by J. D. Robb
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.”
“Can’t. I’ve got more legwork.” But the light friction on her lip made it curve. “So, what were you buying?”
“Australia,” he said then laughed when she gaped at him. “Just a small piece of it.” Delighted with her reaction, he yanked her close for a quick, hard kiss. “Christ, I adore you, Eve.”
“Yeah, well. Good.” It continually left her hot and loose to hear it. To know it. “I gotta go.”
“Would you like me to see what I can find out about organ research at Drake?”
“That’s my job, and I know how to do it. It’d be really nice if you didn’t get mixed up in this one. Just . . . go buy the rest of Australia or something. I’ll see you at home.”
“Lieutenant?” He turned to his desk, opened a drawer. Knowing how she worked, he tossed her an energy bar. “Your lunch, I imagine.”
It made her grin as she tucked it in her pocket. “Thanks.”
When she closed the door behind her, he glanced at his wrist unit. Twenty minutes before his next meeting, Roarke calculated. Time enough.
He took a seat at his computer, smiled a little as he thought of his wife, then called up data on the Drake Center.
chapter three
Eve discovered it was just as well she hadn’t gone after Mira first. The doctor was out. She shot off a quick E-mail requesting a case consult the following day, then headed down to Drake.
It was one of those block-stretching buildings she’d seen hundreds of times and never paid attention to. Before Roarke, that is. Since then, he had dragged, strong-armed, or carried her into their emergency treatment centers a number of times. When, she thought now, she’d have been perfectly fine with a first aid kit and a nap.
She hated hospitals. The fact that she was going into this one as a cop and not a patient didn’t seem to make a difference.
The original building was an old and distinguished brownstone that had been lovingly, and she imagined expensively, preserved. Structures sheer and white speared up from it, out from it, joined together by the shimmering tubes of breezeways, the circling ring of glides that glinted silver.
There were juts of white that formed what she supposed might be restaurants, gift shops, or other areas where staff or visitors or patients might be allowed to gather and enjoy the view. And delude themselves that they weren’t in a structure full of the sick and suffering.
Because her vehicle’s computer was more reliable than her office unit, she was able to access some general data. The Drake Center was more of a city within a city than a health center. It contained training facilities, teaching facilities, labs, trauma units, surgeries, patient rooms and suites, a variety of staff lounges, and visitor waiting areas as one would expect from a medical center.
But in addition, it held a dozen restaurants—two of whi
ch were rated five star—fifteen chapels, an elegant little hotel for the family and friends of patients who wished to remain close by, a small, exclusive shopping arcade, three theaters, and five full-service salons.
There were numerous roving maps and information centers to assist visitors in finding their way to their sector of choice. Trams ran from key parking areas to various entryways, and the slick glass tubes sparkled in the thin winter sunlight as they slid up and down the sides of the mammoth white structure like water.
Impatient, and because it was the section she knew best, Eve pulled her car into the ER lot, twisted it into a street-level space, then snarled at the meter that demanded to know the extent of the injuries she suffered.
This is an emergency only parking area. Your injuries or illness must be verified in order for your vehicle to remain in this parking area. Please state the nature and extent of your injuries or illness and step forward to be scanned.
“I’ve got terminal annoyance,” she shot back and shoved her badge into the view screen. “Police business. Deal with it.”
While the meter squawked, she turned away to stride across the lot toward the hated glass double doors.
The ER was full of wailing, sobbing, and complaining. Patients in different stages of distress huddled in chairs, filled out the forms on the porta-screens, or waited glassy-eyed for their turn.
An orderly was busy mopping up blood or God knew what, keeping the steel gray floor sanitized. Nurses moved briskly in pale blue uniforms. Occasionally doctors zipped through with their long, flapping lab coats and were careful not to make eye contact with the suffering.
Eve located the first map and asked for the surgical wing. The quickest route was the underground tram, so she joined a moaning patient strapped to a gurney, two exhausted looking interns, and a couple who sat close together whispering about someone named Joe and his chances with his new liver.
When she reached the right wing, she took the glide up a level.
The main floor here was quiet as a cathedral and nearly as ornate with its soaring mosaic ceilings and sumptuous tableaus of flowers and blooming shrubbery. There were several seating areas, all with communications centers. Guide droids stood by in pleasant pastel jumpsuits to lend assistance when necessary.
It cost dearly to be opened by a laser scalpel, to have internal organs repaired or replaced in a private facility. The Drake Center had provided a proper welcome area for those who could afford its services.
Eve chose one of a half-dozen reception consoles at random and flashed her badge at the clerk to insure no evasions. “I need to speak with Dr. Colin Cagney.”
