The In Death Collection 06-10 (66 page)

“I’ll get right on it.” Peabody swung left, heading through the bullpen as Eve turned
into her office. It was small, but she preferred it that way. The single window was narrow, letting in little light and entirely too much
noise from air traffic. But the AutoChef worked and was stocked with Roarke’s impeccable coffee.

She ordered a mug, then sighed as the rich, strong scent of it tickled her system. Sitting down, she engaged
her
tele-link with the intention of harassing Morris.

“I know he’s doing a PM,” she said to the assistant who tried to block her.
“I have some information for him concerning the body. Put me through.”

She leaned back in her chair, indulged herself with coffee, drummed her fingers against the mug, and
waited.

“Dallas.” Morris’s face swam on-screen. “You know how I hate being
interrupted when I’ve got my hands in someone’s brains.”

“I have a witness who puts two people on the scene. Big shiny car, nice shiny shoes. One carried a
leather bag, the other a white bag that made—I quote—sloshy noises. Ring any bells?”

“I hear a ding,” Morris said, frowning now. “Your witness see what
happened?”

“No, he’s a brewhead, slept through most of it. They were gone when he woke up, but
according to the time line, he discovered the body. Would that sloshy bag be what I think it would be?”

“Could be an organ transport sack. This is neat, professional work here, Dallas. First-rate major
organ removal. I’ve got some of the blood work back. Your victim was given a nice, comfy dose of anesthesia. He never felt a
thing. But if what’s left in him is any indication, the heart was next to worthless. His liver’s shot, his kidneys are a
mess. His lungs are the color of a coal mine. This is not someone who bothered with anticancer vaccines or regular medical
treatments. His body’s full of disease. I’d have given him six months, tops, before he’d have kicked from
natural causes.”

“So they took a worthless heart,” Eve mused. “Maybe they figure on passing it off as
a good one.”

“If it’s like the rest of him, a first-year med student would spot the condition.”

“They wanted it. It’s too damn much trouble to go through just to kill some sidewalk
sleeper.”

Possibilities circled in her mind. Revenge, some weird cult, a black-market scam. Kicks, entertainment.
Practice.

“You said it was first-rate work. How many surgeons in the city could handle it?”

“I’m a dead doctor,” Morris said with a ghost of a smile. “Live ones
don’t run in the same circles. Snazziest private hospital in New York would be the Drake Center. I’d start
there.”

“Thanks, Morris. I can use the final reports as soon as you can manage it.”

“Then let me get back to my brain.” With that, he ended transmission.

Eve turned to her computer, eyes narrowed. It was making a suspicious buzzing noise, one she’d
reported twice to the jokers in maintenance. She leaned toward it, teeth bared in threat.

“Computer, you sack of shit, search for data on the Drake Center, medical facility, New York
City.”

Working. . . .

It hiccupped, whined, and the screen flashed into an alarming red that seared the eyes.

“Default to blue screen, damn it.”

Internal error. Blue screen is unavailable. Continue search?

“I hate you.” But she adjusted her eyes. “Continue search.”

Searching. . . . The Drake Center of Medicine, located Second Avenue, New York City, established 2023
in honor of Walter C. Drake, credited with the discovery of anticancer vaccine. This is a private facility, which includes hospital and
health care clinics, rated Class A by the American Medical Association, teaching and training facilities also rated Class A, as well as
research and development laboratories with Class A ratings. Do you wish list of board members on all facilities?

“Yes, on screen and hard copy.”

Working. . . . Internal error.

There was a distinct increase in the buzzing noise, and the screen began to shimmer.

Please repeat command.

“I’m going to eat those maintenance assholes for lunch.”

Command does not compute. Do you wish to order lunch?

“Ha ha. No. List board members on all facilities of the Drake Center of Medicine.”

Working. . . . Health Center Board: Colin Cagney, Lucille Mendez, Tia Wo, Michael Waverly, Charlotte
Mira . . .

“Dr. Mira,” Eve murmured. It was a good connection. The doctor was one of the top
criminal profilers in the city and affiliated with the New York Police and Security Department. She was also a personal friend.

