"I want to stand up."
"Just take it easy until the medicals look at you."
"Give me a damn hand up, Baxter. I want to see the damage."
He helped her up, and when her vision didn't waver, she figured she'd gotten off lucky.
The same couldn't be said of Sparrow. The passenger side had taken the brunt when it rammed a maxibus on one of its revolutions. Trueheart was working with another uniform to sheer away the metal trapping Sparrow inside.
"He's pinned between the door and the dash," Trueheart called out. "Looks like his leg's broken, maybe his arm, too. But he's breathing."
She stepped back as the MTs hustled up. One wriggled into the driver's side where she'd wriggled out. The calls turned to medical jargon and orders. She heard talk about spinal and neck injuries, and cursed.
Then she looked at the car.
"Holy Jesus Christ."
The front end was all but disintegrated. Metal was blackened, melted, fused to metal. Window glass had gone to powder and continued to smoke.
"It looks like..."
"Like it was hit with a short-range missile," Baxter finished. "You'd be toast if it'd broadsided you instead of skimming the front end. I was heading in to Central, and saw this flash, this streak. Big boom, and a vehicle, yours, flew right over mine. Flew up, came down, flipped three times then spun around like a top. Smashed a couple of civilian vehicles, laid waste to a glide-cart, skipped the curb, skipped back, then plowed into a maxi like a torpedo."
"Civilian casualties?"
"I don't know."
She could see some of the injured, and hear weeping, some screaming. Soy dogs, soft drink tubes, candy sticks were scattered over the street and sidewalk like some nasty buffet.
"Harness held, until the last minute." She wiped absently at a trickle of blood on her temple. "It held, or God knows... Reinforcements in the roof kept us from being crushed like a couple of recycled milk cartons. Major damage on the passenger side from the crash. He got the worst of it."
Baxter watched the MTs fix the unconscious man to a back-and-neck board. "Friend of yours?"
"No."
"You piss somebody off enough to fire missiles at you or did he?"
"Good question."
"You need to have the MTs look you over."
"Probably." The pain was seeping through now, making mincemeat of the adrenaline and shock. "I hate that. Really do. And you know what else? The guys in requisitions are going to slap me around for this. They're going to slap me around, then give me some piece of shit transpo to punish me."
She hobbled over to the curb, sat among the confusion and noise. Then sneered in warning at the MT who headed, with his kit, in her direction. "You even think about using a pressure syringe on me," Eve told her, "and I'm taking you down."
"You want the pain, you keep the pain." The MT shrugged and opened his kit. "But let's have a look."
***
It took her another two hours to get home, and then she had to catch a ride with Baxter as she'd been ordered not to drive. Since she didn't have anything to drive, it wasn't hard to follow orders.
"I guess I'm supposed to ask you in for a drink now or some happy shit."
"That's right, but I'll take a raincheck. I got a date. Scorching date, and I'm running behind."
"Appreciate the ride."
"That's your best comeback? You're in bad shape. Take a pill, Dallas," he suggested as she eased her aching body out. "Flake out awhile."
"I'm okay. Go bang the bimbo of the week."
"Now that's more like it." He gave a cheery chuckle and drove away.
She limped into the house, but couldn't quite limp past Summerset.
He looked down his nose, sniffed. "I see you've managed to destroy several more articles of clothing."
"Yeah, I thought I'd rip and burn them while wearing them, just to see what happened."
"I assume your vehicle suffered similarly as it's not in evidence."
"It's trash. But then, it always was." She headed for the stairs, but he blocked her path, then scooped up the cat who was trying to climb up her legs.
"For God's sake, Lieutenant, take the elevator. And you may as well take something voluntarily for the pain before you have to be humiliated into it."
"I'm walking it off so I don't stiffen up and start to look like you." She knew it was stubborn, she knew it was stupid, but she took the stairs. The worst was, if he hadn't been there at the door, lurking, she'd have taken the damn elevator in the first place.
She was dripping with sweat by the time she made it to the bedroom, so she simply stripped off her ruined clothes, tossed her weapon and her communicator on the bed, and whimpered her way into the shower.
"Jets on half power," she ordered. "One hundred degrees."
The soft spray of hot water stung, then soothed. She braced her hands against the tile wall, dipped her head, and let it flow over her.
Who had they been after? she wondered. Her or Sparrow? She was betting on herself. Sparrow, and the civilians in the line of fire, were just what they'd call collateral damage. So why try to take her out, and why hadn't they done a better job of it?
Sloppy, sloppy, she thought. It's all been sloppy.
"Jets off," she grunted, and feeling a bit steadier, stepped out of the shower.
She knew her heart shouldn't have jolted when she saw Roarke. Summerset-the big, fat tattletale-would have told him.
"The MTs cleared me," she said quickly. "I'm just banged up, that's all."
