The In Death Collection 06-10 (86 page)

The lab was as large as a heliport, Feeney decided, sectioned off here and there with thin white partitions.
Dozens of people in long coats of white, pale green, or deep blue worked at stations, manning computers, compu-scopes, or tools he
didn’t recognize.

It was quiet as a church. None of the open-air background music some large facilities employed whispered
through the lab, and when he inhaled, the air tasted faintly of antiseptic. He made certain he breathed through his nose.

They stood in a section where organs were displayed in the gel-filled bottles, the labels attached to the
bases.

At the near door, a security droid stood silently, in case, Feeney thought with a sneer, somebody got the
sudden urge to grab a bladder and run for it.

Jesus, what a place.

“Where do you get your specimens?” Feeney asked Wo, and she turned to him with a frigid
look.

“We do not remove them from live, unwilling patients. Dr. Young?”

Bradley Young was thin, tall, and obviously distracted. He turned from his work at a sheer white counter
populated with scopes and monitors and compu-slides. He
frowned, pinched off the magni-clip he wore
perched on his nose, and focused pale gray eyes.

“Yes?”

“This is Captain Feeney and his. . . assistant,” she supposed, “from
the police department. Dr. Young is our chief research technician. Would you explain how we go about collecting our specimens here
for research?”

“Of course.” He ran a hand over his hair. It was thin, like his bones, like his face, and the
color of bleached wheat. “Many of our specimens are more than thirty years old,” he began. “This heart for
example.” He moved across the blinding white floor to the container where Peabody had been standing. “It was
removed from a patient twenty-eight years ago. As you can see, there is considerable damage. The patient had suffered three serious
cardiac arrests. This heart was removed and replaced with one of the first runs of the NewLife unit. He is now, at the age of
eighty-nine, alive, well, and living in Bozeman, Montana.”

Young smiled winningly. He considered that his finest joke. “The specimens were all either donated
by patients themselves or next of kin in the event of death, or acquired through a licensed organ broker.”

“You can account for all of them.”

Young just stared at Feeney. “Account for?”

“You got paperwork on all of them, ID?”

“Certainly. This department is very organized. Every specimen is properly documented. Its donor or
brokerage information, its date of removal, the condition at time of removal, surgeon, and team. In addition, any specimen that is
studied on premises or off must be logged in and out.”

“You take these things out of here?”

“On occasion, certainly.” Looking baffled, he glanced at Dr. Wo, who merely waved a hand
for him to continue. “Other facilities might request a specific specimen with a specific flaw for study. We have a loan and a
sale policy with several other centers around the world.”

Click,
Feeney thought, and took out his book. “How
about these?” he asked, and
read off Eve’s list.

Again, Young glanced at Wo, and again received a go-ahead signal. “Yes, those are all what we
would consider sister facilities.”

“Ever been to Chicago?”

“A number of times. I don’t understand.”

“Captain,” Wo interrupted. “This is becoming tedious.”

“My job’s not filled with high points,” he said easily. “How about giving me
the data on the organs you checked in here within the last six weeks.”

“I—I—that data is confidential.”

“Peabody,” Feeney began, keeping his eyes on the suddenly nervous Young, “start
warrant procedures.”

“One moment; that won’t be necessary.” Wo gestured Peabody back in a way that
had Peabody’s eyes narrowing. “Dr. Young, get the captain the data he requested.”

“But it’s confidential material.” His face set suddenly in stubborn lines. “I
don’t have clearance.”

“I’m clearing it,” she snapped. “I’ll speak with Dr. Cagney. The
responsibility is mine. Get the data.”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Feeney told her.

She turned dark, cold eyes on him when Young left to retrieve the data. “I want you out of this lab
and this center as soon as possible. You’re disrupting important work.”

“Catching killers probably doesn’t rate as high on your scale as poking at livers, but we all
gotta earn our paycheck. You know what this is?” He took the sealed pin out of his pocket, held it at eye level.

“Of course. It’s a caduceus. I have one very much like it.”

“Where?”

“Where? At home, I imagine.”

