this investigation, and that may be on the
verge, too. Where are the others?"
"Roarke and Tokimoto are finishing up running a series. Don't want to
walk away in the middle of that, not after what it's taken to get
there. We got one of Kade's units as clean as it's going to get. McNab
and Ewing are just about done reinstalling some . . ."
He stopped, pursed his lips as he finally lifted his head and took a
good look at her. "Said you got slammed around. They meant it. Ought to
put some ice on that eye."
"Is it going black? Damn it." She pressed her fingers gingerly along
the top edge of her cheekbone, and felt the bolt of pain right down to
her toes. "I took a blocker. Isn't that enough?"
Peabody came out of the kitchen with an ice bandage. "If you let me put
this on it, it'll sting a minute, and look stupid. But it'll decrease
the bruising and swelling. You may not end up with a full shiner."
"Just do it, don't talk about it."
Eve set her teeth while Peabody fixed the bandage. The sting drowned
out the throbbing, which wasn't that much of an improvement.
"Ouch," McNab commented with a sympathetic wince as he strolled in.
"Heard you lost your ride, too."
"Wasn't much of a loss. Where's Ewing?"
"Right behind me. Just had to make a pit stop. Okay if I pump some
fuel? I'm empty."
"There's cobbler," Peabody called out as he was already heading to the
kitchen. "Apple-cranberry."
"Cobbler?" Feeney repeated.
"Jeez. Go ahead." Eve threw up her hands. "Eat, drink, be merry. Every
multiple homicide investigation should have cobbler."
"I'm going to get you something cold to drink," Peabody decided. "You
should probably be pushing fluids."
With that Eve found herself alone in her office, wondering how she'd so
easily lost the reins of her team.
Marital discord, she decided, was like some sort of low-grade fever
that threw the whole system just slightly out of whack so you couldn't
manage to function at full capacity.
She wasn't at the top of her game, that was for sure, and had no idea
how to get back there again.
"You want food," she snapped out the minute Reva came in, "get food.
You want drink, get drink. But make it fast. This isn't a damn
twenty-four/seven."
Reva merely angled her head. "I'm fine, thanks. But I'm betting you
feel as bad as you look. Roarke and Tokimoto are going to be a few more
minutes. They're at a flash point."
"They aren't the only ones. We're not going to wait for them. Or for
anybody else!" she called out. "You're going to want to sit down for
this."
"Because this is going to be a really long lecture or because you're
going to, metaphorically, give me a punch?"
"I'm hoping you can take a punch."
Reva nodded and took the closest chair. "Don't pull it. Whatever it is,
I'd rather you go for the knockout instead of a lot of testing jabs.
I'm tired. And with every hour that passes, I feel more of an idiot for
not seeing what was in front of my face, day after day, for over two
years."
"What was in front of your face was a guy who behaved and portrayed
himself as someone who loved you, and was brought into your life by
someone else you trusted."
"Goes a long way to measuring how well I judge people."
"They were pros at what they did, and they worked hard to set you up,
right along. Were you supposed to look at this guy and think: Hey,
secret agent?"
"No." Reva's lips curved. "But you'd think I'd get some vibes about
liar and cheat."
"They screened you and they studied you. They knew everything there was
to know about you before you met either of them. They knew what was
public and private. You were laid up for months for shielding a
president, for doing your job. Maybe they hoped you'd have some
resentment about that, or that your work for the government would make
you open to working with them."
"Fat fucking chance."
"And when they got that, they moved on you personally. He knew what you
liked to eat, what flowers you preferred, your hobbies, your finances,
who you slept with or cared about. You were nothing to them but a tool,
and they knew how to use you."
"The first night, at the art showing, he asked me if I'd have a drink
with him. Great-looking guy, funny, sweet, hey, why not. We sat for
hours, talking. I felt like I'd known him all my life. Like I'd been
waiting for him all my life."
She looked down at her hands. "I'd been involved before, pretty serious
involvement before I was injured, then that fell apart. But nothing
came close to what I felt for Blair. And it was all fabrication. It
wasn't perfect. He'd get sulky or irritated at the least slight or
criticism, but I figured that was part of the deal, you know? Part of
being married and figuring each other out, making each other happy. I
wanted to make him happy. I wanted to make it work."
"It's never perfect," Eve said half to herself. "Whenever you think it
is, something sneaks up and bites you on the ass."
"I'll say. Anyway, I'm tired. Tired of feeling stupid, of feeling sorry
for myself. So tell me why I'm sitting down. One punch."
"Okay. It's my belief that Blair Bissel orchestrated and committed the
homicides at Felicity Kade's apartment, killing her and his brother in
order to fake his own death and implicate you."
"That's just crazy." The words wheezed out as if the punch had landed
hard on her throat. "He's dead. Blair's dead. I saw him."
"You saw what you were meant to see, just as you saw what you were
meant to see when he approached you two and a half years ago. And this
time, you were in shock and almost immediately incapacitated."
"But . . . it was verified."
"I think he switched his identification records with his brother's, in
preparation. I believe he set an elaborate stage so that you, the
police, and the clandestine organizations he'd been playing against
each other would believe him dead. Nobody looks for the dead, Reva."
"It's insane. I'm telling you it's insane, Dallas." Reva got to her
feet as the others came in from the kitchen. "Blair was a liar and a
cheat. He used me. I'm doing everything I can to accept all that. I'll
live with that. But he wasn't a killer, he wasn't someone who could . .
. could hack two people to death."
"Who stood to gain from his death?"
"I-you mean financially?"
"In any way."
"I did, I guess. There's money, decent money. You know all that."
"Decent money," Eve repeated. "You've got decent money of your own.
He'll have hidden accounts, and once we find them-"
"Located, listed, and filed on your computer," Roarke said as he walked
in. "As requested, Lieutenant."
"How much?"
"In excess of four million spread over five accounts."
"Not enough."
Roarke inclined his head. "Perhaps not, but it's all there is. He was
neither particularly frugal nor skilled in investment areas. All the
accounts have slow, steady leaks over the six years they've been
opened. He spends, and he speculates, and most usually loses his
capital."
"That plays." She began to reevaluate. "Okay, that plays. He goes
through money, he needs more money. A big score."
"So he kills Felicity and his brother to get it, implicates me? You're
painting a monster. I wasn't married to a monster."
"You were married to an illusion."
Reva's head jerked back as if the blow had landed. "You're grabbing at
air because you don't have anything else. And because you don't want to
leave me with nothing. I loved him, whether or not he was an illusion.
Do you understand the concept?"
"I'm familiar with it."
"You want me to believe I loved someone capable of murder.
Cold-blooded, cold-minded murder."
It took all her will to keep her gaze from flicking, even for an
instant, toward Roarke. And to keep her heart and mind from asking
herself that same question.
"What you believe is your own business. How you handle this is up to
you. If you can't deal with the direction of my investigation, you're
no use to me."
"You're the cold-blooded one. The cold-minded one. And I've been used
just about enough."
When she strode out, Tokimoto eased away from the door and followed her.
"Gee, she took that well." Now Eve allowed herself a slow scan of
faces. "Would anyone like to complete this briefing, or should we break
for comments about my need for sensitivity training?"
"It's a hard knock, Dallas," Feeney said. "No way for you to pretty it
up for her. She'll be back when she shakes it off."
"We'll work without her. Bissel has accounts in various locations, odds
are he's got a bolt-hole -a lavish one, maybe more than one. He's still
in the city, cleaning up after himself, so he must have one here. We
find it."
"I found two properties," Roarke put in. "One in the Canary Islands,
the other in Singapore. Neither were very well cloaked, meaning if I
found them so easily, others would."
"So they're probably blinds. He's not completely stupid. Let's look in
his brother's name, or Kade's, Ewing's. He might have set himself up,
using them as cover, then if . . . No, no. Shit! McCoy. Chloe McCoy. He
had to have more use for her than the occasional bang. Check it out.
See if he tucked away funds and/or property in her name somehow. He
killed her for a reason, and my take is this guy kills for money and
self-preservation."
"I'll take that," McNab volunteered. "Working on a cobbler rush."
"Get started. I'm going to check on Sparrow, see if he's coherent and I
can dig anything out of him. Feeney, I'm leaving you and Roarke on the
machines. If Reva's backed out and Tokimoto's busy patting her head,
you're going to be shorthanded."
"Another tanker of coffee ought to keep us in the game."
"You may want an update before you rush off, Lieutenant. We're
retrieving data from Kade's unit. It's encrypted, but we'll get through
that."
"Great, good. Let me know when-"
"I'm not finished. Each of Kade's units was corrupted, but not through
a networking worm. They were burned individually."
"So what? Look, this is EDD territory. All I need is the bottom line. I
need the data."
"You don't give electronics enough respect," Feeney stated.
"And neither, I'd venture, does Bissel." As Eve hadn't touched the
glass of chilled juice Peabody had brought her, Roarke picked it up and
helped himself. "The potential worm's import is its theoretic ability
to corrupt an entire networking system, however small or large, however
simple or complex, with one stroke, to corrupt and shut down,
irretrievably. That's not what we're dealing with. It's a shade of
that, an early version perhaps, but not nearly as powerful as we've
been led to believe. It's been relatively easy to clean and retrieve
from the units we've got."
"Relatively." Feeney rolled his aching eyes. "It's nasty business, but
it's not global security shit. What it is, is smoke."
"Which means he doesn't have what he thought he had -what he was going
to parlay into a nice retirement fund. But maybe someone else does, or
maybe . . . Son of a bitch. He wasn't trying to take me out." She
tapped her fingers absently over her bruised eye. "He hit his target.
Aim was a little off, but he hit."
Roarke inclined his head as his thoughts marched with hers. "Sparrow."
"It'd help to have somebody on the inside, somebody with some juice who
could adjust or create data in-house. And provide protection. Sparrow.
He's the organized thinker. The planner. Look at Bissel. He's not
brave, he's not very smart, he hasn't been able to work himself up in
the organization. Just a delivery boy. And here's a big opportunity,
handed to him from one of the brass. The big score. Little scores all
along. The corporate espionage. Could be, just could be, some of that
was outside Homeland, a little personal
partnership. Bissel though, he can't capitalize. Just a screw-up with
money. I bet his partner's done better. A hell of a lot better."
"Why not just kill Bissel then?" Peabody asked.
"Because you need a contingency. You need a fall guy. He set the putz
up. Still the delivery boy. Bissel goes to deliver the worm disc to the
high bidder, and it's not the deal. He gets the shaft. Now he's a dead
man, a desperate one. He's running, he's hiding, and at all costs he
has to stay dead. Our friend from the HSO wants him to stay dead, too,
and he's ready with the company line about global security when the
investigation doesn't turn the way he anticipated."
"I imagine he planned to make an honest man out of Bissel by turning
him into a dead man," Roarke said. "Quietly, at some point."
"Should've moved on that sooner rather than later, and he wouldn't be
in the hospital. I think he forgot to factor one vital element into the
equation. When somebody like Bissel starts killing, it gets easier
every time."
She pulled out her communicator. "I want a block on Sparrow. I don't
want anybody, not even the medicals, talking to him until I get my
shot. Start reeling in that data."
"Hook up that tanker of coffee," Feeney reminded her, then headed out.
"I need a moment, Lieutenant." Roarke glanced at Peabody. "A private
one."
"I'll wait outside." Peabody slipped out, shut the door.
"I don't have time to go into personal business," Eve began.
"Sparrow has access to your data, to what happened in Dallas. If you're
right about all of this, he might very well use it against you. Make it
public, even altering it in some way that twists the truth."
"I can't worry about that."
"I can make it disappear. If you want that . . . element removed, I can
remove it. You're entitled to your privacy, Eve. You're entitled to be
secure that your own victimization won't be used to draw speculation,
gossip -and the pity you'd hate more than either."
"You want me to give you the nod to tamper with government files?"
"No, I want you to tell me if you'd prefer those files didn't exist.
Hypothetically."
"Which would let me off the hook. Legally. I wouldn't be an accessory
if I just made a little wish, and poof. This is a hell of a day. This
is a hell of a funny day."
Because emotion was flooding her throat again, she turned away. "You
and me, we haven't been this far apart from each other since the
beginning. I can't reach you, and I can't let you reach me."
"You don't see me, Eve. When you look at me, you don't see the whole of
me. Maybe I've preferred that."
She thought of Reva, of illusions, and a mockery of a marriage. Nothing
could be further from what they were dealing with. Roarke had never
lied, nor pretended to be something other than what he was. And she had
seen him, right from the first moment.
"You're wrong, and you're stupid." There was more weariness than temper
in the words, and as such struck him more forcefully. "I don't know how
to get through this. I can't talk to you about it, because it just
circles. I can't talk to anyone else, because if I tell them what's
ripping at us, it makes them an accessory. You think I don't see you?"
She turned back, looked straight into his eyes. "I'm looking at you,
and I see you. I know you're capable of killing, and feeling justified,
feeling right. I know that, and I'm still here. I don't know what the
hell to do, but I'm still here."
"If I wasn't capable, I wouldn't be who I am, what I am, where I am.
Neither of us would be here, wrestling with this."
"Maybe not, but I'm too tired to wrestle. I have to go. I need to go."
She walked quickly to the door, wrenched it open. Then she shut her
eyes. "Make it disappear. Fuck hypothetical. I take responsibility for
what I say, what I do. Make it gone."
"Consider it done."
When she left him, he sat down at her desk in the quiet, and wished,
with everything inside him, that he could make the rest of it vanish as
easily.
* * *
Reva waylaid her on the way outside. "I don't have time," Eve said
curtly and kept moving.
"It'll only take a minute. I want to apologize. I asked you to give it
to me straight, and when you did, I didn't handle it. I'm sorry, and
I'm pissed off at myself for reacting the way I did."
"Forget it. Are you going to handle it now?"
"Yeah, I'm going to handle it now. What do you need?"
"I need you to think. Where he might go, what his next steps would be
in a crisis. What's he doing now besides trying to find a way out?
Think it through, lay it out. Have it ready for me when I get back."
"You'll have it. He'd have to work," she called out as Eve streamed out
the door. "His art wasn't just a cover, it couldn't have been. It's his
passion, his escape, his ego. He'd have to have a place to work."
"Good. Keep it up. I'll be back."
"That was well-done." Tokimoto stepped out of the parlor, into the
foyer.
"I hope so. I'm not doing so well otherwise."
