The In Death Collection 06-10 (72 page)

“Not a thing, Carmine. I just want to chat with one of your . . .
customers.”

“I’m sure you’d like to have somewhere quiet to chat. Why don’t I show
you to one of our privacy rooms?”

“That’ll be just dandy, Carmine. Peabody?” Eve wrenched the cue out of
Ledo’s grip and passed it over. “My aide’s going to be walking right behind you, Ledo. If you don’t
keep up, she’s likely to stumble and that precious stick of yours might get rammed right up your butt.”

“I didn’t do nothing,” Ledo claimed in something close to a wail, but he kept pace
with Eve as she followed Carmine through a curtained area to a line of doors.

Carmine opened one, gestured. “Anything else I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Just keep your customers chilled, Carmine. Neither one of us wants NYPSD to order a sweep on
this place.”

He acknowledged the warning with a nod, then left them alone as Eve tossed the whining Ledo into the
room. “You stand, Peabody. You’re cleared to use your weapon if anyone blinks at you.”

“Yes, sir.” Peabody shifted her grip on the cue, set her free hand on her stunner, and put her
back to the wall.

Satisfied, Eve stepped inside, closed the door. As amenities went, it was a zero, with its narrow cot,
smudged view screen, and sticky floor. But it was private.

“Well, Ledo.” Eve fingered the raw bruise on her cheekbone—not because it stung,
though it did. She used the gesture to make Ledo tremble in fear of retribution. “Been awhile.”

“I’ve been clean,” he said quickly, and she laughed, keeping the sound low and
sharp.

“Don’t insult my intelligence. You wouldn’t be clean after six days in a
decontamination chamber. You know what this does?” She tapped a finger on her facial bruise. “This assaulting an
officer deal gives me the right to search you right now, to haul your skinny butt into Central, and to get a warrant to go through your
flop.”

“Hey, Dallas, hey.” He held up both hands, palms up. “It was an
accident.”

“Maybe I’ll let it go at that, Ledo. Maybe I will—if
you
convince me you’re in a cooperative mood.”

“Damn straight, Dallas. What d’ya want? Some Jazz, Go Smoke, Ecstasy?” He
started to dig in his pockets. “No charge, none whatsoever for you. I don’t got it now, I’ll get it.”

Her eyes turned to bright gold slits. “You take anything out of your pockets but your ugly fingers,
Ledo, you’re even more stupid than I figured. And I figured you for a brain the size of a walnut.”

His hands froze, his thin face went blank. Then he tried a manly chuckle, lifting his empty hands clear.
“Like you said, Dallas, been a while. I guess maybe I forgot how you stand on shit. No harm, right?”

She said nothing, simply stared him down until the sweat popped out on his upper lip. She’d see he
was back in a cage, she mused, at the first opportunity. But for now, she had bigger fish on the line.

“You—you want info? I ain’t your weasel. Never was any cop’s weasel, but
I’m willing to trade info.”

“Trade?” she said, coldly.

“Give.” Even his tiny brain began to click in. “You ask, I know, I tell. How’s
that?”

“That’s not bad. Snooks.”

“The old man with the flowers?” Ledo shrugged what there was of his shoulders.
“Somebody sliced him open, I hear. Took pieces of him. I don’t touch that stuff.”

“You deal to him.”

Ledo did his best to look cagey. “Maybe we had some business, off and on.”

“How’d he pay?”

“He’d beg off some credits, or sell some of his flowers and shit. He had the means when he
needed a hit of something—which was mostly.”

“He ever stiff you or any other dealers?”

“No. You don’t give sleepers nothing unless they pay up first. Can’t trust
’em. But Snooks, he was okay. No harm. He just minded his own. Nobody was doing for him that I ever heard. Good
customer, no hassle.”

“You work the area where he camped regularly?”

“Gotta make a living, Dallas.” When she pinned him with her stare again, he realized his
mistake. “Yeah, I deal there. It’s mostly my turf. Couple others slide in and out, but we don’t get in each
other’s way. Free enterprise.”

“Did you see anybody who didn’t look like they belonged down there lately, anybody asking
about Snooks or those like him?”