“I noticed some of the docs around here wearing one. I guess you don’t wear yours to
work.”

“Not as a rule, no.” But she reached up, as if out of habit, running her fingers on her
unadorned lapel. “If you’re done with me now, I have a great deal of work.”

“We’re done, for now. But I have a couple of more interviews set for tomorrow. I’d
like to see your pin, if you’d bring it in.”

“My pin?”

“That’s right. Someone lost one recently.” He lifted the one he held a little higher.
“I need to make sure it wasn’t you.”

She tightened her lips and walked away.

“A lot of steam in that one, Peabody. We’ll take a closer look at her when we get back to
Central.”

“She used to be president of the AMA,” Peabody remembered. “Waverly’s
current president. The AMA put pressure on East Washington to put pressure on the mayor to put pressure on us to kick the
case.”

“Wheels in wheels,” Feeney murmured. “Let’s get this data back and see
what rolls out of them. Now, what’s the deal with Vanderhaven?”

“His interview was scheduled next, but he canceled. Professional emergency.” She glanced
around to be certain no one was within hearing distance. “I called his office, said I was a patient, and was told the doctor had
taken leave for the next ten days.”

“Interesting. Sounds like he doesn’t want to talk to us. Get his home address, Peabody.
We’ll pay a house call.”

Roarke was studying data of his own. It had been child’s play for him to slide into Baxter’s
computer and access information on Bowers’s murder.

It was a pity that, as yet, there was little information to be had.

But there was plenty, of the vile and hysterical variety, to be found in Bowers’s logs and
diaries.

He ran a search on them, using Eve’s name, and found bits and pieces stretching back for years.
Comments, accusations when Eve had been promoted to detective, when she received commendations. Roarke raised both eyebrows
when he read Bowers’s statement that Eve had seduced Feeney in order to bag him as her trainer. And then
the lurid speculation on her affair with her commander to insure she was assigned important cases.

But these, and others that popped from time to time, were mild compared with the diatribes that began on
the day Bowers and Eve had clashed over the body of a sidewalk sleeper.

That obsession, Roarke mused, had festered over time until that one moment, that single twist of fate that
had burst it and spilled the poison over both of them.

Now one was dead.

He looked toward the screen where he could monitor the bedroom and see his wife sleeping.

And the other broken.

Still scanning, he waved a hand at his communication screen when Summerset came on. “Not
now.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but Dr. Mira is here. She’d very much like to speak with
you.”

“I’ll be down.” He rose, studied Eve another moment. “System off,”
he murmured, and the equipment behind him shifted from a low hum to silence.

He stepped out of the room. The door behind him locked automatically and could only be opened with the
palm and voice prints of those authorized. Only three people had ever been inside.

To save time, he used the elevator. He didn’t intend to be away from Eve any longer than
necessary.

“Roarke.” Mira sprang up from her chair, hurried across the room to grab both of his hands.
Her usual calm face showed strain around the eyes and mouth. “I only just heard. I came right over. I’m so sorry to
intrude, but I had to come.”

“You’re never an intrusion.”

She tightened her grip on his hands. “Please. Will she see me?”

“I don’t know. She’s sleeping.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the
stairs. “I gave her something. I could kill them for this.” He spoke almost to himself, his voice soft and terrifyingly
gentle. “For putting that look I saw on her face. I could kill them for that alone.”

Because she believed him, her hands trembled a little. “Can we sit?”

“Of course. Sorry. My mind isn’t on my manners.”

“I hope they won’t have to be with me. Roarke . . .” She sat in
one of the beautifully curved chairs, leaned forward to lay her hand on his again, hoping the contact would help them both.
“While others may be outraged or sympathetic or have any variety of reactions to what happened today, you and I are perhaps
the only ones who fully understand what this has done to her. To her heart, her sense of self. Her identity.”

“It’s destroyed her.” No, he realized, he couldn’t sit, and rising, stalked to
the window to stare out at the cold afternoon. “I’ve seen her face death, her own and others’. I’ve
seen her face the misery and fears of her past and the shadows that cover pieces of it. I’ve seen her terrified of her own
feelings. But she stood. She gathered herself and she stood up to it. And this, this departmental procedure, has destroyed
her.”