"You need time to adjust, to grieve, to be angry. I hope you'll feel
able to talk to me when you need someone."
"I've been talking you black-and-blue so far." She sighed. "Tokimoto,
can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Are you hitting on me?"
He stiffened like a rod. "That would be inappropriate under the
circumstances."
"Because I might still be married or because you're not interested?"
"Your marriage would hardly be a factor, considering. But you're not in
a state of mind where . . . An advance of a personal nature is clearly
inappropriate while your emotions and your situation are in flux."
She found herself smiling, just a little. And found something opening
inside her again, just a little. "You didn't say you weren't
interested, so I'll just say I don't think I'd mind. If you worked up
to hitting on me."
To test it out, she rose on her toes and touched her lips lightly to
his. "No," she said after a moment, "I don't think I'd mind. Why don't
you think about it?"
She was still smiling, just a little, as she started back upstairs.
Quinn Sparrow would live. He might, with several months of intensive
therapy and treatments, walk again-if he had the same level of will and
guts Reva Ewing had called upon to recover from her injuries.
It was, to Eve's mind, a solid kind of justice.
He had broken bones, a fractured spine, and a concussion among other
insults. He would require reconstructive surgery on his face.
But he would live.
Eve was glad to hear it.
He was and would remain in Intensive Care for at least forty-eight
hours. He was sedated, but Eve's badge and some bullying got her
through.
She left Peabody posted at the door.
He was either sleeping or zoned when she walked in. She was banking on
the zoned and shut off his IV drip of blockers without a twinge of
remorse.
It only took a few moments for him to surface, moaning.
He looked considerably worse for wear, brutally bruised around his
bandages, with a skin cast on his right arm, another along with a
stability cage-that looked a little like one of Bissel's
sculptures-around his right leg.
The wedge of collar prevented any movement of his head or neck.
"You in there, Sparrow?"
"Dallas." White at the lips, he shifted his eyes, tried to focus on
her. "What the fuck?"
She moved closer, making it easier for him to keep her in his line of
vision, and laid a hand in what she considered a "survivors of the
battle" gesture on his shoulder. "You're in the hospital. You're
strapped in to restrict movement."
"I don't remember. How . . . how bad?"
It was, she thought, a nice touch to look away for a moment as if she
was struggling to speak. "It's . . . it's pretty bad. He hit us, hard.
You took the worst. Vehicle went up like a rocket, crashed like a bomb.
Slammed into a maxi on your side. You're messed up bad, Sparrow."
She felt his shoulder tremble as he tried to move. "Christ, Christ, the
pain."
"I know. It's gotta be rugged. But we got him." She closed a hand over
his now, squeezed. "We got the bastard."
"What? Who?"
"We got Bissel, wrapped and locked. Still had the shoulder launcher he
used on us. Blair Bissel, Sparrow, alive and well, and singing like a
canary."
"That's crazy." He groaned. "I need the doctor. I need something for
the pain."
"I want you to listen, to dig down and pay attention. I don't know how
much time you've got."
"Time?" His fingers jerked under hers. "Time?"
"I want to give you a chance to clear your conscience, Sparrow. To set
the record straight. You deserve that much. He's dumping the whole ball
on you. Listen to me. Listen." She tightened her fingers on his. "I've
got to give it to you, and you've got to prepare yourself. You're not
going to make it."
His skin went sickly gray. "What are you talking about?"
She leaned in close so he could see only her face. "They did everything
they could. Worked on you for hours. There's too much damage."
"I'm dying?" His voice, already a weak tremble, cracked. "No. No. I
want a doctor."
"They'll be back in a minute. They'll give you . . . they'll give you a
humane dose. You'll go out easy."
"I'm not going to die." Tears swam, and spilled over. "I don't want to
die."
She pressed her lips together, as if overcome. "I thought you'd want to
hear it from me, from . . . a colleague. His aim had been better, we'd
both be on our way out. But he just sheered the front end, and we
flipped. They saved your leg," she continued, and paused to clear her
throat. "They hoped that . . . Christ. The impact messed up your
insides, messed them up bad. The son of a bitch killed you, Sparrow,
and tried for me."
"I can't see. I can't move."
"You've gotta stay quiet, still. It'll buy you time. You've been out of
it, Sparrow, and he's using that. He tried to wipe us both, and because
of that I'm trying to give you a chance to go out with some dignity.
I'm going to read you your rights." She paused again, shook her head.
"Jesus, this sucks."
He began to tremble as she recited the revised Miranda. "You understand
your rights and obligations, Assistant Director Sparrow?"
"What the hell is this about?"
"It's about setting the record straight, and getting some of your own
back here. A good lawyer's going to get Bissel off with a few slaps if
you don't tell me how it went down. He's counting on you just dying.
Dying and taking the hard rap. He says you killed Carter Bissel and
Felicity Kade."
"That's bullshit."
"I know it, but he might convince the PA. Jesus, Sparrow, you're dying!
Tell me the truth, let me shut this down, put him away. He killed you."
She leaned in close, lowered her voice. "Make him pay."
"Stupid fuck-up. Who knew he had it in him? How'd it all end up like
this?"
"Tell me, and I'll see to it he goes down. You've got my word on it."
"He killed Carter Bissel and Felicity Kade."
"Who?"
"Blair! Blair Bissel killed Carter Bissel and Felicity Kade. He sniffed
a little Zeus to give himself some backbone and sliced them up."
"Why? Give me some juice so I can drown him in it."
"He was going to disappear, with a big chunk of change. Set up the wife
so the cops closed the book. Open, shut. Shoulda been open, shut."
"You sent Reva the photographs of Blair and Kade?"
"Yeah. I took them, dropped them on her when the rest was in place. I
can't feel my legs. I can't feel my legs."
"Hold on. Just hold on. I'm recording this, Sparrow. You're going on
record. You're going to put him away for doing this to you. Why'd he
kill Kade?"
"Needed her to tie the bow on the package. And she knew too much about
both of us. Couldn't risk it."
"You were the brains in this. You can't tell me that jerkoff thought
this up on his own."
"I had it all worked out. Should've been a walk. Couple more weeks, I'd
be on a beach sipping fucking mai tais, but he just kept screwing
things up."
"Kade was in on it? She pulled the brother in."
"Know a hell of a lot, don't you?" He stared at Eve with dead eyes.
"I'm putting it together. I've got to be straight with you. You deserve
that. A deathbed confession . . ." She trailed off, watching his face
blanch and crumble. "Well, you know the weight of that. You'll be the
one to lock the cage on him. I want to give you that last act.
Professional courtesy. Felicity Kade drew Carter Bissel into the mix."
"Pulled him in." Sparrow's breath wheezed in, wheezed out, and Eve had
the sudden thought that the bastard might die on her just through the
power of suggestion. "Had the stupid son of a bitch convinced he was
working for the HSO. Going to take over his brother's position. He
bought it. Change his face, make a few deliveries. Get to sleep with
his trainer. He was a dunk."
"I bet. Who took out the guy who did the face and body work? Kade?"
"No. No, she wouldn't get her hands dirty. She had Bissel do it-Carter.
She was good at getting men to do what she wanted."
"But you were the architect, right? Not Kade, certainly not Blair
Bissel. You're not stupid enough to go around killing people right and
left, but you knew how to pull the strings. He thought he had the comp
worm. He thought he could sell it. Live off the proceeds the rest of
his life. But he never had it."
"Can't have what doesn't exist. I made it up." His smile turned to a
grimace. "I can't take this pain, Dallas. I can't take it."
His whine set her teeth on edge, but she gave his hand another
bolstering squeeze. "It won't be much longer. There's no worm?"
"Yeah, there's a worm. It's just not as advertised. I invented it,
hyped it, documented the skewed data and intel. Doomsday's been trying
to create one, a fricking decade. Works in theory, but in practice it
just self-cannibalizes or mutates when it hits the shields. You insert
at port, it'll mess up a unit, fry its ass, but it won't network, and
won't infect by remote. But if it did . . ."-his pale, battered face
shone for a moment with pleasure-". . . it'd be worth billions."
"So it was all just a con -on HSO and the global agencies, on Doomsday.
You created the intel that supported the myth that the worm was real,
that it was a threat. Then you planted your man with the project head
of the company who nabs the Code Red. Feed the HSO data, sell same to
interested parties. You're raking it in on both ends, and all over
something that doesn't yet exist, and may never exist. But Securecomp's
working on it, and they might just create the worm for you. Yeah,
you're smart."
"They were getting close. Roarke's got some brain trust at Securecomp.
I get what they've got together with what I've got, what I'm pulling
from Doomsday, maybe I can put it together and get myself a nice bonus.
You know what you make annually as an AD? You make shit. Just like a
cop."
"And being as we're so underpaid, you didn't figure the cops would dig
too deep into the Bissel/Kade murders."
"Served it up so neat and pretty. But things went wrong."
"You could stall, though, pressure to have the locals turn over the
investigation. And you had your goat with Bissel. He tries to sell the
disc, and it's worthless."
"Figured the buyer would execute him, bury the body, once they figured
out the worm wasn't what he claimed. That would take some time, put
some distance between him and me. He wiggled out of that, though. He
talks a pretty good game."
"But he can't access his money without sending up a flag, to you. And
even if he got desperate enough to try, we started finding and freezing
his accounts. So he stages McCoy's suicide. What did she have that he
wanted?"
"I don't know. I don't know where she fits. He should've slipped off,
counted his losses, but the stupid son of a bitch panics, kills her,
kills that stupid orderly, steals the body. What's he think the cops're
going to do? Might as well have taken out a fricking ad on an airblimp."
"How long have you two been doing the corporate espionage on the side?"
"What the hell does it matter?"
He was pouting now, she thought. Wimp was pouting because his big plans
had blown up in his face and killed him.
"The more you give me, the deeper I can bury him."
"Six, seven years. I've got a nice retirement fund, got a place on
Maui, and another I've got my eye on in Tuscany. I'd've been set,
living large, before I was forty. Had to start covering my tracks."
"Eliminate your partners," Eve agreed. "Better, smarter, have them
eliminate each other. And move to a one-man, more profitable
organization. All those listening posts planted in Bissel's sculptures
all over the world-and off-all yours alone now. You can gather your
intel, invest, anticipate. Yeah, you'd've been sipping mai tais, and
still raking it in. I gotta say, Sparrow, it's brilliant."
His damp eyes shone for a moment in pleasure. "It's what I do. Crunch
data, think up scenarios, blueprint dirty tricks to compromise or
dispose of targets. You have to know how and when to use people."
"And you knew how to use Bissel. Both of them. And Kade. And Ewing."
"Wasn't supposed to be so complicated. Bissel hits Kade, goes under.
Was supposed to go under for a few weeks, then make the sale. But he
went right after it. Didn't give it time to settle, for me to see if it
worked and cooled off."
"Cooled off so you could make certain you didn't need him, so he could
be eliminated."
"You don't throw away tools until you're sure they've outlived their
usefulness. Terminations are part of the game. You know that. Death's
necessary. I've never killed anybody, and I wouldn't have had to do
him. Leak some intel, point the right person in the right direction.
He'd be taken out. I'm not a murderer, Dallas. I just engaged a tool.
Blair Bissel did the killing. Every one of them. I was at the Flatiron,
corrupting his data units, when he did the hit on his brother and Kade."
"Why go there?"
"I needed to upload any data he might've kept on the operation there,
and to crash his units so he couldn't use them. Just covering tracks. I
wasn't anywhere near Kade's place when it went down, and I've got
alibis for the hits on McCoy and Powell. Blair Bissel did the
terminations. I'm going to die, but I'll be damned if he's going to
hang me with murder."
"I think we can make that conspiracy to murder, accessory to murder,
before and after the fact. Multiple counts. We can probably throw in
all sorts of nice pluses like obstruction of justice, tampering with
government files, espionage, and that big mama, treason. I think you
can say bye-bye to Maui, Sparrow, and those pretty hills in Tuscany."
"I'm fucking dying. Give me a break."
"Right." She pulled her hand free of his and smiled. "I've got some
good news and some bad news. Good news, from your point of view, is
you're not dying. I exaggerated your medical condition a bit."
"What?" He struggled to sit up and only went sheet-white with the pain.
"I'm going to be all right?"
"You'll live. You might not walk again, and you're going to have some
serious pain with the physical therapy and treatments over the next few
months. But you'll live. Bad news? Doctors say you're pretty strong and
healthy otherwise, so you should last decades in a cage."
"You said I was dead. You said-"
"Yeah." She hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. "Cops're such
liars. I don't know why you assholes believe us."
"Bitch. Goddamn bitch." He fought to raise himself, going white, then
red as he strained against the stabilizers. "I want a lawyer. I want a
doctor."
"You can have both. Excuse me, Sparrow, I've got to go arrange for a
meeting between your superiors and mine. I bet they're going to have a
high old time with this recording."
"You walk out of here with that . . ." He gasped against the pain, and
the fear. Eve read them both in his eyes. "You walk out of here with
that recording, and I'll have your records all over the media within
the hour. Everything that happened in Dallas. Everything in that file,
including the speculation that you committed patricide. You're finished
as a cop when I get finished spinning those records out to the media."
Eve tilted her head, and smiled. "What records?"
She let her smile widen as she pushed open the door. "Nailed, to the
wall," she said to Peabody.
And she could hear Sparrow screaming for a doctor as she strode away.
"I need you to take the recording, copy it, write the report. I want
him charged fast. Go through Whitney, push the grease."
"What are the charges?"
"It's all on the record. He's not going anywhere," Eve added as they
started down in the overcrowded elevator. "And I don't think Bissel
will try for him again, but I want a man on the door."
"Okay. Are you going somewhere?"
"I want to play some of this off of Mira, see if any of this new data
gives her an idea how and where Bissel might move next. He's seriously
screwed with Sparrow alive and wrapped, and that might make him more
dangerous. Nobody's left for him to go for."
"There's you."
"Yeah. That'd be a nice plus."
"You sure have a twisted sense of optimism."
"Yeah, I'm Polly-freaking-anna. Take the ride. I'll track Mira down and
grab public transpo."
"I get to drive the mag civilian vehicle. Again?" Peabody did a quick
tap and shuffle. "Man, I love being a detective."
"Get Sparrow secured, write the report, get Whitney to push through the
arrest warrant, then get back over here and serve it. Then see how much
you love it."
