The In Death Collection 06-10 (101 page)

“She went for the heart. Me, I’d’ve screwed it through his balls. More to the point, don’t you think?”

“Darling Eve, you’re a very direct woman.” He lowered his head to touch his lips to hers—one brush, then two.

It was her mouth that heated, her hands that reached up to fist in his thick, black hair and drag him closer. Take him deeper. Before he could shift to set the wine aside, she flipped over, knocking the glass to the floor as she straddled him.

He lifted a brow, eyes glinting, as he used his nimble fingers to unbutton her shirt. “I’d say we know how this one ends, too.”

“Yeah.” Grinning, she bent down to bite his bottom lip. “Let’s see how we get there this time.”

Eve scowled at her desk-link after she’d finished her conversation with the PA’s office. They’d accepted a plea of man two on Lisbeth Cooke.

Second-degree manslaughter, she thought in disgust, for a woman who had cool-headedly, cold-bloodedly ended a life because a man couldn’t control his dick.

She’d do a year at best in a minimum-security facility where she’d paint her nails and brush up on her fucking tennis serve. She’d very likely sign a disc and video deal on the story for a tidy sum, retire, and move to Martinique.

Eve knew she’d told Peabody to take what you could get, but even she hadn’t expected it to be so little.

She damn well let the APA—and she’d told the spineless little prick in short, pithy terms—inform the next of kin why justice was too overworked to bother—why it had been in such a fucking hurry to deal it hadn’t even waited to settle until she’d finished her report.

Setting her teeth, she rapped a fist against her computer in anticipation of its vagaries and called up the ME’s report on Branson.

He’d been a healthy male of fifty-one, with no medical conditions. There were no marks or injuries to the body other than the nasty hole made by a whirling drill bit.

No drugs or alcohol in the system, she noted. No indication of recent sexual activity. Stomach contents indicated a simple last meal of carrot pasta and peas in a light cream sauce, cracked wheat bread, and herbal tea ingested less than an hour before time of death.

Pretty boring meal, she decided, for such a sneaky ladies’ man.

And who, she asked herself, said he was a ladies’ man but the women who’d killed him? In their damn rush to clear the dockets, they hadn’t given her time to verify the motive for the pissy man two.

When it hit the media, and it would, she imagined a lot of dissatisfied sexual partners were going to be eyeing the tool closet.

Lover piss you off?
she thought.
Well, see how he likes a taste of the Branson 8000—the choice of professionals and serious hobbyists
. Oh yeah, she thought Lisbeth Cooke could work up a pretty jazzy ad campaign using that angle. Sales would shoot right up.

Relationships had to be society’s most baffling and brutal form of entertainment. Most could make an arena ball playoff game look like a ballroom dance. Still, lonely souls continued to seek them out, cling to them, fret and fight over them, and mourn the loss of them.

No wonder the world was full of whacks.

The glint of her wedding ring caught her eye and made her wince. That was different, she assured herself. She hadn’t sought anything out. It had found her, taken her down like a hard tackle to the back of the knees. And if Roarke ever decided he wanted out, she’d probably let him live.

In a permanent body cast.

Disgusted all around, she spun back to her machine and began to hammer out the investigative report the
PA’s office apparently didn’t want to bother with.

She glanced up as E-Detective Ian McNab poked a head in her doorway. His long golden hair was braided today, and only one iridescent hoop graced his earlobe. Obviously to make up for the conservative touch, he wore a thick sweater in screaming greens and blues that hung to the hips of black pipe-stem trousers. Shiny blue boots completed the look.

He grinned at her, green eyes bold in a pretty face. “Hey, Dallas, I finished checking out your victim’s ’links and personal memo book. The stuff from his office just came in, but I figured you’d want what I’ve got so far.”

“Then why isn’t your report on my desk unit?” she asked dryly.

“Just thought I’d bring it over personally.” With a friendly smile, he dropped a disc on her desk, then plopped his butt on the corner.

“Peabody’s running data for me, McNab.”

“Yeah.” He moved his shoulders. “So, she’s in her cube?”

“She’s not interested in you, pal. Get a clue here.”

