The In Death Collection 06-10 (85 page)

It was all so simple to accomplish. A few words in a few ears, debts called in. A flawed and jealous mind
used, and yes, sacrificed. And no one will mourn the detestable Bowers any more than the dregs I removed from society will be
mourned.

Oh, but they will cry for justice. They will demand payment.

And Eve Dallas will pay.

She’s no longer even the minor irritant she proved herself to be. With her removed, all my skills and
energies
can go back into my work. My work is imperative, and the glory that will spew from it, my right.

When it’s done, they’ll whisper my name with awe. And weep with gratitude.

Roarke stood in the cold, helpless, and waited for Eve to come home. Word had come through in the middle
of his delicate negotiations with a pharmaceutical company on Tarus II. He intended to buy them out, revamp their organization, and
link it with his own company based on Tarus I.

He had cut them off without hesitation the instant he’d received the transmission from Peabody. The
tearful explanation from the habitually stalwart cop had shaken him. There had been only one thought: to get home, to be there.

And now to wait.

When he saw the Rapid Cab coming up the drive, he felt a hot bolt of fury lance through him.

They’d taken her vehicle. Bastards.

He wanted to race down the steps, rip open the door, to bundle her out and up and carry her away
somewhere, somewhere she wouldn’t hurt as he could only imagine she hurt.

But it wasn’t his anger she needed now.

He came down the steps as she got out of the cab. And she stood pale as death in the hard winter light, her
eyes
dark, glazed, and, he thought, impossibly young. The strength, the tough edge she wore as naturally as
her weapon, was gone.

She wasn’t sure she could speak, that the words would push through her throat, it burned so. And
the rest of her was numb. Dead.

“They took my badge.” Suddenly it was real, the brutal reality of it punched like a fist. And
grief gushed up, hot, bitter, to spill out of her eyes. “Roarke.”

“I know.” He was there, his arms hard around her, holding tight as she began to shake.
“I’m sorry, Eve. I’m so sorry.”

“What will I do? What will I do?” She clung, weeping, not even aware that he picked her up,
carried her inside, into the warmth and up the stairs. “Oh God, God, God, they took my badge.”

“We’ll straighten it out. You’ll get it back. I promise you.” She was shaking
so violently, it seemed her bones would crash together and shatter. He sat, tightened his grip. “Just hold onto me.”

“Don’t go away.”

“No, baby, I’ll stay right here.”

She wept until he feared she’d be ill; then the sobs faded away, and she was limp in his arms. Like a
broken doll, he thought. He ordered a soother and took her to bed. She, who would fight taking a painkiller if she were bleeding from a
dozen wounds, sipped the sedative he brought to her lips without protest.

He undressed her as he would an exhausted child.

“They made me nothing again.”

He looked down at her face, into eyes, hollow and heavy. “No, Eve.”

“Nothing.” She turned her head away, closed her eyes, and escaped.

She’d been nothing. A vessel, a victim, a child. One more statistic sucked into an overburdened,
understaffed system. She’d tried to sleep then, too, in the narrow bed in the hospital ward that smelled of sickness and
approaching death. Moans, weeping, the monotonous beep, beep, beep of machines, and the quiet slap of rubber
soles on worn linoleum.

Pain, riding just under the surface of the drugs that dripped into her bloodstream. Like a cloud full of
thunder that threatened from a distance but never quite split and spilled.

She was eight, or so they’d told her. And she was broken.

Questions, so many questions from the cops and social workers she’d been taught to fear.

“They’ll throw you into a hole, little girl. A deep, dark hole.”

She would wake from the twilight sleep of drugs to his voice, sly and drunk, in her ear. And she would bite
back screams.

The doctor would come with his grave eyes and rough hands. He was busy, busy, busy. She could see it in
his eyes, in the sharp sound of his voice when he spoke to the nurses.

He didn’t have time to waste on the wards, on the poor and the pathetic who crowded them.

A pin . . . was there a gold pin on his lapel that winked in the lights? Snakes, coiled up
and facing each other.

She dreamed within the dream that the snakes turned on her, leaped on her, hissing with fangs that dug into
flesh and drew fresh blood.

The doctor hurt her, often, through simple hurry and carelessness. But she didn’t complain. They
hurt you more, she knew, if you complained.

And his eyes looked like the snakes’ eyes. Hard and cruel.

“Where are your parents?”