“Like the suit?”

Eve felt her blood jump, but only leaned back casually against the wall. “What suit?”

“Guy came down one night, duded top to bottom. Frigid threads, man. Looked me up.”
More comfortable now, Ledo sat on the narrow bed, crossed one stick leg over the other. “Figured at first he didn’t
want to buy his stuff in his own neighborhood, you know. So he comes slumming. But he wasn’t looking for
hits.”

Eve waited while Ledo entertained himself by picking at his cuticles. “What was he looking
for?”

“Snooks, I figure. Dude said what he looked like, but I can’t say that meant dick to me.
Mostly the sleepers look alike. But he said how this one drew stuff and made flowers, so I copped to Snooks on that.”

“And you told him where Snooks kept his crib.”

“Sure, why not?” He started to smile, then his tiny little brain began the arduous process of
deduction. “Man, shit, the suit cut Snooks open? Why’d he do that for? Look, look, Dallas, I’m clean here.
Dude asks where the sleeper flops, I tell him. I mean, why not, right? I don’t know how he’s got in mind to go killing
anybody.”

Sweat was popping again as he jumped to his feet. “You can’t bounce it back on me. I just
talked to the bastard is all.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. Good.” In plea or frustration, Ledo threw out his arms. “A
dude. A suit. Clean and shiny.”

“Age, race, height, weight,” Eve said flatly.

“Man, man.” Grabbing hanks of his hair, Ledo began to pace the tiny room. “I
don’t pay attention. It was a couple,
three nights ago. A white dude?” He posed it as a question,
tossing Eve a hopeful look. She only watched him. “I think he was, maybe white. I was looking at his coat, you know. Long,
black coat. Looked real warm and soft.”

Moron,
was all Eve could think. “When you talked to him, did you have to look up, or down, or straight
on?”

“Ah . . . up!” He beamed like a child acing a spelling quiz.
“Yeah, he was a tall dude. I don’t get his face, Dallas. Man, it was dark and we weren’t standing in no light or
nothing. He had his hat on, his coat all buttoned. It was cold as a dead whore out there.”

“You never saw him before? He hasn’t come around since?”

“No, just that one time. A couple—no three nights back. Just the once.” Ledo swiped
the back of his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t do nothing.”

“You ought to get that tattooed on your forehead, Ledo, then you wouldn’t have to say it
every five minutes. I’m done for now, but I want to be able to find you, real easy, if I need to talk to you again. If I have to
hunt you up, it’s going to piss me off.”

“I’ll be around.” His relief was so great, his eyes went shiny with tears.
“Everybody knows where to find me.”

He started to dash out, then froze like an icicle when Eve clamped a hand on his arm. “If you see the
suit again, Ledo, or one like him, you get in touch. You don’t say anything to put the suit off, then you get your ass on your
’link and call me.” She bared her teeth in a smile that made his bowels loosen. “Everybody knows where to
find me, too.”

He opened his mouth, then decided that cold look in her eyes meant he shouldn’t attempt to
negotiate weasel pay. He bobbed his head three times and sprang through the door when she opened it.

The muscles in Peabody’s gut didn’t unknot until they were back in their vehicle and three
blocks east. “Well, that was fun,” she said in a bright voice. “Next, let’s find some sharks and go
swimming.”

“You held, Peabody.”

The muscles that had just loosened quivered with pleasure. From Eve, it was the staunchest of cop
compliments. “I was scared right down to the toes.”

“That’s because you’re not stupid. If you were stupid, you wouldn’t be
riding with me. Now we know they wanted Snooks in particular,” Eve mused. “Not just any sleeper, not just any heart.
Him. His. What made him so damn special? Pull up his data again, read it off.”

Eve listened to the facts, the steps of a man’s life, from birth to waste, and shook her head.
“There has to be something there. They didn’t pull him out of a damn hat. A family thing
maybe. . .” She let the theory wind through her mind. “One of his kids or grandkids, pissed off about the
way he dropped out, left them flat. The heart. Could be symbolic.”

“You broke my heart, I’m taking yours?”