She pulled out her pocket 'link. "Oh, and requisition us a new ride."
"You're the superior officer," Peabody reminded her. "The request
should come from you."
"And my name is kick-her-ass in Requisitions. I put in, they'll dig up
some piece of shit heap with an attitude. They save them for me."
"That's a factor. You know, we could bog down the request, and keep
using one of Roarke's. I mean, he's got plenty of vehicles."
"We're cops. We use a cop car."
"Spoilsport," Peabody grumbled when Eve hiked away.
* * *
She took a cab to Mira's residence because her body was one massive
ache, and the idea of the subway with its crowds and smells seemed like
more punishment than she deserved.
Mira answered the door herself, and had already changed out of her work
gear into rust-colored pants and a roomy white shirt.
"Thanks for making the time."
"It's absolutely no problem. Look at you," Mira said with concern as
she lifted a hand to Eve's face. "The incident's all over the news.
With speculation it was a botched terrorist attack on Central."
"It goes back to Bissel, and it's a lot more personal. I'll explain."
"You should sit down, and we'll . . ." She turned, beamed as her
husband came toward her with a loaded tray. "Dennis, you remembered."
"Eve likes coffee." He winked at Eve with his dreamy eyes. He was
wearing a baggy cardigan with a hole in the sleeve and worn brown
trousers. He smelled, Eve thought, a little like cherries.
His expression sobered as he scanned the bruises. "Was there an
accident?"
"It was pretty much deliberate. It's nice to see you, Mr. Mira."
"Charlie, you should take care of this girl."
"Yes, I will. Why don't we go upstairs, and I'll take a look at you?"
"Thanks, but I really don't have time-"
Dennis was already starting up with the tray. "We can discuss the case
while I treat you," Mira said, and took a firm hold of Eve's arm.
"Otherwise, I'll be distracted."
"It looks worse than it is," Eve began.
"Yes, so they always say."
There was a lot of color. It was one of the things Eve always noted
about Mira's home. All the color and pretty little whatnots sitting
around. Flowers and photographs.
Mira took her into a cozy sitting room done in quiet blues and misty
greens. Over a small fireplace was a family portrait of the Miras,
their children and spouses, their grandchildren. It wasn't a formal
pose, but a casual kind of grouping, as if a conversation was taking
place.
"Nice," Eve said.
"Yes, isn't it? My daughter had it done from a photograph and gave it
to me last Christmas. The children have already grown so much since.
Well. I just need to get a few things. Dennis, entertain Eve for a
moment."
"Hmm?" He'd set down the tray and looked around absently.
"Keep Eve company."
"Your husband's not coming?" Dennis poured the coffee. "Nice boy."
"No, he's . . . this is really a professional visit. I'm sorry to
interrupt your evening."
"Pretty girl's never an interruption." He patted his pockets, looked
around blankly. "I seem to have misplaced the sugar."
There was something about him-the mop of hair, the baggy sweater, the
bemused expression-that stirred a little glow of affection inside her.
"I don't use any."
"Good thing. Don't know where the hell I left it. Remembered the
cookies, though." He picked one up, handed it to her. "Look like you
could use one, sweetie."
"Yeah." She stared at it and wondered why it, the gesture, the room,
the scent of the flowers on the mantel combined to make her eyes sting.
"Thanks."
"It's rarely as bad as we think it is." He patted her shoulder and had
her throat going hot. "Unless it's worse. Charlie'll fix you up. I'm
going to take my coffee out on the patio," he said when Mira came back.
"Let you girls gab."
Eve bit into the cookie, swallowed hard. "I've got a crush on him," she
said when she and Mira were alone.
"So do I. You'll need to take off your clothes."
"Why?"
"I can tell by the way you move you've got injuries, and pain. Let's
deal with it."
"I don't want-"
"And you can take your mind off what I'm doing by telling me about
Bissel."
Accepting that an argument would only drag things out, Eve stripped off
the shirt, then the trousers. Mira's quick wince of sympathy had Eve
hunching in defense.
"Mostly from the safeties. You know, the harness, impact bags."
"And would have been considerably worse without them, yes. You were
treated on scene?"
"Yeah." Eve felt her insides draw up as Mira opened a medical bag.
"Look, they did all the stuff. And I took a blocker, so-"
"When?"
"When what?"
"When did you take something for pain?"
"Before . . . a while ago. A few hours," she mumbled when leveled by
Mira's patient gaze. "I don't like meds."
"All right, let's see what we can do without them. I'm going to put the
chair back. Relax. Close your eyes. Trust me."
"That's what they all say."
"Tell me what you've learned about Bissel."
It wasn't so bad, Eve thought. Whatever Mira was doing didn't add to
the pain, or layer on any stings or twinges. Best, it didn't make her
feel lightheaded and stupid.
She ran through the progress of the case, and didn't pause when Mira
began to work on her face.
"So he's alone now," Mira said. "Angry, displaced, and probably feeling
very, very sorry for himself. A dangerous mix with a man of his
emotional content. His ego has been severely attacked. He should be
patting himself on the back now, lavishly. Instead things continue to
go wrong-through no fault, in his mind, of his own. He has a very
vaulted opinion of himself, so someone else must be to blame. He
sacrificed his wife, his brother, both his lovers without a qualm. He
has no capability for real emotion, real attachments."
"Sociopathic?"
"Of a kind, yes. But it's not simply that he has no conscience. It's
that he sees himself as above the behaviors, needs, attachments, rules
of general society. An artist on one hand, a spy on the other. He's
wallowed in the thrill of these parts of himself, preened on the
pleasure of his own cleverness. He's spoiled, and wants more. More
money, more women, more adulation. He would have enjoyed the risk of
killing. The planning stages, the idea of playing both ends for his own
means."
"Sparrow did the planning."
"Yes, our organized thinker, but Bissel wouldn't see it that way. He
was the field operative, thinking on his feet and getting the job done.
Adding his flourishes. In his capacity for the HSO, he was, basically,
a delivery boy. This has given him the opportunity to show them, show
everyone, how much more he is."
"But if it had worked, no one would know."
"He would know. He'd have fooled everyone, and he would know.
Eventually, he'd have been compelled to share this with someone, to
brag. He'd had Kade, his associates within the HSO, he'd had Sparrow.
He could show his true face to these people. With them gone, he'd have
to seek other outlets. Self-satisfaction wouldn't hold him long."
Gently, she brushed Eve's hair back and treated the laceration on her
temple. "Sparrow's mistake was in not factoring in how much Bissel
would enjoy the limelight, the thrill of killing and being a critical
part of the plan."
"Now that it's all gone to hell?"
"Bissel will only have more to prove. He may go to ground, but he won't
stay there. In the past, his art fed that part of his ego that needed
public acknowledgment, praise, admiration. That spotlight's been taken,
too. He needs a show. A platform."
"If I make it public that he's still alive, that he's . . . the star,
that would give him the show. He'd need to come out, wouldn't he? Take
a bow."
"I believe he would. But with his violent tendencies, with his rapid
descent into them, he'll be dangerous. His killing pattern has
escalated. The first, though the most brutal, was specific, and
personal, and part of a blueprint already drawn for him. McCoy was more
cruel, more cold, and orchestrated completely on his own. Powell took
it beyond. This was a stranger. And the last -while his target was
certainly the man he felt had ruined everything -injured a number of
bystanders. They meant nothing to him. No one does but himself."
She closed her bag. "I'm going to bring the chair back up now. You can
get dressed. And have another cookie."
Eve opened her eyes, looked down at herself. Cuts and bruises were
covered with something pale gold that didn't, in her opinion, look any
better than the injuries themselves. But the aches had largely subsided.
"Feels better."
"I imagine. I used topicals. An internal blocker would help, but we
won't push it."
"Appreciate it." She rose, began to dress. "I've got the technos on my
team working on finding any bolt-holes, and I can continue to tie up
his funds, making it tough for him to access anything. The only people
I can figure he might go for, out of spite, are his wife and his
mother-in-law, and they're both tucked up. I'm going to let the media
have his name as suspect, and enough of the circumstances to light a
fire under him. I'm going to smoke him out."
"It'll be your fault then. He'll panic first, but then he'll try to
find a way to punish you for upending the rest of his plans."
"He's stupid." Eve buttoned her shirt. "He's gotten this far largely on
dumb luck. His luck's about to change. I've got to get back, work a
release through the media liaison. I want this one real official."
"Could you sit down another moment?" To ensure she did, Mira sat
herself. "Will you tell me what else is hurting you?"
"I think you hit all the hot spots."
"I'm not talking about physical injuries. I know your face so well now.
I know when you've exhausted yourself with work, and when there's
something more, something other that's pushing you to the edge. You've
worn yourself out. You're hurt and you're unhappy."
"I can't talk about it. Can't," she said before Mira could speak.
"There's a problem, and there's no point in me telling you there isn't.
I don't know if it can be fixed."
"Everything can, one way or the other. Eve, whatever you tell me here
stays here. In confidence. If I can help-"
"You can't." Despair worked its way to the surface and made her tone
sharp. "You can't help, you can't fix it, and there's no point in you
saying things you think I want to hear to draw me out, or to put a damn
topical on it. I've got work."
"Wait." Mira got to her feet as Eve did. "What does that mean-that I
would say what I think you want to hear?"
"Nothing." Eve dragged her hands through her hair. "Nothing. I'm in a
pisser of a mood, that's all."
"I don't think that's all. We've had what I feel is a good, an
important, personal rapport. If there's something that's interfering
with that, I'd like to know."
"Look, Dr. Mira, it's your job to dig under, and to use whatever tools
it takes. I appreciate the help you've given me, the personal help as
well as on the job. Let's let it go at that."
"I certainly won't. Do you think I've been dishonest with you?"
She didn't have the time, and less of an inclination to get into
personal matters. But noting the set expression on Mira's face, Eve
calculated it was best to approach this as she had the treatment for
her injuries: Strip down and get it over with.
"I think you . . . Okay, it's a method, right, for the therapist to
find or create a mutual ground with a patient? A kind of connection."
"It can be, yes. And I did this with you by . . ."
"You told me, a long while back, you told me you'd been raped by your
stepfather."
"Yes. I gave you that personal information because you didn't believe I
could understand what you'd been through as a child. How you felt
remembering being raped by your father."
"It opened me up, and that was your job. Mission accomplished."
Obviously baffled, Mira lifted her hands. "Eve?"
"Earlier this summer, you sat on the patio of the house, drinking wine,
relaxing. Just a nice little moment. It was after I told you Mavis was
pregnant. And you told me about your parents. Your mother, your father,
how they had this nice, long-term marriage, how you had all these
pretty memories."
"Ah." Mira let out a little laugh, and sat again. "And this has been
troubling you ever since? Yet you said nothing."
"I couldn't quite figure out how to call you a liar . . . and what
would be the point? You were just doing your job."
"It wasn't just the job, and I didn't lie. Either time. But I certainly
see why you'd believe I did and how it would make you feel. I'd like
you to listen to me. Please."
Eve fought the urge to check the time on her wrist unit. "All right."
"When I was a girl, my parents' marriage disintegrated. I don't know
why, except that there was some elemental problem, something they
couldn't, or wouldn't resolve. They pulled away from each other, ripped
the fabric of their relationship. They divorced."
"You said-"
"Yes, I know. It was a difficult time for me. I was angry and hurt,
confused. And like most children, self-absorbed. So, of course, I
believed I was at fault. Believing that, I was only more angry, with
both of them. My mother was, is, a very vital, attractive woman. She
was financially well off, had an important career. And she was
miserably unhappy. Her way of coping was to surround herself with
people, to keep busy. Mothers and daughters sometimes fall into a
pattern of bickering, especially when they're a great deal alike. We
were, and we did. During this difficult and hostile time, she met a
man." Mira's voice changed, subtly, went just a bit tight at the edges.
"Charming, personable, attentive, handsome. He swept her off her feet.
Flowers, gifts, time. She married him impulsively, less than four
months after she and my father divorced."
She rose, went to the coffeepot. "I shouldn't have a second cup of
this. I'll be buzzing around driving Dennis to distraction half the
night. But . . ."
"You don't have to tell me this. I get the picture. I'm sorry."
"No, I'll finish it. Though I'll shorten a long story for both our
sakes." She set the coffeepot down again, and spent a moment just
tracing her fingers over the purple pansies that decorated it.
"The first time he touched me, I was shocked. Outraged. He warned me
that she'd never believe me, that she'd send me away. I'd been in a
little bit of trouble. Acting out, you might say." She smiled, sat
again. "Won't go into that. But my mother and I were at odds, very much
at odds. He was convincing, and frightened me. I was young, and felt
powerless. You understand."
"Yeah."
"She traveled quite a bit. I think -well, it came out later, that she'd
realized she'd made a mistake, marrying him. But she'd already had one
marriage fail, and she wasn't going to give up so quickly. She focused
on her career for a time, and he had many opportunities to molest me.
He used drugs to keep me . . . quiet. It went on for a very long time.
I told no one. In my mind, my father had deserted me, my mother loved
this man more than she loved me. And neither of them cared if I lived
or died. I attempted suicide."
"It's hard," Eve managed, "really hard to feel like you're alone in all
that."
"You were alone. But yes, it's equally hard to feel alone, and
helpless, and guilty. Fortunately, I bungled the suicide. My parents,
both of them, were in my hospital room, at their wits' end. It came
spewing out of me, all of it. The rage, the fear, the hate. It all came
out, two and a half years of rape and abuse."
"How'd they handle it?" Eve asked when Mira fell into silence.
"In a most unexpected way. They believed me. He was arrested. Imagine
my surprise," she murmured. "That it could be stopped, just by speaking
of it. That saying it out loud could make it stop."
"That's why you became a doctor. So you could make it stop for other
people."
"Yes. I didn't think of it then. I was still angry, still hurt, but
yes. I had therapy-individual, group, family. And sometime during that
healing period, my parents found each other again. They mended what was
ripped. We don't often talk of that time. I don't often think of it.
When I think of my parents, I think of them as they were before things
began to unravel, and as they've been since they repaired the damage. I
don't think of the bitter years."
"You forgave them."
"Yes, and myself. They forgave each other, and me. We were stronger for
it," Mira added. "And I think I was drawn to Dennis because of his
bottomless well of kindness, and decency. I'd learned the value of
those things because I'd seen their opposite."