"I can see that. You don't want the drying tube. The hot air won't do you any good. Here." He picked up a bathsheet, walked to her, and wrapped it gently around her. "Do I have to force a blocker on you?"
"No."
"Well, that's something." He feathered his fingers over the abrasions on her face. "We may be angry with each other, Eve, but you should have contacted me. I shouldn't have heard you'd been in an accident from a damn media bulletin."
"They didn't release names," she began, then trailed off.
"They didn't have to."
"I didn't think. I'm sorry, I really didn't think about it. It's not because I'm-whatever I am with you right now. I didn't think about the media, or that you'd hear anything about it until I got back and could tell you myself."
"All right. You need to lie down."
"I'll take the blocker, but I'm not going down. AD Sparrow's bad. He was with me. His spine's messed up, and there's severe head trauma. The passenger side was-shit. Shit. I don't know how he lived through it. It was a short-range missile."
She scooped her hair back and went into the bedroom to sit.
"You said missile."
"Yeah. Probably one of those nifty one-man jobs. Handheld launcher. He must've fired from the roof across from Central. Had me staked out. Maybe Sparrow, but I'm thinking me. To mess up the investigation? To mess you up? Both?" She shook her head. "Maybe to put the HSO on the hot seat, taking out a cop when they couldn't get her to pass the investigation over to them. Maybe to throw the suspicion onto the terrorists."
He handed her a small blue pill and a glass of water. "Your word you'll swallow it or I'll check under your tongue."
"I'm not quite feeling up to sex games. Leave my tongue alone. I'm swallowing it."
Some of the warmth came back in his eyes as he sat beside her. "Why isn't it the HSO or Doomsday?"
"Not very covert to launch a missile at a cop car in New York traffic in the middle of the day. If they wanted me out, they'd find a more subtle way and without losing one of the assistant directors in the process."
"Agreed."
"So, this is like a quiz?"
"The MTs may have cleared you, but you look as if you've been run over by a truck. I'd like to see if you're thinking clearly at least. Why not Doomsday, then? Subtle isn't their style."
"First, technos don't send a man out to shoot missiles. That's why they're technos. And if they did break pattern, they wouldn't have missed. An
d it was a miss. Couple of feet down, hit the car broadside, and we're gone. They send somebody to take out a cop and/or an operative, they're not going to be so half-assed about it. Plus, I think they'd have gone bigger. If they could get a man into position, why not use a bigger toy, and take out a chunk of Central? Hit Cop Central and you've got the kind of media foray they love. Take out a car, and it's a little bulletin. Not big. This has the earmark of desperation or temper, not organization. How'm I doing?"
"Your brain doesn't appear to have been unduly scrambled." He rose, wandered to the window. "Why didn't you tell me you'd been called to the Tower?"
"We're straddling a line here," she said after a moment. "I don't like it, I don't like feeling... apart from you. But that's the reality of it."
"So it seems."
"Someone tried to kill me today. Will you hunt them down?"
He didn't turn. "It's entirely different, Eve. I've had to... adjust myself when it comes to your work, what you do, what may be done to you. I love you, and loving you I have to accept that you are what you are, and do what you do. It costs me."
He turned now, looked at her with those wild blue eyes. "Considerably."
"It was your choice. It was always your choice."
"As if I had one, from the minute I saw you. What you face now, I can accept, and admire you for facing it. What you faced then, what was forced on you when you had no defense, I can't accept."
"It won't change anything."
"That's a matter of perspective. Does it change anything to put a killer in a cage after his victim's in the ground? You believe it does, and so do I. And debating this now is only going to push us both further over on our own sides of that line. We both have work."
"Yeah, we both have work." She got to her feet. She would stand, she thought. Had to. Even if she couldn't stand with him.
"Before we were so rudely interrupted, Sparrow told me that Bissel was a double agent. The HSO was using him to get intel from Doomsday. Giving them structured intel in return for payment. It was a long con. They wrapped Ewing up in it due to her position at Securecomp. They wanted a handle on your technology and projects, and most particularly in recent months, whatever they could get on your Code Red. They want, and apparently seriously want, to scoop you on the shield."
"I suppose the idea of the private sector having that kind of technology irritates them. Using Bissel was sensible. He plays all ends-using Reva to gain data on Securecomp, posing as the greedy turncoat to gain knowledge of Doomsday."
"His brother was blackmailing him over the extramaritals. But that suited their purposes. Sparrow claims they don't know where Carter Bissel is. He might be telling the truth, but I'm not buying little brother as your standard blackmailer. No reason to corrupt his personal units, no reason for him to disappear or be disappeared. Doesn't jibe."
"He who can play turncoat can actually be one."
She smiled. "There you go."
***
She hated to admit it but the blocker helped. Even so the thin cotton pants and loose T-shirt felt heavy on her abused body. When Peabody took one look at her and winced, Eve decided she probably looked worse than she felt.