“Something like that.” Families, all those degrees of love and hate that brewed in them,
confused and baffled her. “We’ll dig into the family, run with this idea for a bit, mostly just to close it
off.”

She pulled back up at the scene, scanning the area first. The police sensors were still in place, everything
secure. Apparently, there was no one in this neighborhood with the skill or knowledge to bypass them to get to whatever was left in
Snooks’s crib.

She spotted the pair of glide-cart vendors on the corner, huddling unhappily in the smoke pouring off the
grill. Business was not brisk.

A couple of panhandlers wandered aimlessly. Their beggars’ licenses hung in clear view around their
scrawny necks. And, Eve thought, they were likely forged. Across the street, the homeless and the mad crowded around a barrel fire
that appeared to let off more stink than warmth.

“Talk to the vendors,” Eve ordered Peabody. “They see more than most. We could
get lucky. I want another look at his crib.”

“Ah, I bet they’d talk looser if I were to buy a soy-dog.”

Eve arched a brow as they climbed out of opposite doors. “You must be desperate if you’re
willing to risk putting anything that comes from this neighborhood in your mouth.”

“Pretty desperate,” Peabody agreed and squared her shoulders, strode purposefully toward
the grill.

Eve felt eyes on her as she uncoded the sensors long enough to pass through. The eyes burned into her
back: anger, resentment, confusion, misery. She could feel all of it, every degree of despair and hope that slithered its way across the
littered street to crawl over her skin.

She struggled not to think of it.

Pulling back the ratty blanket, she ducked inside the crib, hissed once through her teeth at the lingering
stench of waste and death.

Who were you, Snooks? What were you?

She picked up a small bouquet of paper flowers, coated now with the thin layer of dust the crime team
sweepers had left behind. They’d have sucked up hair, fibers, fluids, the dead cells the body sloughs off routinely. There
would have been grime and muck and dirt to sift through. A scene as nasty as this one would take time. Separating, analyzing,
identifying.

But she didn’t think the findings there would lead her to the answers she needed.

“You were careful,” she murmured to the killer. “You were neat. You didn’t
leave any of yourself here. Or so you thought.”

Both victim and killer always left something. An imprint, an echo. She knew how to look and listen for
it.

They’d come in their fancy car, in the dead of night, in the dead of winter. Dressed warmly, dressed
well. They hadn’t crept in, hadn’t attempted to blend.

Arrogance.

They hadn’t rushed, hadn’t worried.

Confidence.

Disgust. They would have felt it, mildly, as they drew the curtain back and the smell hit them. But doctors
would be used to unpleasant odors, she imagined.

They wore masks. Surgical masks. And their hands would have been encased in gloves or Seal-It. For
protection, for routine, for caution.

They’d used antiseptic. Sterilizing? Routine, she mused, just routine as it wouldn’t have
mattered if the patient had suffered from any contamination.

They would have needed light. Something stronger and cleaner than the wavering glow from the candle stub
or battery flash Snooks kept on one of his lopsided shelves.

In the doctor’s bag, she imagined. A high-powered minilamp. Microgoggles. Laser scalpel, and
other tools of the trade.

Did he wake up then?
she wondered.
Did he surface from sleep for just a moment when the light flashed? Did he have
time to think, wonder, fear before the pressure syringe punched flesh and sent him under?

Then it was all business. But that she couldn’t imagine. She knew nothing about the routine of
doctors opening bodies. But she thought it would be just that. More routine.

Working quickly, competently, saying little.

How did it feel to hold a man’s heart in your hands?

Was that routine as well, or did it shoot a thrill of power, of accomplishment, of glory through the mind?
She thought it would. Even if it was only for an instant, he or she felt like a god.

A god proud enough to take the time, to use his talents to do the job well.

And that’s what they had left behind,
she thought.
Pride, arrogance, and cool blood.

Her eyes were still narrowed in concentration when her communicator sounded. Laying the paper flowers
aside, she reached for it.

“Dallas.”

Feeney’s mournful face swam on the miniscreen. “I found another one, Dallas. You better
come in and have a look.”