"How do you find the way back? How do you find the way when a marriage
crumbles under you, and you turn away from each other? When it's bad,
so bad you can't talk about it, or think about it?"
Mira reached out, laid her hands over Eve's. "You can't tell me what's
hurting you, and Roarke?"
"I can't."
"Then I'll tell you the simple and most complex answer is love. It's
where you start, and where, if you work hard enough, want hard enough,
you end."
She didn't want to go home. It was, Eve knew, evasion at its worst, but
she didn't want to go home to a houseful of people. She didn't want to
go home to Roarke.
The answer couldn't be love -simple or complex- she didn't see how that
could be it. She couldn't find her way through this thing that was
strangling her marriage. And if she loved the man any more than she
did, she'd burn up from it.
She didn't see how the answer could be evasion either, though it helped
at the moment. Walking in the city on a balmy evening, the familiar
ground, the familiar sounds of irritable traffic, the smell of overdone
soy dogs, the occasional whoosh through the vents of a train zooming by
underground.
Clutches of people, ignoring each other -ignoring her- as they went
about their own business and thought their own thoughts.
So she walked, and it occurred to her she never did this anymore. Never
simply walked around the city when she didn't have a specific
destination, a specific purpose. She'd never been the meandering sort.
And she sure as hell wasn't interested in browsing from window to
window to study whatever was being sold.
She could've rousted a couple of the sidewalk grifters hawking knockoff
wrist units, PPCs, fake python handbags -all the rage this season- but
she didn't feel quite mean enough to bother.
She watched two women shell out seventy dollars each for snake bags
complete with fangs for fasteners and wondered what the hell was wrong
with people.
More because it was there than because of hunger, she dropped some
credits on a glide-cart for a soy dog. The stink of the cart's smoke
followed her, and the first bite reminded her how disgusting, and oddly
addicting, the fake meat on a stingy bun could be.
She watched a couple of teenagers weave through pedestrian traffic on
an airboard. The girl riding pinion had her arms around the boy's waist
in what looked like a death grip, and she was squealing in his ear.
From the expression on his face, he didn't seem to mind. Probably made
him feel like a man, Eve decided, to have some girl holding onto him
and pretending she was afraid.
Not bothering to pretend anything was why she'd been so lousy at the
mating rituals, she supposed. Then, with Roarke, she hadn't had to
pretend.
A messenger droid whizzed by on his zip-bike, risking smashed circuits
and vehicular madness as he threaded through the breath of space
between two Rapid cabs, then buzzed the bumper on another. The cab
driver responded with a vicious blast of horn, which set off several
other horns like dogs howling together at the moon.
"I'm driving here!" The driver shouted with his head and upper body
popping out his side window. "I'm driving here, you asshole!"
But the red cap and boots of the messenger droid were only a blur as he
cut through the light on the yellow, and kept jetting.
She heard snatches of conversations as she walked-bits and pieces of
sexual, shopping, or business escapades -all delivered with the same
passion.
A licensed beggar squatted on a rag of blanket and played a mournful
tune on a rusty flute. A woman with a python bag and matching boots
glided out of a shop trailed by a uniformed droid carting several
glossy bags. She slid into a shiny black limo.
Eve doubted she'd heard the flute-she'd bet the beggar wasn't even on
her plane of existence. People didn't pay enough attention, she
decided, and tossed a couple of credits into the beggar's box as she
passed by.
The city was awash with color and sound and energy, with petty meanness
and careless kindnesses. She didn't pay enough attention. She loved it,
but she rarely looked at it.
And if that was some sort of subconscious metaphor for her marriage, it
was time to ditch the rest of the soy dog and get back to work.
She saw the bump and snatch. The man in the suit, carrying a briefcase
who crossed toward the curb to hail a cab. The boy of about twelve who
bumped against him, the quick exchange of words.
Watch it, kid.
Sorry, mister.
And the fast hands, very fast, very light, that nipped into the pocket
of the suit and palmed the wallet.
Still munching her soy dog, she strode toward them just as the boy
turned to melt into the crowd. She caught him by the collar.
"Hold on," she said to the suit.
He sent her a look of irritation as the boy struggled against her hold.
"I'm in a hurry."
"You're going to have a hard time paying for that ride without your
wallet," Eve told him.
Instinctively he patted his pocket, then whirled. "What the hell is
this? Give me back my wallet, you little bastard. I'm calling the cops."
"I am a cop, so just throttle back. Hands off," she snapped when he
started to reach for the boy. "Give it over, ace."
"Don't know what you're talking about. Lemme go. My ma's waiting."
"Whoever's waiting missed the pass, so give me this man's wallet and
let's call it a day. You're good," she said studying his soft, lightly
freckled face. "Not only look harmless, but you've got good hands.
Slick and smooth. If I hadn't been right here, you'd have gotten away
clean."
"Officer, I want this delinquent arrested."
"Give it a rest." Eve reached into the goodie pouch inside the boy's
jacket, pulled out a billfold. Flipped it open and read the ID.
"Marcus." She tossed him the wallet. "You've got your property back. No
harm, no foul."
"He belongs in jail."
She had a strong hold on the boy now, and felt him tremble. She thought
of Roarke running the streets of Dublin, picking pockets and going home
with his take to a father who'd likely beat him no matter what the
day's work had brought in.
"Fine. Let's all go downtown and spend the next couple of hours filling
out forms."
"I don't have time-"
"Then you'd better catch that cab."
"It's hardly a wonder the city is overrun with crime when the police
treat law-abiding citizens with such disdain."
"Yeah, that must be the reason," she replied as he climbed into the
cab, slammed the door. "And you're welcome, sunshine."
She hauled the kid around, studied his young, angry face. "Name, and
don't bother to lie, just give me the first name."
"Billy."
She saw it was a lie, but let it pass. "Okay, Billy, like I said,
you're good. But not that good. Next time you're going to get caught by
somebody without my mushy compassionate nature and winning personality."
"Shit." But he grinned a little.
"Ever been in juvie?"
"Maybe."
"If you have, you know it sucks. Food's lousy and they lecture you
every damn day, which is worse. You got a problem at home, or wherever,
need some help, you call this number."
She dragged a card out of her pocket.
"Dufus? What the hell is that?"
"Duchas. It's a shelter. Hell of a lot better than juvie," she said
when he sneered. "You can tell them Dallas sent you."
"Yeah, sure."
"Put it in your pocket. Don't throw it away until you're out of sight
at least. No point in insulting me after I kept your ass out of lockup."
"You hadn't caught me, I'd have the wallet."
Smartass, she thought. God, she had a weakness for a smartass. "Well,
you've got me there. Scram."
He bolted, then spun around, grinned at her again. "Hey! You're not a
total asshole, for a cop."
And that, she figured, was a better thanks than the suit had managed.
Feeling marginally better, she hailed a cab of her own.
She gave the driver Reva Ewing's home address. He turned around, gave
her a pained stare.
"You want I should drive you to fricking Queens?"
"Yes. I want you should drive me to fricking Queens."
"Lady, I gotta make a living here. Whyn't you take a bus or the subway
or an airtram?"
"Because I'm taking a cab." She yanked out her badge, pressed it to the
safety shield that caged in the driver. "And I gotta make a living
here, too."
"Oh jeez, lady, now you're gonna want the cop rate. Now I'm going to be
driving you to fricking Queens at ten percent off. You know how long
that's going to tie me up?"
"I'll give you the standard fare, but get this bucket of shit moving."
She shoved her badge away. "And don't call me lady."
She ruined the driver's evening when she told him to wait, then
recorded his name and license number to ensure he did. He drooped
behind the wheel as she got out to unseal and unlock the gates.
"How long am I supposed to wait?"
"Let's see. Oh yeah. Until I get back."
EDD had removed the statuary, and it was an improvement. Still, she
imagined Reva would sell the place. She wouldn't want to live where
she'd lived with the man who used and betrayed her.
She unsealed and unlocked the front door and stepped inside. It
had the feel of an empty house, an abandoned one. A home that was
finished, she supposed, being a home. She didn't know what she was
looking for, but she wandered the house much as she'd wandered the
streets. Just to see what popped out at her.
The sweepers and EDD had both combed the place. The faint, metallic
smell of chemicals lingered. To satisfy herself she browsed through
Bissel's closet. Large wardrobe, expensive clothes. She knew how to
recognize expensive material and cuts now.
He'd indulged himself in the two-level space with its revolving racks,
automatic drawers, computerized menu of contents, and their location.
Jesus, even Roarke didn't computerize his wardrobe. Of course, his
brain was a damn computer so he probably knew just where the specific
black shirt he wanted would be, when he'd last worn it, for what
occasion, and with what pants and jacket. Shoes. Fricking underwear.
She blew out a breath and scowled at the little wall screen.
Bissel hadn't fried his closet unit. Because there was nothing on there
worth bothering with, or because there was something on there he wanted
to retrieve?
Curious, she engaged it. "List last wardrobe selection, and date."
Working . . . Last selection on September 16, at twenty-one sixteen, by
Bissel, Blair. Contents removed as follows . . .
She listened to the list, mentally matching it with the contents taken
from Bissel's bags and Kade's closet after the murders. They seemed to
jibe.
"Okay, let's try this. Last use of this unit by Bissel, Blair, for any
purpose."
Last usage September 23, at oh six
hundred twelve hours.
"This morning, the son of a bitch was here this morning? What was the
purpose of usage?"
Purpose blocked. Privacy engaged.
"Yeah, screw that." She keyed in her police code, her badge number, and
spent several annoying minutes trying to override the system. The
fourth time the computer spat PRIVACY ENGAGED at her, she kicked the
wall.
The sound was hollow in the lavish space. "Well, what's this?" She
crouched and began to thump and press on the wall. She
considered, briefly, hunting up a really big knife and just hacking at
the wallboard. But cooler heads prevailed. Instead she pulled out her
communicator and contacted Feeney.
"I'm in Queens, in Bissel's closet."
"What the hell you doing in a closet in Queens?"
"Just listen, he was here. This morning. There's a comp menu thing in
the closet. He used it this morning, but the little bastard won't tell
me why. Privacy block. And there's something behind the wall here, a
hidey-hole or something. How do I get the computer to let me in?"
"You beat on it yet?"
"No." She perked up a bit. "Can I?"
"Won't do any good. Can you open her up?"
"I don't have any tools."
"You can give me a look at it, and I can try to walk you through, or
one of us can come over there and work on it. Probably be faster to
deploy one of the team."
"That's an insult, and don't think I don't know it. It's a damn closet
menu, Feeney, get me in."
He puffed out his cheeks, made little noises while she scanned the unit
so he could see it on his screen. "Okay, key in this code."
He read it off as she input the numbers manually. "What's this? A
privacy override?"
"Just keep going. Snap your fingers and say, 'Open Sesame.'"
She started to obey, then set her teeth. "Feeney."
"Okay, okay, just a little joke. Code's from the data we've been
pulling out here. Let's see if he used it on that unit, too."
"Computer, what was removed by Blair Bissel at last usage?"
Working . . . Contents listed as emergency package.
"Emergency package. What was in the emergency package?"
That data is not available.
"Computer, open the compartment from which said emergency package was
removed."
Acknowledged.
The panel slid open, revealing a small safe. "Bingo. Computer, I said
to open the compartment."
Acknowledged. Compartment is open.
"You have to be specific, Dallas," Feeney told her. "You want the safe
open, you tell it you want the safe open. It can't read your mind."
"Open the damn safe."
Acknowledged. Commencing interface.
There was a low hum and some blinking red lights on both the safe and
the wall unit as they communicated. When it stopped, Eve wrenched open
the safe door.
"Empty," she said. "Whatever it was, he got it all."
* * *
She asked herself what Blair Bissel would have secreted away for an
emergency. Funds, forged ID, codes or passkeys into bolt-holes. But
surely he'd have taken all that with him before he killed Kade and his
brother.
What else, she thought, would a man who prepared to run require enough
to risk breaking into his own house for?
Weapons seemed the most logical.
He hadn't stored a rocket blaster in that little safe, but he might've
stored smaller weapons and passkeys.
Stupid to have left them behind in the first place, she thought as the
cab drove through the gates of home. Sooner or later the safe would
have been discovered, and whatever he'd left behind found.
Then again, it would all have been a kind of mystery, wouldn't it? His
body would have been long since cremated, ensuring he'd stay dead. But
people would wonder about the safe, its contents.
He might have left behind something that would have hinted at the HSO,
at his association. It would make him important, talked about.
Another kind of immortality for the dead man who didn't die.
Yeah. Yeah. That would be right up his alley.
"You want I should wait? Again?"
Eve broke out of her thoughts, stared at the big house with lights
gleaming in some of the windows. "No, last stop. You're sprung."
She pulled out a debit card, swiped it over the scanner.
"You telling me you live here?"
She verified the meter charge and decided to cut him a break and give
him a decent tip. "So?"
"So then you ain't no cop."
"Surprises me all the time, too."
She went straight in and straight up to her office. She wanted, very
much, to go straight to bed. Still playing the evasion game, she
bypassed the lab.
She found her team had been busy in her absence. The full report on
Quinn Sparrow was filed, and copied. He'd been charged. Peabody's
attached personal memo told Eve that there was already political
wrangling taking place between the HSO and the NYPSD on who owned him.
She couldn't work up the spit to care who won that battle. Sparrow was
done, and that was that.
Reva had left her a list of Bissel's habits, routines, favorite haunts
and getaways. Most of those haunts and getaways leaned toward the
trendy or exotic.
She would, in the morning, contact local authorities in all the
out-of-town and foreign locations Reva listed and ask for their
assistance.
But he wasn't out of town, he wasn't in some foreign location. He was,
for now, in New York. Maybe not for much longer, but for now.
She read McNab's report. He'd found nothing under Chloe McCoy and was
now pursuing variations and codes based on that name.
What had she died for? What use had she been for him that had made her
a victim when that use was over?
A locket, a sculpture, and corrupted data on a cheap desk unit.
She made a note to ask Feeney to have the team focus on McCoy's unit.
She worked late, and she worked alone, soothing herself with the quiet,
the routine, with the puzzle until her brain began to fuzz.
After shutting down for the night, she used the elevator. The bedroom
was empty. It seemed Roarke knew how to play the evasion game, too.
The cat padded in while she undressed. Grateful for his company, she
picked him up, nuzzling as he purred. He curled up beside her in the
dark, blinking his bi-colored eyes at her.