He turned his hand over, examined his nails critically. “Who says I’m interested in her? She still seeing Monroe, or what?”

“We don’t talk about it.”

His eyes met hers briefly, and they shared a moment of the vague disapproval neither of them liked to show for Peabody’s continued involvement with a slick if appealing licensed companion. “Just curious, that’s all.”

“So ask her yourself.”
And report back to me,
she added silently.

“I do.” He grinned again. “Gives her a chance to snarl at me. She’s got great teeth.”

He got up, paced around Eve’s cramped box of an office. They both would have been surprised to realize their thoughts on relationships were, at that moment, running on parallel lines.

McNab’s hot date with an off-planet flight consultant had cooled and soured the night before. She’d bored him, he thought now, which should have been impossible as she’d put her truly magnificent breasts on display in something sheer and silver.

He hadn’t been able to work up any enthusiasm because his thoughts had continued to drift to the way a certain prickly cop looked in her starched uniform.

What the hell did she wear under that thing? he wondered now, as he had unfortunately wondered the night before. That speculation had caused him to end the evening early, annoying the flight consultant so that when he came to his senses—as he was sure he would—he’d never get another shot at those beautiful breasts.

He was, he decided, spending too many nights home alone, watching the screen.

Which reminded him.

“Hey, I caught Mavis’s video on-screen last night. Frigid.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty great.” Eve thought of her friend; even now on her first tour to promote her recording disc for Roarke’s entertainment arm, singing her butt off in Atlanta. Mavis Freestone, Eve thought sentimentally, was a long way from shrieking her lungs out for the zoned and the glazed at dives like the Blue Squirrel.

“The disc is starting to take off. Roarke thinks it’ll make the top twenty next week.”

McNab jingled credit chips in his pocket. “And we knew her when, right?”

He was stalling, Eve thought, and she was letting him. “I think Roarke’s planning a party or something once she gets back.”

“Yeah? Great.” Then he perked up at the unmistakable sound of police-issue shoes slapping worn linoleum. McNab had his hands in his pockets and a look of sheer disinterest on his face when Peabody came through the door.

“NJPSD came through with—” She broke off, scowled. “What do you want, McNab?”

“Multiple orgasms, but you guys copped that one out of the goodie bag.”

A laugh tried to bubble into her throat, but Peabody controlled it. “The lieutenant doesn’t have time for your pitiful jokes.”

“Actually, the lieutenant kind of liked that one,” Eve said, then rolled her eyes when Peabody glared at her. “Take off, McNab, play period’s over.”

“Just thought you’d be interested,” he continued, “that in running the ’links and memo books of the deceased, no calls, incoming and outgoing, were transmitted to a female other than his assailant or his office staff. No records of appointments appear in his log for
liaisons
,” he said, rolling out the word with a smirk for Peabody, “other than those involving Lisbeth Cooke—who he often refers to as Lissy my love.”

“No record of another woman?” Eve pursed her lips. “What about another guy?”

“Nope, no dates either way, and no indication of bisexuality.”

“Interesting. Run the office logs, McNab. I wonder if Lissy my love was lying about her motive, and if so, why she killed him.”

“I’m on it.” As he strolled out, he paused just long enough to throw Peabody a loud, exaggerated kiss.

“He is such a complete asshole.”

“Maybe he irritates you, Peabody—”

“There’s no maybe involved.”

“But he was smart enough to see that his report might change a few angles on this case.”

The idea of McNab dipping his toe into one of her cases, again, had Peabody bristling. “But the Cooke case is closed. The perpetrator confessed, has been charged, booked, and bonded.”

“She got man two. If it wasn’t a crime of passion, maybe we get more. It’s worth finding out if Branson
was bouncing on somebody on the side or if she made that up to cover another motive. We’ll take a run over to his office later today, ask some questions. Meanwhile . . .” She wagged her curled fingers toward the disc Peabody still held.