The cops would ask her. Would sit by the bed, more patient than the doctor. They snuck her candy now
and then because she was a child with lost eyes who rarely spoke and never smiled. One brought her a little stuffed dog for company.
Someone stole it the same day, but she
remembered the soft feel of its fur and the kind pity in the
cop’s eyes.

“Where is your mother?”

She would only shake her head, close her eyes.

She didn’t know. Did she have a mother? There was no memory, nothing but that sly whisper in her
ear that had fear jittering through her. She learned to block it out, to block it all out. Until there was no one and nothing before the
narrow bed in the hospital ward.

The social worker with her bright, practiced smile that looked false and tired around the edges.
“We’ll call you Eve Dallas.”

That’s not who I am,
she thought, but she only stared.
I’m nothing. I’m no one.

But they called her Eve in the group homes, in the foster homes, and she learned to be Eve. She learned to
fight when pushed, to stand on the line she’d drawn, to become what she needed to become. First to survive. Then with
purpose. Since middle childhood, the purpose had been to earn a badge, to make a difference, to stand for those who were no
one.

One day when she stood in her stiff, formal uniform, her life had been put in her hands. Her life was a
shield.

“Congratulations, Dallas, Officer Eve. The New York Police and Security Department is proud to have you.”

In that moment, the thrill and the duty had burned through her like light in a strong, fierce blaze that had
seared away all the shadows. And finally, she’d become someone.

“I have to ask for your badge and your weapon.”

She whimpered in sleep. Going to her, Roarke stroked her hair, took her hand, until she settled again.

Moving quietly, he walked to the ’link in the sitting area and called Peabody.

“Tell me what’s going on here.”

“She’s home? She’s all right?”

“She’s home, and no, she’s far from all right. What the hell have they done to
her?”

“I’m at the Drake. Feeney’s running the interviews
we’d set up, but they’re running late. I’ve only got a minute. Bowers was murdered last
night. Dallas is a suspect.”

“What kind of insanity is that?”

“It’s bogus—everybody knows it—but it’s procedure.”

“Fuck procedure.”

“Yeah.” The image of his face on her screen, the cold, predatory look in those amazing eyes,
had her fighting back a shudder. “Look, I don’t have a lot of details. They’re keeping the lid on
Baxter—he’s primary—but I got that Bowers had all this stuff about Dallas written down. Weird stuff. Sex and
corruption, bribery, false reports.”

He glanced back at Eve when she stirred restlessly. “Is no one considering the source?”

“The source is a dead cop.” She ran a hand over her face. “We’ll do
whatever it takes to get her back and get her back fast. Feeney’s going to do a deep-level search on Bowers,” she said,
lowering her voice.

“Tell him that won’t be necessary. He can contact me. I already have that data.”

“But how—”

“Tell him to contact me, Peabody. What’s Baxter’s full name and
rank?”

“Baxter? Detective, David. He won’t talk to you, Roarke. He can’t.”

“I’m not interested in talking to him. Where’s McNab?”

“He’s back at Central, running data.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Roarke wait. Tell Dallas. . . tell her whatever you think she needs to
hear.”

“She’ll need you, Peabody.” He broke transmission.

He left Eve sleeping. Information was power, he thought. He intended for her to have all the power he could
gather.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Detective . . .”

“Captain,” Feeney said, sizing up the slickly groomed man in the Italian suit.
“Captain Feeney, filling in
temporarily for Lieutenant Dallas as primary. I’ll be conducting the
interview.”

“Oh.” Waverly’s expression showed mild puzzlement. “I hope the lieutenant
isn’t unwell.”

“Dallas knows how to take care of herself. Peabody, on record.”

“On record, sir.”

“So official.” After a slight shrug, Waverly smiled and sat behind his massive oak desk.

“That’s right.” Feeney read off the revised Miranda, cocked a brow. “You
get that?”

“Of course. I understand my rights and obligations. I didn’t think I required a lawyer for this
procedure. I’m more than willing to cooperate with the police.”

“Then tell me your whereabouts on the following dates and times.” Referring to his
notebook, Feeney read off the dates of the three murders in New York.

“I’ll need to check my calendar to be sure.” Waverly swiveled a sleek black box, laid
his palm on top to activate it, then requested his schedule for the times in question.

Off duty and clear during first period. Off duty and clear during second period. On call and at Drake Center monitoring patient
Clifford during third period.