She didn't expect to sleep. Prepared herself to spend most of the night
staring at the dark.
And was out in minutes.
* * *
He knew the moment she'd passed through the gates in the cab. He knew
she'd worked after most of the team had gone to bed. The fact that she
hadn't sought him out was a small ache. It seemed he had so many small
aches these last days he'd forgotten what it was like without them.
He stood over her now as she sprawled facedown on the bed in
exhaustion. She didn't wake. The cat did, enough to stare so those odd
eyes gleamed at him in the dark. Roarke couldn't have said why he was
sure the stare was accusatory.
"I'd think you'd understand well enough the primal, the instinctive,
and be a bit more on my side in this."
But Galahad only continued to stare until Roarke cursed softly and
turned away.
He was too restless to sleep, too unsettled to lie beside her knowing
there was a great deal more than a fat lump of feline between them.
The knowledge so infuriated, so terrified, that he strode away from
her, left her sleeping. He moved through the house where others slept,
and accessed entry to the tightly secured room where he kept his
unregistered.
He'd given Eve and Reva all of his time. His work was suffering because
of it and he would begin to mend that in the morning. But tonight was
for himself. Tonight, he was himself, and he would gather the data he
wanted on the people, all of them, who'd had a part in Dallas.
In Eve.
"Roarke," he said, his tone was cold as ice. "Open operations."
* * *
She stirred in the dark, in the dead quiet just before dawn. The
whimper sounded in her throat as she tried to turn herself out of the
dream. And sweat pooled at the base of her spine as she fell into it.
The room, always the same. Freezing, dirty, and washed with the erratic
red light from the sex club across the street. She was small, and very
thin. And very hungry. Hungry enough to risk punishment for a bite of
cheese. A little mouse, sneaking toward the trap when the brutal cat
was away.
Her stomach clenched and knotted-part fear, part anticipation, as she
cut the mold off the cheese with the knife. Maybe he wouldn't notice
this time. Maybe. She was so cold. She was so hungry. Maybe he wouldn't
notice.
She held onto that even when he came in. Richie Troy. Somewhere in her
unconscious brain his name echoed, over and over. She knew him now, she
knew his name. Nothing, no monster was ever as terrifying if you could
name him.
She had a moment of hope. He would be drunk, drunk enough to leave her
alone. Drunk enough not to care that she'd disobeyed and gotten food.
But he came toward her, and she saw in his eyes there hadn't been
enough drink that night. Not enough to save her.
What are you doing, little girl?
And his voice turned her bowels to ice.
The first blow stunned her, but she fell limply. A dog who'd been
kicked often enough knew to stay down and submit.
But he had to punish her. He had to teach her a lesson. Despite her
fear, despite her knowing, she couldn't stop herself from pleading.
Please don't please don't please don't.
Of course he would. He did. Bearing down on her, striking her. Hurting
her, hurting her while she begged, while she wept, while she struggled.
Her arm broke with a sound as thin as her shocked scream.
The knife she'd dropped was in her hand again. She had to make him
stop. Make him stop. The pain, the horrible pain in her arm, between
her legs. He had to stop.
Blood gushed warm over her hand. Warm and wet, and she scented it like
an animal in the wild. When his body jerked on hers, she plunged the
knife into him again, again. Again and again as he tried to crawl away.
Again and again and again as the blood splashed her arms, her face, her
clothes, and the sounds she made were nothing human.
When she crawled away, shivering, panting, to huddle in the corner, he
was sprawled on the floor, drowned in his own blood.
As always.
But this time she wasn't alone with the man she'd killed. She wasn't
alone with the dead in the hideous room. There were others, countless
others, men and women in dark suits, sitting in row after row of
chairs. Like people at a play. Observers with empty faces.
They watched as she wept. Watched as she bled and her broken arm hung
limply at her side.
They watched, and said nothing. Did nothing. Even when Richie Troy
rose, as he sometimes did. When he rose, pouring blood from all the
wounds she'd put into him and began to shuffle toward her, they did
nothing.
She awoke bathed in sweat with the scream tearing at her throat.
Instinctively she rolled and reached out for Roarke, but he wasn't
there. He wasn't there to gather her in, to soothe away those horrible
jagged edges.
So she curled into a ball, battling the tears while the cat bumped his
head against hers.
"I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay." She pressed her damp face against his
fur, rocked herself. "God. Oh God. Lights on, twenty-five percent."
The low light helped, so she lay in it until her chest stopped burning.
Then, still shivering, she rose to drag herself to the shower, and the
heat of the water.
Rose to drag herself into the day.
It was too early for the team to be up, and she was glad of it. She
wasn't quite in the frame of mind for teamwork. She'd close herself up
in her office and review everything again. She would walk through it
all with Bissel one more time.
She resisted checking the house monitoring system to see where Roarke
was. It was more important where he hadn't been, and that was in bed
with her. If he'd slept -and there were times she thought he needed
less sleep than a damn vampire- he'd slept elsewhere.
She wouldn't bring it up, wouldn't mention it, wouldn't give him the
satisfaction of that. They'd finish the investigation, they would close
this case, and when Bissel was wrapped, they would . . .
She wished to God she knew.
She programmed coffee in the kitchen off her office. Just coffee as
even the thought of food made her stomach pitch. But she took pity on
the pathetic begging from the cat, and poured him a double shot of
kibble.
She turned, and there he was, leaning against the doorjamb watching
her. His beautiful face was unshaven-a rarity-and as expressionless and
remote as those in her dream had been.
The comparison turned her blood cold.
"You need more sleep," he said at length. "You don't look well."
"I got all I'm getting."
"You worked late, and no one's going to be up and around for at least
another hour. Take a soother, for pity's sake, Eve, and lie down."
"Why don't you take your own advice? You don't look so hot yourself,
ace."
He opened his mouth. She could almost see the venom. But whatever
poisonous thing he'd been about to say, he swallowed. She had to give
him points for it.
"We made some progress in the lab. I assume you'll want to brief the
team, and be briefed." He moved in to program coffee for himself.
"Yeah."
"Bruises look better," he said as he lifted his cup. "On the face,
anyway. How's the rest?"
"Better."
"You're very pale. If you won't lie down, at least sit and have
something to eat."
"I'm not hungry." She caught the petulant tone, hated it and herself.
"I'm not," she said in a calmer voice. "Coffee's enough."
She braced the mug in both hands when the first one trembled, just a
bit. He stepped forward, took her chin in his hand. "You had a
nightmare."
She started to jerk her head away, but his fingers tightened. "I'm
awake now." She put a hand to his wrist, nudged it away. "I'm fine."
He said nothing as she walked back into her office, but stood staring
down into the black pool of coffee in his cup. She'd pushed him away,
and that was more than a small ache. It was a vicious tear through the
heart.
He'd seen she was exhausted and hurt, and knew how much more
susceptible she was in those states to the nightmares. But he'd left
her alone, and that was another tear.
He hadn't thought of her. He hadn't thought, so she'd awoken in the
dark alone.
He walked to the sink, upended the contents into it, set the cup down
very carefully.
She was already at her desk when he walked in. "I want to review,
shuffle some of this around. It's easier for me to do that alone, in
the quiet. I took a blocker yesterday, and I let Mira treat me when I
went by her place. I'm not abusing or neglecting myself. But I have
work. I need to do my job."
"You do, yes. You do." There was a space, just under his tattered
heart, that felt hollowed out. "I'm up early to catch up on a bit of my
own."
She glanced up at him, then away with a small nod.
So she wouldn't ask, he realized, where he'd slept or what he'd been
doing. She wouldn't say what was so clearly in her eyes. That he was
hurting her.
"You've given a lot of time to this," she said. "I know both Reva and
Caro appreciate all you're doing. So do I."
"They're important to me. So are you." And thought: Aren't we polite?
Aren't we just fucking diplomats? "I know you need to work, as do I,
but I need you to come in my office for a moment."
"If it could wait until-"
"I think it best it doesn't, for all involved. Please."
She rose and moved away from the desk without her coffee. A sure sign,
he thought, that she was agitated. He led the way through the
connecting door, then closed it, and called for a lockdown.
"What is this?"
"Given the circumstances, I prefer absolute privacy. I looked in on you
last night. Must've been near to two. Your feline knight was guarding
you."
"You didn't come to bed."
"I didn't. I couldn't . . . settle. And I was angry." He searched her
face. "We're both so angry, aren't we, Eve?"
"I guess we are." Though anger seemed the wrong term somehow, and she
thought he knew it as well as she did. "I don't know what to do about
it."
"You didn't let me know when you got home."
"I didn't want to talk to you."
"Well." He drew a breath as a man did after a quick, surprising blow.
"Well. As it happens, I didn't want to talk to you either. So after I
saw you were sleeping, I took myself off to the unregistered to do the
business I needed to do."
Whatever color had still been in her cheeks drained now. "I see."
"Aye." His eyes never left hers. "You see. You may wish you didn't, but
you do." He unlocked a compartment with a quick play of fingers over a
panel, and took from it a single disc.
"I have here, the names, the whereabouts, the financials, the medicals,
the professional evaluations, and all other matter of data on the field
operative, his supervisor, the director of the HSO, and any who were
attached to the task force involving Richard Troy in Dallas. There's
nothing about them that's relevant-and quite a bit that likely isn't
-that's not on this disc."
The weight dropped on her chest, pressing against her heart so she
could hear the panicked beat of it roaring in her ears. "None of that
changes what happened. Nothing you can do changes what happened."
"Of course it doesn't." He turned the disc in his hands, and its
surface caught light and shot it out again. Like a weapon. "They've all
had very decent careers, some more than decent. They continue to work,
or consult, play golf or, in one case, squash, of all things. They eat
and they sleep. Some cheat on a spouse, some go to church every bloody
Sunday."
His gaze whipped up to hers, a bolt of blue. Another weapon. "And do
you think, Eve, do you suppose any flaming one of them gives that child
they sacrificed all those years back a single thought? Do they wonder,
ever, if she suffers? If she wakes weeping in the dark?"
Her head felt light now, and her knees weak. "What do I care if they
think of me? It doesn't change anything."
"I could remind them." And his voice was utterly flat, more frightening
than the hiss of a snake. "That would change something, wouldn't it? I
could remind them, personally, what they did by sitting back and
leaving a child to defend herself against a monster. I could remind
them how they listened and recorded and sat on their fat government
asses while he beat and raped her, and she cried for help. They deserve
to pay for that, and you know it. You bloody well do."
"Yes, they deserve to pay!" The words burst out, hot as the tears that
burned behind her eyes. "They deserve it. Is that what you need to
hear? They should fry in hell for what they did. But it's not up to
you, and it's not up to me to send them there. If you do this thing,
it's murder. It's murder, Roarke, and their blood on your hands changes
nothing that happened to me."
He paused a long, long moment. "I can live with that." He saw her eyes
go dark, and dead. "But you can't. So . . ."
He snapped the disc in two, then shoved the pieces into the recycle
slot.
She only stared, and in the silence there was only the sound of her own
shaky breaths. "You . . . you're letting it go."
He looked down at the slot and knew his rage would never be so easily
destroyed. He'd live with it, and the impotence that walked with it,
the whole of his life. "If I did anything else it would be for myself,
not for you. Hardly a point in that. So yes, I'm letting it go."
Her stomach fluttered, but she managed to nod. "Good. That's good.
Best."
"So it seems. End lockdown." His cool order had the shields going up,
and the light pouring in the windows. "I'll give you some time later
this morning, but I need to see to some matters. If you'll close the
door on your way out."
"Sure. Okay." She started out, then pressed a hand on the door to brace
herself. "You think I don't know, that I don't understand what that
cost you. But you're wrong." She couldn't keep her voice steady, gave
up trying. "You're wrong, Roarke. I do know. There's no one else in the
world who would want, who would need to kill for me. No one else in the
world who would step back from it because I asked it. Because I needed
it."
She turned, and the first tear spilled over. "No one but you."
"Don't. You'll do me in if you cry."
"I never in my life expected anyone would love me, all of me. How would
I deserve that? What would I do with it? But you do. Everything we've
managed to have together, to be to each other, this is more. I'll never
be able to find the words to tell you what you just gave me."
"You undo me, Eve. Who else would make me feel like a hero for doing
nothing."
"You did everything. Everything. Are everything." Mira was right,
again. Love, that strange and terrifying entity, was the answer after
all.
"Whatever there is, whatever happened to me, or how it comes back on
me, you have to know, you need to know that what you did here gave me
more peace than I ever thought I'd find. You have to know that I can
face anything knowing you love me."
"Eve." He stepped away from the slot, away from what was gone. And
toward her, toward what mattered. "I can't do anything but love you."
Her vision blurred as she ran, wrapped herself around him. "I missed
you. I missed you so much."
He pressed his face to her shoulder, breathed her. Felt the world
steady again. "I'm sorry."
"No, no, no." She clung, then eased back only to take his face in her
hands. "I see you. I know you. I love you."
She watched the emotion storm into his eyes before she pressed her lips
to his.
"It was like the world was off a step," he murmured. "Nothing quite in
time when I couldn't really touch you."
"Touch me now."
He smiled, stroked her hair. "That's not what I meant."
"I know, but touch me. I need to feel close to you again." She turned
her lips back to his. "I need you, and I need so bad, so bad to show
you."
"In bed then." He circled her toward the elevator. "In our bed."
When the elevator doors closed, she pressed against him, strained.
"Gently now." He ran his hands down her sides, then boosted her into
his arms. "You're bruised."
"I don't feel bruised anymore."
"All the same. You look so delicate." When her brow creased, he laughed
and dropped a kiss on it. "That wasn't an insult."
"Sounds like one, but I'm going to let it pass."
"You look pale," he continued as he walked off the elevator into the
bedroom. "And a bit fragile. There are tears on your lashes yet, and
shadows under your eyes. Do you know how I love your eyes, your long
golden eyes, Eve. My darling Eve."
"They're brown."
"I like the way they watch me." He laid her on the bed. "There are
tears still in them." He kissed them closed. "It kills me when you cry.
A strong woman's tears can cut a man to ribbons faster than a knife."
He was soothing her, seducing her, with words and those patient hands.
It amazed her that a man of his energy, his needs, could be so patient.
Violent and cold, tender and warm. The contradictions of him, the whole
of him that meshed, somehow, with the whole of her.