"You don't look like you can hit me at the moment," Peabody began, "so I'm going to ask. Don't you think you should be in the hospital?"
"Don't let appearances deceive you. No, I shouldn't be in the hospital, and yes, I can still hit you. Bring me up on Powell."
"Single full-contact, full-power shot with hand laser, as evaled on scene. Time of death, ten-fifteen yesterday morning. No forced entry. CSU believes a master was used, Powell's ID, his vehicle code, his employee pass were all missing from the premises. He'd made no transmissions from his home 'link since the previous afternoon when he ordered pizza from a local place. But he did receive one at just after eight A.M. on the morning of his death. The caller cut transmission after Powell answered, groggily. We traced it to a public 'link at a subway station three blocks away from the scene. Conclusion: The killer verified Powell was home, and in bed. Gave him enough time to fall back to sleep, then entered the premises and killed him."
"Sweepers?"
"Only the prelim, but they haven't identified any prints other than the victim's, no DNA, no trace. But I do have a neighbor, Mrs. Lance, who was coming back home from the deli. She saw a man coming out of the building at about ten-thirty. Description matches the one Sibresky gave us of this Angelo."
"How about the artist's rendering? We got that?"
"Working on it. When I checked I was told Sibresky isn't being particularly cooperative or open-minded. I promised the artist a backstage pass to the next Mavis Freestone concert in the city if he got us something this afternoon."
"Good bribe. I'm so proud."
"I had an excellent trainer."
"Suck up later. Have you been in to see McNab?"
Peabody pokered up. "I only stopped by the lab to check on the progress of their work."
"Yeah, and to give his bony ass a pat."
"Unfortunately, he was sitting on said bony ass at the time of my visit, so I was unable to complete that part of my mission."
"Because, despite all my efforts, the image of that bony ass is starting to form in my fevered mind, tell me about the rest of the mission. How's it going in there?"
Peabody wanted to ask why Eve hadn't been in to see for herself, but from the snags of tension around her and Roarke, she thought she knew.
"Well, there's a lot of techno-talk, some pretty creative cursing. I like how Roarke says 'bugger.' Tokimoto stays iced, and Reva's like a woman on a religious quest. McNab's in heaven, hacking away. But what tipped me was Feeney. There's this gleam in his eyes. I think they're getting close."
"While they're making the world safe for democracy, let's see if we can solve a few murders."
"Excuse me, Lieutenant," she said when her communicator signaled. "I'll get on that little task as soon as I take this. Detective Peabody," she announced. "Hey, Lamar, you got something for us?"
"You got my backstage pass?"
"My word's my bond."
"Then I got your face. How do you want me to send it?"
"Laser fax," Eve ordered from her desk. "And a file to my unit here. I want a hard copy, and I want one on my computer."
Peabody relayed, then walked over to retrieve the fax herself. "Lamar's good. Could probably make a better living doing portraits than detailing bad guys. Not the prettiest petal on the flower," she added, passing the printout to Eve. "But not as ugly as Sibresky said. The scar just messes up the face."
"Yeah, it draws the eye, too, doesn't it? You're going to think scar when you see this face. Big, nasty scar, so maybe you don't look too close, because, gee, that's rude."
"Sibresky doesn't seem to have had that problem."
"I get the feeling Sibresky's not too big on sensitivity and etiquette. Let's play a game, Peabody."
"Really? Okay."
"We'll start by you going in the kitchen, getting a pot of coffee and... something. There's gotta be something to eat."
"You want food?"
"No, my stomach's still shaky. You get food."
"Hey, so far I like this game."
"Don't come back in until I tell you."
"No problem."
Eve turned to her computer, rubbed her hands together. "Okay, let's play."
It didn't take long because the process and the possibility had been brewing in her brain for some time. She used the imaging program, shooting the visuals on the wall screens as she worked the details.
"Okay, Peabody, you're up, and bring me coffee."
"You should have some of this apple-cranberry cobbler." She came in with a bowl of it, and a mug for Eve. "It's really mag."
"What do you see?"
Peabody eased a hip onto the edge of the desk, spooned up cobbler. "The artist's rendering of the suspect known only as Angelo."
"Okay. Computer split screen, keep current image and display image CB-1."
Working... Images displayed.
"Now what do you see?"
"Carter Bissel, split screen with Angelo." She frowned, and though she understood immediately what direction Eve was taking, she shook her head. "I'll go with the Angelo person being a disguise. I don't see Carter Bissel in there. There's no data on him being an expert on disguise. Buy a wig, slap on a mustache, sure. Even maybe manage the scar. But the line of the jaw's off-an implant for the bucked teeth would change the shape of the mouth, but not the jaw. He'd need more for that, and even if Kade was working him, or with him for a few months, how'd he get so skilled in disguise?"
J D Robb - Dallas 19 - Divided In Death Page 29