“Detective Sally’s primary,” Peabody began as she handed Eve the disc. “He’s got no problem cooperating. Basically because he’s got nothing. The body’d been in the river at least thirty-six hours before discovery. He’s got no witnesses. The victim wasn’t carrying any cash or credits, but he did have ID and credit cards. He was wearing a wrist unit—Cartier knockoff but a good one—so Sally ruled out a standard mugging, especially when the autopsy didn’t turn up a tongue.”

“There’s a clue,” Eve muttered and slid the disc into a slot on her unit.

“ME’s report indicates the tongue was severed with a serrated blade, premortem. However, lacerations and bruising at the back of the neck, and the lack of defensive indicate the victim was probably knocked unconscious before the impromptu surgery, then dumped in the river. They strapped his hands and feet before giving him the toss. Drowning’s down as cause of death.”

Eve tapped her fingers. “Any reason I should bother reading this report?” she asked and earned a grin.

“Detective Sally was talkative. I don’t think he’d struggle if you wanted to take the case. He pointed out that since the victim lived in New York, it’s a toss-up right now if he was killed here or on the other side of the river.”

“I’m not taking the case, I’m just looking at it. You run Arlington?”

“Everything that popped is on side B of the disc.”

“Fine. I’ll skim through, then we’ll head over to Branson’s office.”

Eve narrowed her eyes as a tall, gangly man in worn jeans and an ancient parka hesitated at her doorway. Early twenties, she judged, with a look of such open
innocence in eyes of dreamy gray she could already hear the street thieves and hustlers lining up to pluck his pockets clean.

He had the thin, bony face she associated with martyrs or scholars, and brown hair worn in a smooth tail and liberally streaked from the sun.

His smile was slow and shy.

“Looking for someone?” Eve began. At the question, Peabody turned, gaped, then let out what could only be called a squeal.

“Hey, Dee.” His voice creaked, as if he used it rarely.

“Zeke! Oh wow,
Zeke
!” She took one vaulting leap and jumped into long, welcoming arms.

The sight of Peabody in her ruthlessly pressed uniform with her regulation shoes dangling inches off the floor while she giggled—it was the only word to describe the sound—and pressed cheerful kisses onto the long face of the man who held her had Eve slowly rising to her feet.

“What are you doing here?” Peabody demanded. “When did you get here? Oh, it’s so good to see you. How long can you stay?”

“Dee,” was all he said, and hauled her up another inch to press his lips to her cheek.

“Excuse me.” Well aware how quickly tongues could wag in the unit, Eve stepped forward. “Officer Peabody, I suggest you have this little reunion on your personal time.”

“Oh, sorry. Put me down, Zeke.” But she kept an arm wrapped possessively around him even when her feet hit the floor. “Lieutenant, this is Zeke.”

“I got that far.”

“My brother.”

“Oh yeah?” Eve took another look, searching for family resemblance. There was none—not body type, not coloring, not in features. “Nice to meet you.”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Zeke flushed a little and
held out a big hand. “Dee’s had lots of good things to say about you, Lieutenant.”

“Glad to hear it.” Eve found her hand lost inside one the consistency of granite and as gentle as silk. “So which one are you?”

“Zeke’s the baby,” Peabody said with such adoration Eve had to grin.

“Some baby. What are you, about six-six?”

“And a quarter,” he said with a shy smile.

“He takes after our father. They’re both tall and skinny.” Peabody gave her brother a fierce squeeze. “Zeke’s a wood artist. He builds the most beautiful furniture and cabinets.”

“Come on, Dee.” The flush became a blush. “I’m just a carpenter. Handy with tools, that’s all.”

“There’s a lot of that going around lately,” Eve murmured.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to New York?” Peabody demanded.

“Wanted to surprise you. Didn’t know for sure I’d come until a couple of days ago.”

He stroked a hand over her hair in a way that made Eve think of relationships again. Some weren’t about sex or power or control. Some were just about love.

“I got a commission to custom-build cabinets from these people who saw my work back in Arizona.”

“That’s great. How long will it take?”

“Don’t know till they’re done.”

“Okay, well, you’ll stay at my place. I’ll get you the key and tell you how to get there. You’ll take the subway.” She gnawed her lip. “Don’t go wandering around, Zeke. It’s not like home. Are you carrying your money and ID in your back pocket, because—”