“She’ll gather herself again, and she’ll stand up to this. But not alone. She
can’t stand up to this alone.”

He turned, faced her. The light streamed through the window behind him; the dangerous blue of his eyes
made Mira think of a cold and vengeful angel ready to leap into hell.

“She never has to be alone.”

“What you have with her will save her. Just as it saved you.”

He angled his head, changing the slant of light and the uneasy vision she’d had of him.
“That’s an interesting way to put it. But you’re quite right. She did save me, and I’d forgotten I was
lost. I love her more than life, and I’ll do whatever needs to be done.”

Mira studied her hands a moment, lifted her fingers up, let them fall. “I won’t ask you
questions about your methods, or your . . . connections in certain areas. But I will ask if there’s anything
I can do to help.”

“How far will discounting Bowers’s accusations go toward getting Eve’s badge
back?”

“It will help considerably with IAB. But until the homicide investigation is closed or the suspicion
against Eve is dismissed publicly and without prejudice the department walks a firm line.”

“You can test her? Truth test, personality profile, probabilities.”

“Yes, but she has to be willing, and she has to be ready. It’s a difficult process, physically
and emotionally. But that, too, would weigh on her side.”

“I’ll speak with her about it.”

“She’ll have to grieve, but don’t let her grieve too long. At some point, she’ll
need her anger. It’ll be her most important source of strength.”

She rose, stepped toward him. “I’ve asked to be per-mitted to evaluate Bowers’s
emotional and mental state, using the records of the last several weeks, her diaries—the content and tone—interviews with
associates and acquaintances. It’ll take time. I have to be very thorough, very careful. Though I’m giving it priority
status, I doubt I can furnish the department with a conclusion in less than two weeks.”

“I could take her away,” he considered.

“That might be for the best, even for a few days. But I doubt she’ll go.” She opened
her mouth, shut it again.

“What?”

“I know her so well. I have such strong feelings for her. But I’m still a psychiatrist. I believe
I know how she’ll react, at least initially. I don’t want you to feel as if I’m overstepping or violating her privacy
by . . . analyzing.”

“I know she matters to you. Tell me what to expect.”

“She’ll want to hide. In sleep, in silence, in solitude. She may very well lock you
out.”

“She won’t have much luck with that.”

“But she’ll want to, try to, simply because you’re closer to her than anyone ever has
been. I’m sorry,” she said and pressed her fingers to her left temple. “Could I trouble you for a little
brandy?”

“Of course.” Instinct had him laying a hand on her
cheek.
“Dr. Mira,” he said very gently, “sit down.”

She felt weak and weepy. Sitting, she steadied herself, waited while Roarke took a decanter from a carved
cabinet and poured her a snifter of brandy.

“Thank you.” She took a small sip, let it warm her. “This suspension, the suspicion,
the mark on her record is not just a matter of the job and procedure to Eve. Her identity was taken from her once before. She rebuilt it
and herself. For her, this has stripped her of it again, of what and who she is. What she needs to be. The longer she closes herself
down, closes herself off, the harder it will be to reach her. It may affect your marriage.”

He only lifted a brow at that. “She won’t have any luck with that whatsoever.”

Mira gave a quiet, shaky laugh. “You’re a very stubborn man. That’s good.”
She sipped more brandy, studying him. And what she saw eased some of her own worry. “At some point, you may find
yourself having to put your sympathy for her situation aside. It would be easier for you to coddle and pamper and let her drift. But I
think you’ll recognize the point where she’ll need you to make her take the next step.”

She sighed then, set the brandy aside. “I won’t keep you from her any longer, but if
there’s anything else I can do. If she wants to see me, I’ll come.”

He considered her loyalty, her affection, and wondered how they weighed against her duty. He never minded
playing the odds. “How long will it take for you to complete a full-level search and scan on Bowers?”

“The paperwork is being rushed through on the orders for it. It shouldn’t take more than
another day, perhaps two.”