The In Death Collection 06-10 (100 page)

“Sure.” She leaned back a little, not so much to relax but to escape the puffs of her weasel’s very distasteful breath. “He still around? Christ, he must be a hundred and fifty.”

“Nah, nah, wasn’t that old. Ninety-couple maybe, and spry. You bet The Fixer was spry.” Ratso nodded enthusiastically and sent those greasy strings bobbing. “Took care of himself. Ate healthy, got regular sex from
one of the girls on Avenue B. Said sex kept the mind and body tuned up, you know.”

“Tell me about it,” Peabody muttered and earned a mild glare from Eve.

“You’re giving me past tense here.”

Ratso blinked at her. “Huh?”

“Did something happen to The Fixer?”

“Yeah, but wait. I’m getting ahead of things.” He dug his skinny fingers into the shallow bowl of sad-looking nuts. Chomped on them with what was left of his teeth as he looked at the ceiling and pulled his easily scattered thoughts back into line. “About a month ago, I got some . . . I had me a view-screen unit, needed a little work.”

Eve’s eyebrows lifted under her fringe of bangs. “To cool it off,” she said mildly.

He wheezed, slurped. “See, it got sorta dropped, and I took it in to Fixer so’s he could diddle with it. I mean, the guy’s a genius, right? Nothing he can’t make work like brand-fucking-new.”

“And it’s so clever the way he can change serial numbers.”

“Yeah, well.” Ratso’s smile was nearly sweet. “We got to talking, and The Fixer, he knows how I’m always looking for a little pickup work. He says how he’s got this job going. Big one. Really flush. They got him building timers and remotes and little bugs and shit. Done up some boomers, too.”

“He told you he was putting together explosives?”

“Well, we was sorta pals, so yeah, he was telling me. Said how they heard he used to do that kind of shit when he was in the army. And they was paying heavy credits.”

“Who was paying?”

“I don’t know. Don’t think he did, either. Said how a couple guys would come to his place, give him a list of stuff and some credits. He’d build the shit, you know? Then he’d call this number they give him, leave a
message. Just supposed to say like the products are ready, and the two guys would come back, pick the stuff up, and give him the rest of the money.”

“What did he figure they wanted with the stuff?”

Ratso lifted his bony shoulders, then looked pitifully into his empty mug. Knowing the routine, Eve lifted a finger, turned it down toward Ratso’s glass. He brightened immediately.

“Thanks, Dallas. Thanks. Get dry, you know? Get dry talking.”

“Then get to the point, Ratso, while you still have some spit in your mouth.”

He beamed as the waitress came over to slop urine-colored liquid in his mug. “Okay, okay. So he says how he figures maybe these guys are looking to shake down a bank or jewelry store or something. He’s working on some bypass unit for them, and he’s clued in that the timers and remotes set off the boomers he’s got going for them. Says maybe they’ll want a little guy who knows his way under the street. He’ll maybe put in a word for me.”

“What are friends for?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Then I get a call from him a couple weeks later. He’s really wired up, you know? Tells me the deal isn’t what he figured. That it’s bad shit. Real bad shit. He ain’t making any sense. Never heard old Fixer like that. He was real scared. Said something about being afraid of another Arlington, and how he needed to go under awhile. Could he flop with me until he figured out what to do next? So I said sure, hey sure, come on over. But he never did.”

“Maybe he went under somewhere else?”

“Yeah, he went under. They fished him outta the river a couple days ago. Jersey side.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah.” Ratso brooded into his beer. “He was okay, you know? Word I got is somebody cut his tongue right outta his head.” He lifted his tiny eyes, fixed them
mournfully on Eve. “What kinda person does that shit?”

“It’s bad business, Ratso. Bad people. It’s not my case,” she added. “I can take a look at the file, but there’s not a lot I can do.”

“They offed him ’cause he figured out what they was gonna do, right? Right?”

“Yeah, I’d say that follows.”