“Erin Spindler,” Feeney began, nodding toward the image on the view screen in one of the
smaller conference rooms at Cop Central. “Mixed race female, age seventy-eight, licensed companion, retired. Last few years,
she ran a small stable of LCs. All street workers. Got slapped regularly with citations. Let some of her ponies’ licenses lapse
or didn’t bother with the regulation health checks. She got roused for running scams on johns a few times but slithered
clear.”

Eve studied the image. A sharp, thin face, skin faded to yellow paste, eyes hard. Mouth flat with a
downward, dissatisfied droop. “What section did she work?”

“Lower East Side. Started out uptown. Looks like she had some class if you go back fifty years.
Started using, started sliding.” He moved his shoulders. “Had a taste for Jazz, and that doesn’t come cheap
uptown. She went from appointment book whore to pickup by the time she hit forty.”

“When was she murdered?”

“Six weeks ago. One of the LCs found her in her flop down on Twelfth.”

“Was her heart taken?”

“Nope. Kidneys.” Feeney turned and brought straight data on-screen. “Her building
didn’t have any security, so there’s no record of who went in and out. Investigator’s report is inconclusive as
to whether she let the killer in or he bypassed her locks. No sign of struggle, no sexual assault, no apparent robbery. Victim was found
in bed, minus the kidneys. Postmortem puts her dead for twelve hours before discovery.”

“What’s the status of the case?”

“Open.” Feeney paused. “And inactive.”

“What the hell do you mean,
inactive
?”

“Thought that would get you.” His mouth thinned as he brought up more data. “The
primary—some dickhead named Rosswell attached to the one sixty-second—concluded the victim was killed by an irate
john. It’s his decision that the nature of the case is unclosable and not worth the department’s time or
efforts.”

“The one six-two? Same house as Bowers. Do they breed morons down there? Peabody,”
she snapped, but her aide already had her ’link out.

“Yes sir, contacting Rosswell at the one six-two. I assume you’ll want him here as soon as
possible for a consult.”

“I want his sorry ass in my office within the hour. Good tag, Feeney, thanks. You get any
others?”

“This was the only local that fit like crimes. I figured you’d want to move on it right away.
I’ve got McNab running the rest.”

“Let him know I want a call if anything pops. Can you feed this data into my office and home
units?”

“Already done.” With the faintest of grins, Feeney tugged on his ear. “I
haven’t had much fun lately. Mind if I watch you ream Rosswell?”

“Not a bit. In fact, why don’t you help me?”

He let out a sigh. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“We’ll do it in here. Peabody?”

“Rosswell will report in one hour, Lieutenant.” Struggling not to look smug, she pocketed
her ’link. “I believe we could say he’s terrified of you.”

Eve’s smile was slow and grim. “He should be. I’ll be in my office; tag me when he
gets here.”

Her ’link was ringing when she walked in. She answered absently as she hunted through her drawers
for anything that might resemble food.

“Hello, Lieutenant.”

She blinked at the screen, then dropped into her chair to continue the search when she saw it was Roarke.
“Somebody’s been stealing my candy again,” she complained.

“There’s no trusting cops.” When she only snorted, his eyes narrowed.
“Come closer.”

“Hmm.” Damn it, she wanted her candy bar. “What?”

“Where did you get that?”

“Get what? Aha! Didn’t find this one, did you, you thieving bastard.” In triumph she
plucked a Gooybar from under a stack of yellow sheets.

“Eve, how did you bruise your face?”

“My what?” She was already ripping it open, taking a bite. “Oh, this?” It was
the annoyance, barely audible under that musical voice, that made her smile. “Playing pool with the guys. Got a little rough for
a minute. Now there are a couple of cues that won’t ever be quite the same.”

Roarke ordered himself to relax the hands he’d fisted. He hated seeing marks on her. “You
never mentioned you liked the game. We’ll have to have a match.”

“Anytime, pal. Anywhere.”

“Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’ll be late.”

“Oh.” It still jolted her that he so routinely let her know his whereabouts. “Got an
appointment?”

“I’m already there. I’m in New L.A.—a little problem that required immediate
personal attention. But I will be home tonight.”