“Relay personal schedule,” Waverly requested.

No engagements scheduled during first period. Engagement with Larin Stevens, booked for overnight during second period. No
engagements scheduled during third period.

“Larin, yes.” He smiled again, with a twinkle. “We went to the theater, had a late
supper at my home. We also shared breakfast, if you understand my meaning, Captain.”

“That’s Stevens,” Feeney said briskly as he entered the name in his book.
“You got an address?”

All warmth fled. “My assistant will provide you with it. I’d like the police connection to my
personal friends kept to a minimum. It’s very awkward.”

“Pretty awkward for the dead, too, Doctor. We’ll check out your friend and your patient.
Even if they clear you for two of the periods, we’ve still got one more.”

“A man’s entitled to spend the night alone in his own bed occasionally,
Captain.”

“Sure is.” Feeney leaned back. “So, you pop hearts and lungs out of
people.”

“In a manner of speaking.” The smile was back, digging charming creases into his cheeks.
“The Drake has some of the finest organ transplant and research facilities in the world.”

“What about your connections with the Canal Street Clinic?”

Waverly raised a brow. “I don’t believe I know that facility.”

“It’s a free clinic downtown.”

“I’m not associated with any free clinics. I paid my dues there during my early years.
You’ll find most doctors who work or volunteer at such places are very young, very energetic, and very
idealistic.”

“So you stopped working on the poor. Not worth it?”

Unoffended, he folded his hands on the desk. Peeking out from under his cuff was the smooth, thin gold of
a Swiss wrist unit. “Financially, no. Professionally, there’s little chance for advancement in that area. I chose to use my
knowledge and skill where it best suits me and leave the charity work for those who are suited to it.”

“You’re supposed to be the best.”

“Captain, I
am
the best.”

“So, tell me—in your professional opinion . . .” Feeney reached
in his file, drew out copies of the crime scene stills and laid them on the highly polished surface of the desk. “Is that good
work?”

“Hmm.” Eyes cool, Waverly turned the photos toward him, studied them. “Very
clean, excellent.” He shifted his gaze briefly to Feeney. “Horrible, of course, on a
human level,
you understand, but you asked for a professional opinion. And mine is that the surgeon who performed here is quite brilliant. To have
managed this under the circumstances, with what certainly had to be miserable conditions, is a stunning achievement.”

“Could you have done it?”

“Do I possess the skills?” Waverly nudged the photos back toward Feeney. “Why,
yes.”

“What about this one?” He tossed the photo of the last victim on top of the others, watched
Waverly glance down and frown.

“Poorly done. This is poorly done. One moment.” He pulled open a drawer, pulled out
microgoggles, and slipped them on. “Yes, yes, the incision appears to be perfect. The liver has been removed quite cleanly,
but nothing was done to seal off, to maintain a clear and sterile field. Very poorly done.”

“Funny,” Feeney said dryly, “I thought the same thing about all of
them.”

“Cold son of a bitch,” Feeney muttered later. He paused in the corridor, checked his wrist
unit. “Let’s find Wo, chat her up, see about getting a look at where they keep the pieces of people they pull out. Jesus,
I hate these places.”

“That’s what Dallas always says.”

“Keep her out of your head for now,” he said shortly. He was working hard to keep her out
of his and do the job. “If we’re going to help her close this, you need to keep her troubles out of your
head.”

Face grim, he strode down the corridor, then glanced over as Peabody fell into step beside him.
“Make an extra copy of all data and interview discs.”

She met his gaze, read it, and for the first time during the long morning, smiled. “Yes,
sir.”

“Christ, stop sirring me to death.”

Now Peabody grinned. “She used to say that, too. Now she’s used to it.”

The shadows in his eyes lifted briefly. “Going to whip me into shape, too, Peabody?”

Behind his back, Peabody wiggled her brows. She didn’t think it would take her much time to do
just that. She fixed her face into sober lines when he knocked on Wo’s door.

An hour later, Peabody was staring, horrified and fascinated, at a human heart preserved in thin blue
gel.

“The facilities here,” Wo was saying, “are arguably the finest in the world for organ
research. It was at this facility, though it was not as expansive as it is today, that Dr. Drake discovered and refined the anticancer
vaccine. This portion of the center is dedicated to the study of diseases and conditions, including aging, that adversely affect human
organs. In addition, we continue to study and refine techniques for organ replacement.”