“So you gotta figure out what they’re gonna do, right? You figure it out, Dallas, then you stop them and take them down for doing The Fixer like that. You’re a murder cop, and they murdered him.”

“It’s not as simple as that. It’s not my case,” she said again. “If they fished him out in New Jersey, it’s not even my damn city. The cops working it aren’t likely to take kindly to me horning in on their investigation.”

“How much you figure most cops gonna bother with somebody like Fixer?”

She nearly sighed. “There are plenty of cops who’ll bother. Plenty who’ll work their butt off trying to close the case, Ratso.”

“You’ll work harder.” He said it simply, almost childlike faith in his eyes. And Eve felt her conscience stir restlessly. “And I can find out shit for you. If Fixer talked to me some, he coulda maybe talked to somebody else. He didn’t scare easy, you know. He come through the Urban Wars. But he was plenty scared when he called me that night. They didn’t do him that way ’cause they was gonna take out a bank.”

“Maybe not.” But she knew there were some who would gut a tourist for a wrist unit and a pair of airboots. “I’ll look into it. I can’t promise any more than that. You find out anything that adds to this, you get in touch.”

“Yeah, okay. Right.” He grinned at her. “You’ll find out who did Fixer that way. The other cops, they didn’t know about the shit he was into, right? Right? So that’s good data I give you.”

“Yeah, good enough, Ratso.” She rose, dug credits out of her pocket, and laid them on the table.

“You want me to run down the file on this floater?” Peabody asked when they stepped back outside.

“Yeah. Tomorrow’s soon enough.” As they climbed back up to her vehicle, Eve dug her hands into her pockets. “Do a run on Arlington, too. See what buildings, streets, citizens, businesses, that kind of thing have that name. If we find anything, we can turn it over to the investigating officer.”

“This Fixer, did he weasel for anybody?”

“No.” Eve slid behind the wheel. “He hated cops.” For a moment she frowned, drummed her fingers. “Ratso’s got a brain the size of a soybean, but he’s got Fixer down. He didn’t scare easy, and he was greedy. Kept that shop of his open seven days a week, worked it solo. Rumor was he had his old army-issue blaster under the counter, and a hunting knife. Used to brag he could fillet a man as quick and easy as he could a trout.”

“Sounds like a real fun guy.”

“He was tough and sour and would sooner piss in a cop’s eye than look at one. If he wanted out of this deal he was in, it had to be way over the top. Nothing much would’ve put this old man off.”

“What’s that I hear?” Cocking her head, Peabody cupped a hand at her ear. “Oh, that must be the sound of you getting sucked in.”

Eve hit the street with a bit more bounce than necessary. “Shut up, Peabody.”

She missed dinner, which was only mildly irritating. The fact that she’d been right about the PA and the plea bargain on Lisbeth Cooke was downright infuriating.
At least
, Eve thought as she let herself into the house,
the twit could have stuck for murder two a little longer
.

Now, scant hours after Eve had arrested her in the wrongful death of one J. Clarence Branson, Lisbeth was out on bail and very likely sitting cozily in her own
apartment with a glass of claret and a smug little smile on her face.

Summerset, Roarke’s butler, slipped into the foyer to greet her with a baleful eye and a sniff of disapproval. “You are, once again, quite late.”

“Yeah? And you are, once again, really ugly.” She dropped her jacket over the newel post. “Difference is, tomorrow I might be on time.”

He noted that she looked neither pale nor tired—two early signs of overwork. He would have suffered the torments of the damned before he would have admitted—even to himself—that the fact pleased him.

“Roarke,” he said in frigid tones as she breezed by him and started up the steps, “is in the video room.” Summerset’s brow arched slightly. “Second level, fourth door on the right.”

“I know where it is,” she muttered, though it wasn’t absolutely true. Still, she would have found it, even though the house was huge, a labyrinth of rooms and treasures and surprises.

The man didn’t deny himself anything, she thought. Why should he? He’d been denied everything as a child, and he’d earned, one way or another, all the comforts he now commanded.