She said nothing, knowing he’d wanted to assure her she wouldn’t be sleeping alone, where
the nightmares would chase her. “Um, how’s the weather?”

“It’s lovely. Sunny and seventy.” He smiled at her. “I’ll pretend not
to enjoy it since you’re not with me.”

“Do that. See you later.”

“Stay out of pool halls, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah.” She watched the screen go blank and wished she didn’t have this vague
dissatisfaction that he wouldn’t be there when she went home. In less than a year, she’d gotten much too used to him
being there.

Annoyed with herself, she engaged her computer. Her mood was distracted enough that she didn’t
bother to smack it when it buzzed at her.

She called up the files from Snooks and Spindler, ordered both images on, split screen.

Used up, she thought. Self-abuse, neglect. It was there on both faces. But Snooks, well, there was a kind of
pitiful sweetness in his face. As for Spindler, there was nothing sweet about her. There was some twenty years between them in age.
Different sex, different races, different backgrounds.

“Display crime scene photos, Spindler,” she ordered.

The room was a flop, small, crowded, with a single window the width of a spread hand in one wall. But, Eve
noted, it was clean. Tidy.

Spindler lay on the bed, on faded sheets that were stained with blood. Her eyes were closed, her mouth lax.
She was nude, and her body was no pretty picture. Eve could see that what appeared to be a nightgown was neatly folded and laid on
the table beside the bed.

She might have been sleeping if not for the blood that stained the sheets.

They’d drugged her, Eve decided, then undressed her. Folded the gown. Tidy, organized,
precise.

How had they chosen this one?
she wondered.
And why?

In the next shot, the crime scene team had turned the body. Dignity, modesty were cast aside as the camera
zoomed in. Scrawny legs on a scrawny body. Sagging breasts, wrinkled skin. Spindler hadn’t put her profits into body
maintenance, which was probably wise, Eve mused, as her investment would have been cut short.

“Close-up of injury,” she ordered, and the picture
shifted. They had
opened her, the slices narrower than Eve had imagined. Nearly delicate. And though no one had bothered to close her back up, they
had used what she now knew was surgical freeze-coat to stop the flow of blood.

Routine again, she concluded. Pride. Didn’t surgeons often allow an underling to close for them?
The big, important work had already been done, so why not let someone less prominent do a little sewing?

She would ask someone, but she thought she’d seen that on-screen in videos.

“Computer, analyze surgical procedure on both subjects. Run probability scan thereafter. What
probability percentage that both procedures were performed by the same person?”

Working . . . analysis will require approximately ten minutes.

“Fine.” She rose, walked to her window to watch the air traffic sputter. The sky had gone the
color of bruises. She could see one of the minicopters wavering as it tried to compensate for a gust of wind.

It would snow or sleet before the end of shift, she thought. The drive home would be hideous.

She thought of Roarke, three thousand miles away, with palm trees and blue skies.

She thought of those nameless lost souls struggling to find a little heat around an ugly fire in a rusted barrel
and where they would be tonight when the snows came and the wind howled down the streets like a mad thing.

Absently, she pressed her fingers to the window, felt the chill on her skin.

And it came to her, sharp as a slap, a memory long buried with other memories of the girl she had been.
Thin, hollow-eyed, and trapped in one of the endless horrid rooms where the windows were cracked and the heat broken so that the
wind screamed and screamed against the
damaged glass and shook the walls and burst over her skin like fists
of ice.

Cold, so cold. So hungry. So afraid. Sitting in the dark, alone in the dark. All the while knowing he would
come back. He always came back. And when he did, he might not be drunk enough to just fall on the bed and leave her be.

He might not leave her huddled behind the single ratty chair that smelled of smoke and sweat where she tried
to hide from him and the brittle cold.

She fell asleep shivering, watching her breath form and fade in the dark.

But when he got home, he wasn’t drunk enough, and she couldn’t hide from him or the
bitterness.

“Chicago.” The word burst out of her, like a poison that burned the throat, and she came
back to herself with both hands fisted hard against her heart.

And she was shivering, shivering again as she had in that freezing room during another winter.