"Roarke." She bowed up, wrapping her arms around him.
"What?"
She opened her eyes, laid her lips on his cheek, and searched for her
own tenderness. "My Roarke."
She could soothe, she could seduce. She could show him that whatever
the world threw at them, whatever reared up from the past or lurked in
the future, they were together.
She unbuttoned his shirt, pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "You're the
love of my life. I don't care how corny that sounds. You're the start
of it, and the end of it. And you're the best of it."
He took her hands, cupping them in his own and bringing them to his
lips as love washed through him. It cleansed, he thought, this flood of
feeling between them. And despite all the odds, what it left behind was
pure.
He parted her shirt, then traced his fingers lightly over the bruises.
"It hurts me to see you marked like this, and to know you'll be marked
again. At the same time it makes me proud." He brushed his lips lightly
over injuries, pressed them softly to the image of her badge. "I
married a warrior."
"So did I."
His gaze came back to hers, and held, as their mouths found each
other's. Hands stroked, in comfort, in passion. They moved together in
the quiet of the morning and words slipped into sighs.
When she rose over him, took him in, their fingers linked. Locked. With
the pleasure, with the thrill, was the steady beat of love.
* * *
She curled up beside him, realizing they both needed this space of
intimacy as much as they'd needed the reassurance and release.
Her world had been rocked. She only understood how violent the shake
had been now that it was steady again. Only understood, she thought,
that it had been the same for him now that they were reconciled.
Reconciled, she realized, because he'd given her what she needed. He'd
submerged or denied his own ego for her. And there was nothing simple
or easy about it. His ego was . . . she'd just call it healthy since
she was feeling so grateful.
He'd given in, given up his own needs, not because he stood on the same
moral ground as she at the end of the day, but because he valued her
and their marriage more than that ego.
"You could've lied to me."
"No." He watched the light strengthen in the sky through the window
over the bed. "I couldn't lie to you."
"I don't mean you, I mean in a general sense." She shifted, skimming
his hair away from his face with her fingers, then running those
fingers over the stubble he'd neglected to remove that morning. "If you
were less of a man you could have lied to me, done what you wanted to
do, stoked your ego, satisfied yourself and moved on."
"It's hardly a matter of ego-"
"No, no." She rolled her eyes, but made sure she did so out of his
range of vision. "Ego always plays a part, and I don't mean that in an
insulting way. I've certainly got an ego."
"Tell me," he muttered.
"Look, look, follow along here." She shifted, scooting up so she could
sit and face him.
"Can't we just lie here quietly for a few moments, so I can admire my
naked wife?"
"You should like most of this because it involves all sorts of
compliments and admiring comments about you."
"Well then, don't let me interrupt your train of thought."
"I really do love you."
"Yes." His lips curved. "I know."
"Sometimes I think it's because of that Plutonian-sized ego, sometimes
despite it. Either way, I'm stuck on you, pal. But this isn't about
that."
He stroked the back of his fingers along her thigh. "But I'm liking
this very much."
"I might be feeling a little sloppy yet, but-" She slapped his hand
away. "I'm back on the clock."
"Yes, I'm admiring your badge right now."
The laugh snorted out before she could stop it, but she grabbed her
shirt. "What I'm saying is you're an important man, a successful man.
Sometimes you make a splash about it, sometimes you don't. Depends on
the purpose. You don't need to make a big deal about stuff because you
are a big deal. That's one part."
"Of what, exactly?"
"Of the whole ego thing. Guys have a different kind of ego than women.
I think. Anyway, Mavis claims it's connected to the dick. She's usually
right about stuff like that."
"I don't know how I feel about you discussing my dick with Mavis."
"I always say you're hung like a bull and can go all night."
"That's all right, then." But since the direction of the discussion
made him feel just a little exposed, he reached for his pants.
"What I'm saying is you've got a . . . powerful ego. You needed it to
get where you are, and, I must be feeling sloppy because I'm going to
say you've earned it. You're confident, confident enough in yourself,
in who you are, to back away from a fight because it was important to
me. You don't agree with me. What you said before, that you'd be able
to live with the consequences, is true. You'd have felt justified.
You'd have felt right."
"There was complicity in their neglect. They're guilty because they
ignored you. More guilty because they were in a position of authority."
"I'm not arguing that." She tried to put her thoughts into cohesive
words as she dressed. "You understood me enough to know if you took
action in that direction it would damage me. Us. You put that first,
subjugating your own ego. It takes balls to do that."
"I appreciate the sentiment, but I wonder if you could formulate
metaphors that didn't include my genitalia. It's beginning to weird me
out."
"You're courageous enough to do something that in some part of your
heart you see as cowardly." She stepped toward him when he stopped
buttoning his shirt, when he looked over at her. "You think I don't
know that about you? That I don't understand the nasty little war this
waged?"
She tapped a finger to his heart. "And what it cost you to surrender?
It makes you the bravest man I know."
"There was nothing courageous about hurting you. And I was hurting you."
"You put me first. That was brave and that was strong. You didn't
circumvent the issue by pretending to go along, then going behind my
back to do what you wanted. You didn't want a lie between us."
"I don't want anything between us."
"No, because you know how to love. You know how to get the job done.
How to be a man. How to take care of the people who matter, even those
who don't. You're really smart, and you're capable of very scary
behavior, and incredibly kind behavior. You see the big picture, but
you never miss the details. You have power, more than most people could
dream of, but you don't trample the little guy with it. Do you know
what that makes you?"
"Words fail me."
"It makes you the exact opposite of Blair Bissel."
"Ah. So this entire praise fest was just your way of getting back
around to your investigation. That certainly crushes my ego."
"You couldn't crush your ego with a hydrovice. That's part of my point.
His is fragile, because it's based on smoke. He's not really smart or
clever, he's not even talented. His art is just crap, trendy and
expensive crap. He doesn't have relationships. He has conquests. He got
sucked into this, initially, by a woman who undoubtedly got hooks in
his cock, and therefore his ego. 'Aren't I iced? I'm a fricking spy.'"
"And?"
"He should never have been recruited. Look at his profile. He's
unstable, immature, reckless. But those are part of the reasons Kade
and Sparrow wanted him. He has no genuine ties to anyone. He's
attractive, can be charming, has some arty connections, knows how to
travel."
"He also has no conscience. It seems to me that would be useful in some
areas of covert work."
"That's right, as long as they controlled him. But Sparrow got greedy,
and asked for more than Bissel could deliver. He used Bissel to kill,
and never figured that Bissel would do more than scamper away with his
tail between his legs when he realized he'd been set up just as Reva
was. And if he caused any trouble, well, they'd keep it in the HSO, and
he'd tag Bissel as rogue, schedule him for termination, or feed enough
intel to Doomsday or some other group to have them do it."
"I'm sure you're right, but I also think neither of them figured on
you. They, or Sparrow at least, would have had some idea you'd be
involved in some way. Using Reva meant using me, which meant you. But,
it would seem, neither of them understood how far you'd go, not just
for me or Reva, but for the emblem you're currently wearing over your
heart."
"So it got sticky. Sparrow does what you'd expect. He uses his position
in his organization, tries muscle first, then reason, then cooperation,
but always behind the shield of the HSO."
"If Bissel hadn't put him in the hospital, he'd have tried to kill you,
or, from what you say, have you killed as he didn't have the stomach
for doing the job himself. That would have been his next step."
"I'm sure that was in his pack of contingencies. But a last resort. He
should've been smart enough to factor in what it would do to Bissel's
twisted ego when Bissel's hands got bloody. He'd killed. He wasn't a
stinking level-two now. He'd succeeded in two terminations, and I
guarantee he liked the rush."
"But the rush doesn't last."
"No, then you're out in the cold. Isn't that what spies call it? Out in
the cold."
She focused, with some surprise, on the plates Roarke set on the table
in the sitting area. "Are we eating?"
"Yes."
Thoughtfully, she pressed a hand on her stomach. "I could eat." She sat
down to eggs, crisp slices of bacon. "So anyway, he's out in the cold.
His direct supervisors are either dead by his own hand or hunting him.
He's been betrayed, used, fucked. Cops are looking into the murders in
a way he'd been assured they would not, and sooner or later he's going
to get squeezed from that side, too. There's nobody to tell him what to
do, what to think. He kills twice more to protect himself, to cover his
tracks. Both are unnecessary, and mistakes, because the murders only
serve to lead the police investigation to the fact that he's still
alive. What would you have done?"
"In his place?" He spread jam on toast as he considered. "I'd've gone
under, deep. Accessed some of the funds I'd squirreled away, and buried
myself until I could plan a way to either kill Sparrow or expose him as
a traitor. Wait and watch. A year, two, maybe longer, then hit him. One
way or the other."
"But he won't. He can't. He can't suppress his ego that long, or think
that clearly. That coldly. He needs to slap back at everything and
everyone who had a part in screwing this up for him. At the same time
he's scared, like a little boy whose mommy and daddy left him home
alone. And he needs to feel safe. He's still in New York, somewhere he
feels safe. And he's going to make a move."
She could almost see him, almost see him. "Bigger, more violent, more
reckless. Each of his kills was a degree away from the bull's-eye. And
each was less carefully thought through, and with more risk of
collateral damage than the last. He doesn't care who gets hurt now, as
long as he proves himself."
"You think he'll go after Reva."
"Sooner or later. She didn't cooperate. She's not curled up in a cage
crying over her dead husband and proclaiming her innocence. But we're
not going to give him a chance to go after her."
She took the toast Roarke handed her, bit in. "We're going to lock him
down before that, before he starts contacting the targets again. He'll
try for Sparrow again sooner. I'm not averse to using that schmuck as
bait, but I don't like the idea of taking Bissel at the hospital and
risking civilians. We need to track him down, take him in his hole,
with minimal risk to civilians. Where would you hide? If you were
staying in New York?"
It soothed his soul to sit with her like this, sharing a meal and the
work that drove her. It settled, and it comforted, he found, as much as
the lovemaking. And when he smiled at her, she smiled back.
"Am I thinking like myself, or like Bissel?"
"Like you."
"A small apartment in a lower middle-class neighborhood where no one
pays attention to anyone else. Better, something just outside the city,
convenient to public transportation so I could get back and forth
easily."
"Why not a house?"
"Too much overhead, too much of a paper trail. I wouldn't want to waste
my capital on the roof over my head, or deal with lawyers and so forth.
Just a simple, short-term lease on a modest couple of rooms where I'd
be invisible."
"Yeah, that would be smart, and patient."
"Which means you think he's likely in the heart of the city, in
something more suited to his taste."
"Yeah, I do. Something big enough where he can work. Someplace with
plenty of security where he can lock himself up, stew, rant, plot."
"You probably don't need to be told that there are countless places in
the city that fit those requirements."
"You should know, you own most of them. And I . . ." She trailed off
with a forkful of eggs halfway to her mouth. "Jesus, would he be that
dumb? Or that smart?"
She shoveled in the eggs, snagged her coffee as she rose. "Let's roust
the team. I want to check something out."
"You may want to put some shoes on first," Roarke suggested. "You look
like you're about to kick some ass, and there's no point in bruising
your pretty pink toes."
"Cute." But she winced when she looked down at her feet. She'd
forgotten about the pink toenails. Hauling open a drawer, she yanked
out some socks and hastily covered all evidence of pedicure.
"Lieutenant?"
She grunted as she pulled on her boots.
"It feels good to know you and I are a team again."
She reached out, took his hand. "Let's go kick some ass together."
As the techs outnumbered the nontechs on her team, Eve took the
briefing to the lab.
She didn't understand the nature of the work, or the purposes of the
tools meticulously arranged on work counters and workstations. She
couldn't decipher the patterns of the color-coded boards, the gibberish
scrolling by on screens or the constant hum and clack that was the odd
communication in the network of machines.
But she knew what she was looking at was a great number of man-hours
and a large dose of brainpower.
"You'll kill the worm."
"We will, yes. It's already failing." Roarke glanced at the lines of
code and commands on one of the screens. "It's a clever bug that can
look more dangerous than it is."
"You can say that makes it plenty dangerous."
"You could," he agreed. "Its limitations don't negate the fact that it
can and would play hell with most home units. We're tracking it back to
Sparrow, and its origin."
"Tokimoto's largely responsible for that," Reva put in.
"I'm hardly working alone. And," Tokimoto added, "wouldn't have
researched or explored that possibility of origin without the data
supplied to me."
"Which is what Sparrow counted on. He creates the worm, then assigns
Bissel to play double agent. Our side believes Doomsday has the worm,
they believe our side has it. Both sides, due to his planted intel,
believe the worm is more powerful than it actually is, and shell out a
lot of money. Bissel funnels the money, or most of it, back to Sparrow
through Kade."
"A good con," Roarke commented. "And might've been a tidy one in the
short haul. He'd have been wiser to keep it on a smaller scale, induce
a couple of corporations to haggle over it rather than involving the
HSO and the like."
"Ambitious guy. And greedy," Eve added. "He supplies the data on the
progress Securecomp's making on the worm, and in that way can cover
himself any time the direction the R and D's taking gets too close.
Good setup for him."
"But his thinking was narrow." Roarke watched the codes whiz by, noted
the progress. "He believed he could control it all, without getting his
own hands bloody, and keep Bissel on a leash until he was of no more
use."
"Coward." Eve remembered how he'd wept and wailed in the hospital.
"Bissel's getting blackmailed and wants more. Kade wants more. And
Securecomp's getting close to ending his nice, profitable enterprise."
"He gives Bissel a new assignment that solves all those problems."
Peabody shook her head. "It's way over the top, and Bissel's too dim to
see the frame going up. Sorry," she said to Reva.
"No problem."
"Not just too dim," Eve added. "Too egocentric. He's living his
fantasy. He's got his license to kill."
"Sir!" Peabody beamed. "You've been boning up on Bond."
"I do my homework. But now he's in hip-deep. He can't go to the HSO. He
can't go to the other side. He waited too long to run, so his accounts
have been located and frozen. He killed to stay dead, but that cover's
been blown. He took a hit at Sparrow, but he missed. Instead of being
dead, Sparrow's in custody, and he'll use whatever juice he can to cut
a deal and bury Bissel. He's lost his fantasy job, and all the glory
and polish he garnered from his art."
"If you can call that crap art." Reva grinned when everyone looked at
her. "Hey, Blair isn't the only one who can fake it. I never liked his
stuff." She rolled her shoulders as if shedding weight. "Feels good to
be able to say that. It's starting to feel good all around."