But even after a year, she wasn’t really used to the house, the huge stone edifice with its juts and its towers and the lushly planted grounds. She wasn’t used to the wealth, she supposed, and never would be. The kind of financial power that could command acres of polished wood, sparkling glass, art from other countries and centuries, along with the simple pleasures of soft fabrics, plush cushions.

The fact was, she’d married Roarke in spite of his money, in spite of how he’d earned a great portion of it. Fallen for him, she supposed, as much for his shadows as his lights.

She stepped into the room with its long, luxurious sofas, its enormous wall screens, and complex control
center. There was a charmingly old-fashioned bar, gleaming cherry with stools of leather and brass. A carved cabinet with a rounded door she remembered vaguely held countless discs of the old videos her husband was so fond of.

The polished floor was layered with richly patterned rugs. A blazing fire—no computer-generated image for Roarke—filled the hearth of black marble and warmed the fat, sleeping cat curled in front of it. The scent of crackling wood merged with the spice of the fresh flowers spearing out of a copper urn nearly as tall as she and the fragrance of the candles glowing gold on the gleaming mantel.

On-screen, an elegant party was happening in black and white.

But it was the man, stretched out comfortably on the plush sofa, a glass of wine in his hand, who drew and commanded attention.

However romantic and sensual those old videos with their atmospheric shadows, their mysterious tones could be, the man who watched them was only more so. And he was in three glorious dimensions.

Indeed, he was dressed in black and white, the collar of his soft white shirt casually unbuttoned. At the end of long legs clad in dark trousers, his feet were bare. Why, she wondered, she should find that so ripely sexy, she couldn’t say.

Still, it was his face that always drew her, that glorious face of an angel leaping into hell with the light of sin in his vivid blue eyes and a smile curving the poetic mouth. Sleek black hair framed it, falling nearly to his shoulders. A temptation for any woman’s fingers and fists.

It hit her now, as it often did, that she’d started falling for him the moment she’d seen that face. On her computer screen in her office, during a murder investigation. When he’d been on her short list of suspects.

A year ago, she realized. Only a year ago, when their
lives had collided. And irrevocably changed.

Now, though she’d made no sound, came no closer, he turned his head. His eyes met hers. And he smiled. Her heart did the long, slow roll in her chest that continued to baffle and embarrass her.

“Hello, Lieutenant.” He held out a hand in welcome.

She crossed to him, let their fingers link. “Hi. What are you watching?”

“
Dark Victory
. Bette Davis. She goes blind and dies in the end.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“But she does it so courageously.” He gave her hand a little tug and urged her down on the sofa with him.

When she stretched out, when her body curved easily, naturally against his, he smiled. It had taken a great deal of time and a great deal of trust between them to persuade her to relax this way. To accept him and what he needed to give her.

His cop, he thought as he toyed with her hair, with her dark corners and terrifying courage. His wife, with her nerves and her needs.

He shifted slightly, content when she settled her head on his shoulder.

Since she’d gone that far, Eve decided it would be a pretty good idea to pull off her boots and to take a sip from his glass of wine. “How come you’re watching an old video like this if you already know how it ends?”

“It’s the getting there that counts. Did you have dinner?”

She made a negative sound, passed him back his wine. “I’ll get something in a bit. I got hung up on a case that came in right before end of shift. Woman screwed a guy to the wall with his own drill.”

Roarke swallowed wine, hard. “Literally, or metaphorically?”

She chuckled a little, enjoying the wine as they passed the glass back and forth. “Literally. Branson 8000.”

“Ouch.”

“You betcha.”

“How do you know it was a woman?”

“Because after she pinned him to the wall, she called it in, then waited for us. They were lovers, he was playing around, so she drilled a two-foot steel rod through his cheating heart.”

“Well, that’ll teach him.” Ireland cruised through his voice like whiskey and had her tilting her head to look up at him.