Where had that come from?
she asked herself as she fought to even her breathing, to swallow back the sickness that had
gushed into her throat. How did she know it was Chicago? Why was she so sure?

And what did it matter? Furious now, she rapped one of her fists lightly, rhythmically against the window. It
was done, it was over.

It had to be over.

Analysis complete. . . . Beginning probability ratio . . .

She closed her eyes a moment, rubbed her hands hard over her dry lips. This, she reminded herself, was
what mattered. What she was now, what she did now. The job, the justice, the answers.

But her head was throbbing when she turned back to her computer, sat in her chair.

Probability ratio complete. Probability that the procedures on both subjects were done by the same person is 97.8%.

“Okay,” Eve said softly. “Okay. He did them both. Now, how many
more?”

Insufficient data to compute . . .

“I wasn’t asking you, asshole.” She spoke absently, then, leaning forward, forgot her
queasy stomach, her aching head as she began to pick her way through data.

She’d worked through the bulk of it when Peabody knocked briskly and stuck her head in the door.
“Rosswell’s here.”

“Great. Good.”

There was a gleam in Eve’s eyes as she rose that had Peabody feeling a stir of pity for Rosswell,
and—she was human, after all—a ripple of anticipation for the show about to start. She was careful to hide both reactions
as she followed Eve to the conference room.

Rosswell was fat and bald. A detective’s salary would have covered standard body maintenance if
he was too lazy or stupid to exercise. It would have covered elementary hair replacement treatment if he had any vanity. But self-image
couldn’t compete with Rosswell’s deep and passionate love of gambling.

This love was very one-sided. Gambling didn’t love Rosswell back. It punished him, laughed at him.
It beat him over the head with his own inadequacies in the area. But he couldn’t stay away.

So he lived in little more than a flop a block from his station house—and a two-minute walk from the
nearest gaming dive. When he was lucky enough to beat the odds, his winnings were funneled back to cover previous losses. He was
constantly dodging and making deals with the spine crackers.

Eve had some of these details from the data she’d just scanned. What she saw waiting in the
conference room
was a washed-up cop, one who’d lost his edge and was simply cruising his way
toward his pension.

He didn’t rise when she came in but continued to slouch at the conference table. To establish
dominance, Eve merely stared at him silently until he flushed and got to his feet.

And Peabody was right, she noted. Under the show of carelessness, there was a glint of fear in his
eyes.

“Lieutenant Dallas?”

“That’s right, Rosswell.” She invited him to sit by jabbing a finger at the chair. Once
again, she said nothing. Silence had a way of scraping the nerves raw. And raw nerves had a way of stuttering out the truth.

“Ah . . .” His eyes, a cloudy hazel in a doughy face, shifted from her to
Feeney to Peabody, then back. “What’s this about, Lieutenant?”

“It’s about half-assed police work.” When he blinked, Eve sat on the edge of the
table. It kept her head above him, forcing him to tip his back to look up at her. “The Spindler case—your case,
Rosswell. Tell me about it.”

“Spindler?” Face blank, he lifted his shoulders. “Jesus, Lieutenant, I got a lot of
cases. Who remembers names?”

A good cop remembers,
she thought. “Erin Spindler, retired LC. Maybe this’ll jog your memory. She was
missing some internal organs.”

“Oh, sure.” He brightened right up. “She bought it in bed. Kinda seems funny since
she got bought there plenty.” When no one cracked up at his irony, he cleared his throat. “It was pretty straight,
Lieutenant. She ragged on her ponies and their johns all the time. Had a rep for it. Kept herself whacked on street Jazz most of the
time. Nobody had a good word to say about her, I can tell you. Nobody shed a tear. Figures one of her girls or one of the customers
got fed up and did her. What’s the deal?” he asked, lifting his shoulders again. “No big loss to
society.”

“You’re stupid, Rosswell, and while that annoys me, I have to figure maybe you were born
stupid. But you’ve
got a badge, so that means you can’t be careless, and you sure as hell
can’t decide a case isn’t worth your time. Your investigation in this matter was a joke, your report pathetic, and your
conclusions asinine.”

“Hey, I did my job.”