"Don't get too happy yet," Eve warned. "He needs to make a statement,
but first he needs to lick his wounds, to reassert himself and find
some satisfaction. Reva, you said his art was his genuine passion."
"Yeah. I don't see how that could've been faked. He's worked for years,
studied, pursued. He'd sweat days over a piece, hardly sleep or eat
when he was in full mode. I might not have liked the shit he turned
out, but he put heart and soul into it-his black, withered and rotting
heart and soul. I'm going to be bitter for a while," she continued,
"and take as many cheap shots at him as humanly possible." She grinned
again. "Just FYI."
"I think it's healthy," Tokimoto said. "And human."
"So his art, such as it is, is the real deal to him. They can take away
his fantasy job, but he's still an artist." Eve nodded. "He can still
create. He has to create. McNab, do a tenant search, look for any
connection to Bissel. Target the Flatiron."
"Of course," Roarke murmured. "I can help you with that, Ian," he said
to McNab, but he continued to look at Eve. "He'd want to be close to
his work, to where he'd felt powerful, and in charge. If he had another
place in the building, it's possible Chloe McCoy knew of it."
"Guy like that, he'd want to take her there, to ball her, sure, but
also to show her how important he was. Look, I've got this secret
place. Nobody knows about it but you."
"And then things went wrong and he needed the place," Peabody finished.
"She had to die, just because she knew it was there."
"Lieutenant." Roarke tapped the screen where he worked with McNab.
"LeBiss Consultants. LeBiss is an anagram for Bissel."
"Yeah, he'd want his own name. Another ego thing." She leaned over
Roarke's shoulder. "Where is it?"
He gave a command and a diagram of the Flatiron came on screen,
revolved, then magnified a highlighted sector. "One floor below his
gallery. He'd have enough skill to be able to go between floors with
minimal risk should he want to access his studio."
"Fully soundproofed, right?"
"Of course."
"And privacy shades on the windows. Monitors. Add another level of
security and he'd be able to know if anyone tried to get on the
elevator or through the door. He could muck that up, the way Sparrow
did on the night of the first murders. Then clear out before anybody
got in."
"Probably work at night," she said half to herself. "Probably work
mostly at night when the building's shut down, offices closed, nobody's
going to bother him. Cops've already been through, and there's nothing
in there that applies to the investigation. Lease is paid up. So until
the estate's settled, he can use it without much risk of detection."
"He loved that studio." Reva stepped forward, studying the diagram
herself. "I'd bring up the possibility of him building one at home, and
he wouldn't consider it. I know it could've been because he wanted the
freedom of being away, having accessibility to the women he was
sleeping with, but I know, at the core, he just loved that place. Damn
it, I'm slipping. I didn't think to put it on the list you wanted of
his habits and hangouts."
"Why would you? It was already on my list."
"Yeah, but this was his place, and if I'd had my head on straight, I'd
have put it together. He always said he needed the stimulation, the
energy of the city, of that spot, just as he needed the serenity and
privacy of our house. One to charge him up, the other to relax him."
"We need to go in," Eve said.
"Dallas," Reva added. "He wouldn't just work at night, not if some
piece had him. He wouldn't be able to step away from it. I think,
unless I've misjudged everything about him, that the risk wouldn't
factor into it. Or maybe it would, in some way, fuel the creative
drive."
"Good. Good point. We need to assume he's in there, just as we need to
assume he's armed and dangerous. The building's full of civilians. We
need to move them out."
Feeney, who'd continued to work on McCoy's data unit throughout the
briefing, finally glanced up. "You want to clear out a twenty-two-story
building?"
"Yeah. Without Bissel knowing it. Which means first we should verify
he's in there. Don't want to clear it out while he's around the corner
picking up a sandwich at the deli. So let's figure out how to verify,
then how to clear out the civilians."
Feeney puffed out a breath. "She don't ask for much. Side note: I've
got some data out of this. Reads like a diary. Enough sex stuff with
who she calls BB to make a seasoned LC blush." He colored a bit himself
when he glanced toward Reva. "Sorry."
"It's not a problem. Not a problem," she repeated in three viciously
bitten off words. "He lied to me, screwed around on me, he tried to
frame me for murder. Why should knowing some poor little twit romped
around naked-"
She paused, breathed deep when the room remained silent but for the
machine. "Okay, I'm making it a problem by trying to prove it's not.
Let me put it this way." She looked at Tokimoto now. Directly. "Love
can die. It can be killed, no matter how alive it was, it's not
invulnerable. Mine's dead. It's dead and it's buried. I just want one
thing more, and that's the chance to look him in the face and tell him
he's nothing. If I can do that one thing, it'll be enough."
"I'll make sure you have the chance," Eve promised. "Now, how do we get
him?"
"A bomb scare would clear it, but there'd be injuries," Peabody
decided. "People panic, especially when you tell them not to. And even
soundproofed, he'd get wind of it."
"Not if you go floor by floor." Eve paced as she thought it through.
"Not a bomb scare. An electrical problem? Something that irritates but
doesn't panic."
"A potential leak-hazardous waste, chemicals. And keep it vague,"
Roarke suggested. "Floor-by-floor evac will take considerable time, and
a great many cops."
"I don't want to pull any more into this than necessary. A small, tight
unit of the Crisis Team for backup. Move fast, keep it smooth, and we
can evac in under an hour. We box him in, that's what we do. We box him
in." She stopped, studied the diagram again. "Three exits on the
studio?"
"That's correct. Main corridor, elevator to lobby, and the cargo
elevator to the roof."
"No glides on the Flatiron, that's a plus."
"And more aesthetically pleasing," Roarke added.
"We block off the elevators. We can bring in a unit from CT on the
roof. And we come in from the corridor after he's boxed. If we can get
him in this end, the narrow end, he won't have much room to maneuver.
We work out the tacticals on this space, and we work out tacticals on
the studio. And on the space below. He might be in there. But we need
to know where he is when we go in, and we need to blindfold him to the
fact we're coming."
"We can do that."
She angled her head, looked down at Roarke. "Can we?"
"Mmm." He took her hand and, watching her horrified expression, brought
it smoothly to his lips before she could jerk it free. "The lieutenant
doesn't like me to nibble on her when she's coordinating an op. So I
can never resist."
"There's just too much sex around here," Feeney grumbled from his
station.
"How can we verify his position inside the building and blindfold him?"
Eve demanded with what she considered admirable patience.
"Why don't you work out your tacticals and leave those pesky details to
me. Reva, how much time do you need to shut down the security and
undermine the monitors in this sector of the building?"
Brow creased, Reva fisted her hands on her hips. "I'll let you know
after I study the specs."
"You'll have them in a minute. I'll need a few things from Securecomp,"
Roarke said to Tokimoto. "Would you mind getting them?"
"Not at all." His lips curved. "I think I know what you have in mind."
"Let's leave the geeks to it, then." Eve started out, turned back. "I
meant the civilian geeks," she said when Feeney and McNab stayed in
place.
* * *
It took her an hour to work out an approach that minimized risk to
civilians and her team, and longer to push through the red tape for
clearance to evacuate an entire building.
"We know he's got a short-range launcher. We don't know what other toys
he has in there. Boomers, chemical weapons, flash grenades. He won't
hesitate to use them to protect himself or to expedite an escape. He's
more dangerous because he's not trained in weaponry. Guy who doesn't
know what the hell he's doing with a few flash grenades will do more
damage than one who does."
"We clear the building, we could pump some gas in the vents, put him to
sleep," McNab suggested.
"We can't be sure he doesn't have filters or a mask. He likes the
secret agent toys. Once we verify where he is, we box in that sector.
We close off alternate exits, take down the door. We go in fast, and we
get him under control. There's nothing in his dossier that indicates
any training or skill in hand-to-hand beyond the basics. That doesn't
mean he's not dangerous."
"He's going to panic." Feeney pulled on his bottom lip. "First kills
were incapacitated when he took them out. He drugs the McCoy girl, does
Powell while he's zoned. Tried to hit Sparrow from a distance. This is
face-to-face, so if he isn't taken quick, he's going to panic. More
dangerous that way."
"Agreed. He's an amateur who thinks he's a pro. His life's screwed.
He's pissed off and scared, with no place to go and nothing much to
lose. Civilians are our first priority because he won't think twice
about taking any out, and we don't know what kind of firepower he's got
in there. We remove the civilians, box him in. Take him out. And we
want him breathing. He's a key to the case against Sparrow. I don't
want to lose him."
"You're going to end up fighting the spooks for him," McNab said.
"They're going to want him."
"Exactly. I need Bissel to lock down the case on conspiracy to murder.
I want to win this one. Feeney, I need you working with the geeks-with
Ewing and Tokimoto," she corrected. "However much Roarke trusts them, I
want you at the helm on whatever electronics go into this op. Ewing's
tough, and she's pulling her weight, but she might lose it in the
crunch."
"She's held up better than most, but I'm with you on that." Feeney dug
out his bag of almonds. "This is going to shake her some. I'll stay on
top of it."
"The Crisis Team is backup, backup only. I don't want them cowboying
this. Four of us go in, two teams of two. McNab and Peabody, I don't
want you guys thinking of each other as anything but cops. No personal
feelings go through the door. If you can't deal, tell me now."
"It's a little hard for me to think of McNab as a cop when he's wearing
a shirt the color of a persimmon." Peabody sent him an arched look.
"But otherwise, no problem."
"We'll do the job," McNab assured her. "And this shirt matches my
underwear."
"That's something we all needed to know. If we all agree to keep our
minds off McNab's underwear, let's get started."
"You said four of us," Peabody pointed out.
"Roarke goes in. McNab can handle any electronics Bissel may have on
site, but he's not trained in weaponry. Not the kind we may have to
handle. Roarke knows his war toys. And he knows how to go through a
door. Any objections to that?"
"Not from me." McNab shrugged. "I've seen his weapon collection. It's
beyond."
"Then let's put both ends of this team back together and close this
down. Feeney, I just need a word with you."
She waited until they were alone, and shook her head when he held the
bag of almonds in her direction. "The . . . data we discussed before,
the personal data that had come into my hands. I wanted to let you know
it's not going to be a problem. No action will be taken."
"Okay."
"I put you in a bad spot by telling you about the data, and my
concerns. I shouldn't have done that."
He folded the top of the bag, put it back in his pocket. "We go back
too far for you to say that to me. Because we do, and I know where it's
coming from, I'm not going to be pissed at you for saying it."
"Thanks. My head's been pretty screwed up."
"On straight now?"
"Yeah."
"Then let's load up the rockets and get the sucker launched."
"I've got one more thing to do, then I'll be right behind you." She
went to her desk when he walked out, turned on her 'link.
"Nadine Furst."
"Dallas. It looks like I'm going to be able to clear my schedule in a
couple hours. Three anyway. Since we missed that lunch, why don't we
get together today. Just you and me."
"Sounds like fun. Where should I meet you?"
"I've got some business to take care of. Why don't you meet me at Fifth
Avenue, between Twenty-second and Twenty-third. Around two. My treat."
"Perfect. Looking forward to seeing you."
Eve disconnected, satisfied Nadine had understood the offer of a
one-on-one. And that she'd be giving the top media hound in the city a
story that would send the HSO scrambling for cover.
* * *
She joined the others in the lab as Roarke demonstrated equipment for
Feeney.
She frowned at the screen, and the colors moving on it. "I assume this
is not a new vid game."
"Sensor. Configured to body heat. You're looking at Summerset puttering
around in the kitchen downstairs. You input the coordinates of the
location you want to scan, and the nature of the object you want to
track. It'll read through solid objects like walls, doors, glass, and
so on. Steel. Flatiron's a steel skeleton. The distance it will work
depends on basic interference. Other objects with similar makeup will,
of course, interfere. But once you've homed in on your target, you can
lock and follow."
"What's this?" She tapped the screen where a red-and-orange blob
circled. "Is that-"
"The cat." Roarke grinned at her. "Hoping for a handout, I'd say. Got
ears, Tokimoto?"
"Nearly. Another moment."
"We're locked on," Roarke explained. "Interface the audio sensor, and
find the right combination of filters, and we should be able to pick up
sound."
"Two floors down? Without direct linking or satellite bounce?"
"We're utilizing satellite. With equipment we've got in the lab, we'd
be able to see and count Galahad's whiskers. But with this portable
'link, we'll make do with body heat image." Roarke glanced up. "It
should be enough for your purposes."
"Yeah. It'll work just fine." She pursed her lips when she heard what
might have been violins coming from the equipment, then the
unmistakable sound of Galahad's most persuasive meows.
"This," McNab said with an avaricious sigh, "kicks solid ass."
"How about his security and monitors?" Eve asked.
"I can shut them down by remote. We can bypass his building audio so he
won't hear the evacuation orders. We can have this equipment set up, on
site, in twenty minutes, have him scanned and locked within thirty."
"We start boxing and locking him first, then evacuate. We'll need to
clear out a space on the floor below his for base. Keep that quick and
quiet, then set up this equipment there. Feeney?"
"On that."
"Peabody, break out the body armor for the takedown team. Load up.
Roarke, with me."
"Always," he said and followed her out.
She said nothing until they were back in her office. She checked her
weapon, her clutch piece, then opened a drawer in her workstation and
took out a stunner. "You'll need this. I want you to go in with me."
He turned the weapon over in his hand. He had more powerful and
certainly more efficient weapons of his own. But it was, he decided,
the thought that counted. "You're not going to make me ask."
"No. You've earned it. I want you going through the door with me. More
than that, I don't know what he's got in there. When we go in, I need
you to focus on the weaponry. Leave him to me. Leave him to me, Roarke."
"Understood, Lieutenant."
"There's something else. I've given Nadine a head's-up. When this is
over, if you wanted to say something to the media about how Bissel and
Sparrow screwed over an employee and attempted to steal data from
Securecomp, to sabotage a Code Red and so on, it wouldn't hurt my
feelings."
"You're feeding them to the dogs." His lips twitched as he skimmed a
finger down the dent in her chin. "Why, Lieutenant. You excite me."
"I figure they'll be cleaning up the blood and bones for some time. And
a lot of the blood and bones are going to be scattered throughout HSO.
There's all kinds of payback, Roarke."
"Yes." He slipped the weapon into his pocket so he could take her face
in his hands, lay his lips on her brow. "There is. If this satisfies
you, it'll do me as well."