Eve drummed her fingers, listening to the names of the board of the teaching facilities. One or two vaguely
rang a bell, but the ringing became louder when the computer reached the board of the research and development arm.

Carlotta Zemway, Roarke—

“Hold it, hold it.” Her drumming fingers curled into fists. “Roarke? Damn it, damn it,
damn it, can’t he stay out of anything?”

Please rephrase question.

“Shut the hell up.” Eve pressed her fingers to her eyes; sighed. “Continue
list,” she ordered as her stomach continued to sink. “Print out, then disengage.”

Internal error. Unable to comply with multiple commands at this time.

She didn’t scream, but she wanted to.

After a frustrating twenty minutes of waiting for the data to dribble out, she swung through the
detectives’ bullpen and around to the stingy area where aides and adjutants were penned in cubicles the size of a drying
tube.

“Peabody, I have to head out.”

“I’ve got data incoming. Do you want me to transfer it to my portable unit?”

“No, you stay here, finish the runs. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. When
you’re done with this, I want you to go find a hammer.”

Peabody had taken out her memo book, nearly plugged in the order, when she stopped, frowned up at Eve.
“Sir? A hammer?”

“That’s right. A really big, heavy hammer. Then you take it into my office and beat that
fucking useless excuse for a data spitter on my desk to dust.”

“Ah.” Because she was a wise woman, Peabody cleared her throat rather than loosen the
chuckle. “As an alternate to that action, Lieutenant, I could call maintenance.”

“Fine, you do that, and you tell them that at the very first opportunity, I’m coming down
there and killing all of them. Mass murder. And after they’re all dead, I’m going to kick the bodies around, dance on
top of them, and sing a happy song. No jury will convict me.”

Because the idea of Eve singing and dancing anywhere made her lips twitch, Peabody bit the inside of her
cheek. “I’ll inform them of your dissatisfaction with their work.”

“You do that, Peabody.” Turning on her heel, Eve shrugged into her jacket and stalked
out.

It would have been more logical for her to hunt up Mira first. As a psychiatrist, a medical doctor, a
criminologist, Mira would be a valuable source on the case. But Eve drove uptown to the shimmering spear of a building that was
Roarke’s New York headquarters.

There were other buildings in other cities, on and off planet. Her husband had his clever fingers in too many
pies to count. Rich pies, she knew, complicated pies. And at one time, very questionable pies.

She supposed it was inevitable that his name would pop up in connection with so many of her cases. But
she didn’t have to like it.

She slipped her vehicle into the space Roarke had reserved for her in the multilevel garage. The first time
she’d come there, not quite a year before, she hadn’t had such privileges. Nor had her voice and palm prints been
programmed onto the security system of the private elevator. Before, she had entered the main lobby with its acres of tiles, its banks
of flowers, its moving map and screens, and had been escorted to his offices to interrogate him over a murder.

Now the computerized voice greeted her by name, wished her well, and told her as she stepped in that
Roarke would be informed of her visit.

Eve jammed her hands in her pockets, paced the car on its smooth ride to the top of the spear. She imagined
he was in the middle of some megadeal or complex negotiation to buy a medium-sized planet or financially strapped country. Well, he
was just going to have to hold off on making his next million until she had some answers.

When the doors whispered open, Roarke’s assistant was waiting with a polite smile. As always, she
was perfectly groomed, her snow-white hair sleekly styled. “Lieutenant, how nice to see you again. Roarke’s in a
meeting. He asked if you’d mind waiting in his office just a few moments.”

“Sure, fine, okay.”

“Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?” She led Eve through the glass
breezeway where New York rushed by some sixty stories below. “If you haven’t had lunch, I can shift
Roarke’s next appointment to accommodate you.”

The quiet deference always made her feel stupid—a flaw, Eve thought, in herself. “No, this
shouldn’t take long. Thanks.”

“Just let me know if I can do anything for you.” Discreetly, she closed the doors and left Eve
alone.

The office was huge, of course. Roarke liked his space. The sea of windows were tinted to cut the glare and
offer a staggering view of the city. He also liked height—a fondness that Eve didn’t share. So she didn’t wander
over to the window but paced the ocean of plush carpet instead.

The trinkets in the room were clever and unique. The furnishings sleek and comfortable, in rich shades of
topaz and emerald. She knew the ebony slab of desk was just one more power center for a man who exuded power like breath.

Efficiency, elegance, power. He never lacked for any of them.

And when, ten minutes later, he came in through a side door, it was so easy to see why.

He could still stop her heart. Just the look of him: that glorious face, as perfectly sculpted as a Renaissance
statue, was highlighted by eyes impossibly blue and a mouth designed to make a woman crave it on hers; his black hair fell nearly to
his shoulders, adding just a touch of the rogue; and she knew just how strong and sleek that body was, now elegantly clad in a tailored
black suit.

“Lieutenant.” Ireland whispered, silky and romantic, in his voice. “An unexpected
pleasure.”

She wasn’t aware she was frowning or that she often did when swamped with the heady
combination of love and lust he caused in her. “I need to talk to you.”

His brow lifted as he crossed to her. “About?”

“Murder.”

“Ah.” He had already taken her hands in his, was
already leaning
down for a long, slow kiss of greeting. “Am I under arrest?”

“Your name popped up during a data search. What are you doing on the board of the Drake
Center’s R and D unit?”

“Being an upstanding citizen. Being married to a cop does that to a man.” He ran his hands
up her arms to her shoulders, felt the tension there, and sighed. “Eve, I’m on all sorts of tedious boards and
committees. Who’s dead?”

“A sidewalk sleeper named Snooks.”

“I don’t believe we were acquainted. Sit down; tell me what this has to do with me being on
the board of the Drake Center.”

“Possibly nothing, but I have to start somewhere.” Still, she didn’t sit but roamed the
room.

Roarke watched her, the restless, nervous energy that seemed to spark visibly around her. And knowing her,
he understood all that energy was already focused on finding justice for the dead.

It was only one of the reasons she fascinated him.

“The victim’s heart had been surgically removed while he was in his crib down in the
Bowery,” she told him. “The ME claims the procedure required a top-flight surgeon, and the Drake was my first
pass.”

“Good choice. It’s the best in the city, and likely the best on the East Coast.”
Considering, Roarke leaned back against his desk. “They took his heart?”

“That’s right. He was a brewhead, an addict. His body was worn down. Morris says the
heart was no good anyway. The guy would’ve been dead in six months.” She stopped pacing and faced him, tucking
her thumbs in his front pockets. “What do you know about organ trading on the black market?”

“It wasn’t something I dabbled in, even in my more . . . flexible
days,” he added with a faint smile. “But the advances in man-made organs, the supply still available from accidental
deaths, the strides in health care and organ building all have cut the market for street organs down to
nothing.
That area peaked about thirty years ago.”

“How much for a heart off the street?” she demanded.

“I really don’t know.” His brow winged up, and a smile ghosted around that sexy
poet’s mouth. “Do you want me to find out?”

“I can find out myself.” She began to pace again. “What do you do on that
board?”

“I’m an adviser. My own R and D department has a medical arm that cooperates and assists
Drake’s. We have a contract with the center. We supply medical equipment, machines, computers.” He smiled again.
“Artificial organs. Drake’s R and D deals primarily with pharmaceuticals, prostheses, chemicals. We both manufacture
replacement organs.”

“You make hearts?”

“Among other things. We don’t deal in live tissue.”

“Who’s the best surgeon on staff?”

“Colin Cagney is the chief of staff. You’ve met him,” Roarke added.

She only grunted. How could she remember all the people she’d met in some social arena since
Roarke came into her life? “Wonder if he makes—what did they call them—home calls?”

“House calls,” Roarke corrected with a hint of a smile. “I can’t quite see the
distinguished Dr. Cagney performing illegal surgery in a sidewalk sleeper’s crib.”

“Maybe I’ll have a different vision once I meet him again.” She let out a deep sigh
and tunneled her fingers through her hair. “Sorry to interrupt your day.”

“Interrupt it a bit longer,” he suggested and indulged himself by crossing to her and rubbing
his thumb over her full bottom lip. “Have lunch with me.”