"Then let's go kick some righteous ass."
* * *
It made it stickier, and just a little nerve-racking, to have Commander
Whitney and Chief Tibble step into the operation as observers. She did
her best to ignore them as she coordinated her personnel.
"Both protocol and courtesy demand that the HSO be informed if and when
we verify the location of Blair Bissel," Tibble commented.
"I'm not immediately concerned with protocol or courtesy, sir, but with
the locating, restraining, and capture of a multiple-murder suspect.
It's entirely possible that other members of the HSO were involved in
or privy to the plans and actions that involved three operatives.
Informing the organization at this time of this operation may, in fact,
compromise same if Bissel has some contact in-house."
"You don't believe he does, not for a minute. But it's good," Tibble
said with a nod. "Logical, and you can be sure I'll use that angle when
the shit falls. You miss Bissel here, or fail to wrap him up tight,
some of that shit will fall on you."
"He'll be wrapped." She turned back to the monitors, marking the time.
Waiting.
They were in a suite of offices one floor below LeBiss Consultants. The
occupants had been swept out, and she only needed Roarke's confirmation
that the security in LeBiss and the penthouse level had been shut down
to start the next stage.
"They'll want to take him, Lieutenant," Tibble added. "Move both him
and Sparrow into federal territory."
"Bet they will," she started. "As long as they both face the murder and
conspiracy to murder charges, I don't care who locks the cage."
"They'll want it quiet. This sort of screw-up within their own ranks
won't play well with the public."
Yeah, she thought, definitely stickier. "Are you ordering me to sweep
this under the rug, Chief Tibble?"
"I'm giving no such order, Lieutenant. But I will point out that public
statements regarding certain details of this case would be politically
unwise."
"I'll bear that in mind." She looked over as Roarke walked in.
"Done," he said. "Your man's blind and deaf. The elevator to the studio
is disabled."
"Acknowledged." She picked up her communicator. "Dallas. I want those
stairways blocked and manned. Do not, I repeat, do not move in on
either target location. Begin evac."
She gestured to the monitor. "Find him."
"I'd like to scan and locate," Reva said. "I'd like to man the controls
on that."
"That's Feeney's call."
Feeney gave Reva a little pat on the shoulder and had to fight off the
itch to run the program himself. "Go."
She input the designated coordinates for LeBiss, configured for body
heat imaging, then did a slow scan. "Nothing there." Her voice shook a
bit, but she cleared her throat and changed the coordinates for the
penthouse.
When she saw the mass of red-and-orange light, she simply stared.
"Target confirmed," she said as Eve stepped forward. "He's alone.
Coordinates put him in the studio sector."
"What's this?" Eve demanded, circling a line of blue.
"Fire. Flame. Intense heat. He's working."
"He's armed," Roarke put in. "See here, this space, the angle and
position on the body. "Side-arms, would be my guess."
"Okay. Suit up." She grabbed her own body armor.
"Bringing up audio. He's got music on. Trash rock," Reva said after a
moment. "He's excited, buzzed up," she added. "He listens to that when
he's revving. He's got a lot of metal in there. Equipment,
works-in-progress. It's going to be tricky to tell if any of what I'm
getting is weaponry."
"We assume he has it. Keep him locked." Eve fit on her headset. "I want
to know where he is and what he's doing at all times. I want to know
the instant the building's clear. Let's move into position."
"Go." Feeney spoke into his communicator. "Unit Six, this is base.
Friendlies moving into your sector. I repeat, friendlies moving
through."
"They'll give us the picture," Eve began as they started toward the
stairwell. "Weapons on stun. Dallas on the door," she said into her
headset, then opened the door to the stairwell.
The two-man crisis unit stood ready. "All quiet," she was told.
"We stun him. I don't want him drawing a weapon. Nobody gets hurt on
this op. We put him down, restrain, and move him out clean."
"I can get behind that," McNab muttered.
A full frontal, she thought, all four through the same door, was too
risky if he was armed.
"You and Peabody on the gallery door. Roarke will open the door between
the sections by remote on my command. We'll go in the studio door. Take
him in a pincer. Move on my signal."
She moved through the stairwell door, signaled McNab and Peabody to
position on the other side of the corridor.
She could hear the progress of the evacuation through her headset. It
was slow, but it was moving. She rolled her shoulders.
"Jesus, I hate these vests. Can they make them any more uncomfortable?"
"In another age, Lieutenant, you'd have been my knight in shining
armor. And that protection you'd have hated a great deal more."
"Could've taken him, probably could've taken him without the evac.
Could wait, stake him out. He's got to sleep sometimes. But . . ."
"Your instincts told you to move people out of harm's way and take him
now."
She removed her headset, gestured at his. "If it'll help you to be the
one to take him down, I'll hold back."
He skimmed a fingertip along her jaw-line. "Soft on me, aren't you?"
"Pretty much."
"Same goes. And no, don't hold back. It doesn't matter who."
"Okay, then." She put her headset back in place. Then rolled on her
toes a few minutes later when the all-clear came through.
"Peabody, on the door. Roarke, get them into the gallery."
He keyed in on his remote. "Done."
"Move in. Stay ready." She took her position by the studio door, nodded
to Roarke. "Go!"
She broke through the door, went in low with Roarke high beside her. An
instant later, the door between sections opened and Peabody and McNab
charged through.
Bissel stood by one of his sculptures, wearing a safety helmet and
goggles, light body armor. And two hand blasters in a cross-body
harness. He held a torch that spurted a thin line of flame.
"Police! Put your hands in the air. Do it now!"
"It's not going to matter. Not going to matter." He swept the torch
toward Peabody and McNab, and jerked back as he was stunned.
"Not going to matter." He tossed down the torch and flame bounced along
the reflective surface of the floor. "I rigged this. Are you hearing
me!" he shouted. "I've got a bomb. If you come at me, I'll blow it.
I'll blow up half this building and everyone in it. You put down those
weapons and listen to me."
"I'm all ears, Blair." She heard the order go out for Bombs and
Explosives through her earpiece. "Where's the bomb?"
"Put down your weapons."
"I'm not going to do that." She watched out of the corner of her eye as
Roarke shifted, then crouched to retrieve the torch and turn it off.
"You want me to listen, I'll listen. Where's the bomb? You could be
bullshitting me. You want me to listen, you've got to tell me where it
is."
"This. The whole damn thing." He slapped his hand on the twisting
column of metal. His face was sheened with sweat. From the work, she
imagined, and from excitement. And panic.
"There's enough in here to blow this place, hundreds of people, to hell
and back again."
"You'd go with them."
"You listen." He shoved back his helmet and she saw his eyes. Zeus, she
thought. He was riding on it. Between that and the body armor, he'd
take a few stuns before he went down.
"I said I was listening. What do you have to say?"
"I'm not going to jail. I'm not going in a cage. Sparrow, Quinn
Sparrow's the one who set this up, who set me up. I'm not going in a
cage. I'm an HSO operative, on assignment. I don't answer to the NYPSD."
"We can talk about that." She kept her voice even, the tone interested.
"You can tell me about your assignment, unless you blow yourself up
first."
"We're not going to talk. You're going to listen. I want
transportation. I want a jet-copter, and pilot, on the roof. I want ten
million in non-traceable currency. When I'm clear I'll send you the
deactivation code. Otherwise . . ."
He held up his left hand and displayed the remote trigger strapped to
his palm. "I use this. I'm HSO!" he shouted. "Do you think I won't use
this?"
"I don't doubt you'll use it, Agent Bissel. But I have to verify the
explosive exists. Unless I can confirm the threat and tell my
superiors, they're not going to listen. I need to verify, so you can
stay in control."
"It's there. And one twitch-"
"You know procedure and protocol. We're professionals. I've got to
answer to my superiors. Let's confirm, then we can move on to your
demands and negotiate."
"It's inside, you stupid bitch. I put it inside. You'd stayed out of
this, I'd've had it drop-kicked to fucking HSO Base for screwing with
me."
"We'll scan it. No point in anybody getting hurt. We've got Sparrow.
He's enough for me. He's the one who got you into this mess. I've just
got to confirm, so we can start the process."
"Scan it, then. You'll see. I want that jet-copter. I want you to pull
back, pull the hell back. I want transportation to a location of my
choice."
Roarke held up both hands. "Let me just get out my scanner, configure
it for reading an explosive device. You know I own part of this
building. I don't want it damaged."
Bissel shifted his gaze from Eve's face to Roarke's. Wet his lips.
"Make one move, just one I don't like, it goes."
Roarke reached in his pocket, held out the scanner for Bissel's
approval.
"You've been dipping in Zeus, Agent Bissel," Eve said to bring his
attention back to her. "It's not good for you. It can cloud your
thinking."
"You think I don't know what I'm doing?" Sweat was running down his
face, pooling at the base of his throat. "You think I don't have the
balls?"
"No. You couldn't do what you do, be what you are if you didn't have
balls. Sparrow hadn't screwed you up, you'd be fat city."
"The son of a bitch."
"He thought you were his dog, that he could keep you on a leash." She
didn't look at Roarke, but sensed him at her side. "But you showed him
what you were made of. I think all you wanted to do was get away after
your assignment was complete. To get what was owed to you and get away,
and things kept going wrong. You know, I bet Chloe would've gone with
you. You didn't have to kill her."
"She was an idiot! A decent roll, but she'd irritate the hell out of
you out of bed. I used her data unit to store information, to formulate
plans. I know how to make my own plans. Contingencies. And what do you
think I saw when I peeked in through the listening device I planted in
the bedroom? She was trying to get into it, trying to break my
passcode. Probably thought I was screwing around on her. Stupid,
jealous little bitch."
"What about the locket you gave her?"
He looked blank, then his jittery eyes smiled. "Passkey, drop box.
Think I don't know how to cover myself? I had drop boxes all over the
damn place. Emergency funds, weapons, whatever I needed. Can't put
everything in one spot. Gotta spread out."
"And she knew about this place. She knew, and she had that
incriminating data buried on her unit, and one of your passkeys. I
guess I was wrong. You did have to kill her."
"Damn straight. It should've worked. It should've. I even got her to
write the note. Just write it down for me, baby. One line, just one to
say how you felt when you thought I was dead. And she was stupid enough
to do it."
"It was a good plan. So was Powell. It was just bad luck."
"Explosive device confirmed," Roarke said coolly. "My, my, Bissel, you
certainly put all your eggs into one very volatile basket. If you
discharge that, they wouldn't be able to sweep up the pieces."
"I told you. Didn't I tell you? Now get me that copter. Get it now!"
"If you discharged it," Roarke continued. "But you won't, as I've just
deactivated the timer. You're clear, Lieutenant."
"Thanks." She aimed for Bissel's unprotected legs. He staggered,
roared, and his eyes went wild as he closed his hand into a fist to try
to set off the explosive.
She hit him a second time when he reached for the side-arms, and
Peabody came in from the side, bowling in mid-body to send them both
flying across the now-scarred floor.
Pumping on Zeus, he backhanded her, but she held on.
McNab leaped, diving in to catch Bissel in a headlock, and, using his
fist instead of his weapon, rammed three short, hard punches to the
face.
Her nose was streaming blood, but Peabody grabbed her restraints.
Between the two of them, they held him down and cuffed his wrists.
"Get his ankles, too," Eve suggested, and tossed over her own
restraints. "He's still pretty hopped. This is Dallas," she said into
her headset. "Suspect is secured. Send in Bombs and Explosives to
remove device."
When Peabody panted and sat hard on Bissel's still-bucking back, McNab
offered her a polka-dotted handkerchief. "Here you go, baby. Your nose
is bleeding. I mean, Detective Baby," he added with a glance at Eve.
"Doing okay, Peabody?" Eve asked her.
"Yeah. It's not broken." She held the colorful cloth to her nose. "We
got him, Lieutenant."
"Yeah, we got him. Arrange to have the prisoner transported to Central.
Good job, Detective Baby. You, too, McNab."
"You held back," Roarke said when Eve stepped out of the way to let the
bomb squad deal with the sculpture. "So McNab could punch him a few
times for Peabody."
"I think Peabody might have handled it on her own, but he deserved a
shot. Got a good, solid right for such a skinny guy."
She checked her wrist unit. It looked as if she was going to be right
on time for Nadine.
Screw political wisdom.
"I'm going to have to go in, do the paperwork, warm up Bissel in
Interview. Going to take some time. Maybe you could fill in Reva and
Tokimoto, make sure they know their assistance and cooperation have
been noted and appreciated. Let Reva know I'm going to clear it so she
gets five private minutes with Bissel. And maybe you could tell Caro
she did a good job raising her kid."
"You could tell her that yourself."
"Guess I could. Meanwhile"-she jerked a thumb so he'd step with her
into the relative quiet of the gallery-"you've been putting in a lot of
time and energy as regards this investigation. Personal interest or
not, that's also noted and appreciated."
"Thank you."
"I guess it's going to take you some time to get your own stuff back in
order. All that universal magnate and corporate god stuff."
"A few days. A week or so, we'll be on balance again. I'm going to have
to be out of town for a bit. Some of it needs to be hands-on."
"Okay. But you figure you'll be back in order in about a week?"
"More or less, why?"
"Because when you're all set, I'm going to take you away for a long
weekend. So you can relax."
His eyebrows shot up. "Are you?"
"Yeah. You've been revving on all engines. You need a break. So we'll
say . . . a week from Friday. Where do you want to go?"
"Where do I want to go? And you're doing this because I need a break?"
She glanced through the doorway, just to make sure nobody was paying
any attention. Then cupped his face in her hands. "You do. Then there's
the fact that I intend to make you my sex slave for a couple days. So
where do you want to go?"
"We haven't been to the island in a while." He didn't bother to check
if anyone was watching, but leaned down and kissed her. "I'll make the
arrangements."
"No. I'll make the arrangements. I can do it," she said when he didn't
quite hide the wince. "I can. Jesus, I can coordinate a major op, I
should be able to coordinate some damn travel. Have a little faith."
"In you I have more than a little."
"Then I'll see you later. I've got to go let the dogs out."
She headed out, then walked back and gave him a hard, short kiss.
"Later, Civilian Baby."
She heard him laugh as she walked out, skirted around other cops. And
when she was alone, riding down alone, she tapped her finger-the one
that wore her wedding ring-against the image of the badge on her heart.