“One moment, please, while I locate the doctor.” The clerk wore a stone gray suit and precisely knotted tie. Efficiently, he ran a location search on his board, then offered Eve a polite smile. “Dr. Cagney is on the tenth floor. That’s the Consultation Level. He is currently with a patient.”
“Is there a private waiting area on that level?”
“There are six private waiting areas on ten. Let me see if one is available for you.” He called up another board, sent lights blinking red or green. “Waiting Area Three is available. I’ll be happy to reserve it for you here.”
“Fine. Tell Dr. Cagney I’m waiting to speak with him, and I’m pressed for time.”
“Of course. Take any elevator in bank six, Lieutenant. Good health.”
“Right,” she muttered. Anyone that incessantly polite made her shudder. Whatever training they gave their nonmedical staff must have included personality draining, she decided. Edgy, she rode the car up and searched out the right waiting room.
It was a small, tastefully decorated room with a mood screen set to soft, shifting colors. The first thing she did was turn it off. Ignoring the low sofa and two deep chairs, she roamed the room.
She wanted out. The best substitute was a window overlooking Second Avenue.
There, at least, both street and traffic were predictably snarled and nasty. She watched a medi-copter zoom in and circle on its trajectory to one of the pads. She counted two more, an ambu-jet, and five street ambulances before the door opened behind her.
“Lieutenant.” The doctor had a dazzling smile, his teeth as white and straight as a Navy band. He flashed it as he crossed the room.
It suited, Eve thought, the smooth, pampered face, the patient, intelligent gray eyes under dramatically black brows. His hair was a gleaming white blazed on the left side with a sweeping strip of black.
He didn’t wear a lab coat but a beautifully cut suit the same slate gray as his eyes. His hand, when he took hers, was soft as a child’s and firm as a rock.
“Dr. Cagney.”
“I hoped you’d remember to call me Colin.” The smile spread again as he squeezed and released her hand. “We’ve met a few times at various functions. But I imagine between your business and Roarke’s, you meet seas of people.”
“True enough, but I remember you.” She had, as soon as she’d seen him. His wasn’t a face that slipped the mind. Sharp cheekbones, square jaw, high forehead. And the coloring left an impression. Pale gold skin against black and white. “I appreciate you agreeing to speak with me.”
“Happy to do so.” He gestured toward the chair. “But I hope you haven’t come seeking my professional services. You’re not ill?”
“No, I’m fine. It’s my profession that brings me to you.” Though she’d rather have remained on her feet, she sat. “I’m working on a case. A sidewalk sleeper was murdered early this morning. By someone with excellent surgical skills.”
His eyebrows drew together as he shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“His heart was removed and taken from the scene. A witness described one of the suspects carrying what you call an organ sack.”
“My God.” He folded his hands on his knee. Concern flitted along with confusion in his eyes. “I’m appalled to hear it, but I still don’t understand. You’re telling me his heart was surgically removed and transported?”
“Exactly. He was anesthetized and murdered in his own crib. Two people were seen entering, one carried what sounds very much like a doctor’s bag, the other the transfer sack. The operation was performed by someone very skilled. The bleeders, I think you call them, were clamped off and sealed, the incision was precise. It was not done by an amateur.”
“For what purpose?” Cagney murmured. “I haven’t heard about organ theft, not of this nature, for years. A sidewalk sleeper? Have you determined his state of health before this was done?”
“The ME says he’d have died in his sleep in a matter of months. We don’t believe they took a prime heart out of him.”
With a heavy sigh, he sat back. “I imagine you see all manner of what men do to men in your line of work, Lieutenant. I’ve pieced back bodies that have been torn, broken, hacked. On one level, we get used to it. We must. But on another, it never fails to shock and to disappoint. Men continually find new ways to kill men.”
“And always will,” Eve agreed. “But instinct tells me this man’s death was incidental. They got what they wanted from him. I have to ask, Dr. Cagney, where you were this morning between one and three A.M.?”
He blinked, and his well-formed mouth fell open before he recovered. “I see.” He spoke slowly, sitting up again. “I would have been at home, sleeping with my wife. I’ve no way to prove that, however.” His voice had cooled, his eyes chilled. “Do I require a lawyer, Lieutenant?”
“That’s up to you,” she said evenly. “But I see no reason for one at this time. I will need to speak with your wife at some point.”
Mouth grim now, he nodded. “Understood.”
“Each of our professions runs on routines that are often unpleasant. This is mine. I need a list of the top surgeons in the city, starting with those who specialize in organ transplants.”
He rose at that, paced to the window. “Doctors stand for each other, Lieutenant. There’s pride and loyalty involved here.”
“Cop
s stand for each other. And when one of them is found to be dirty, it smears us all. I can go through other channels to get the list I need,” she added, rising, “but I’d appreciate your cooperation. A man’s been murdered. Someone decided he shouldn’t be allowed to finish out his time. That pisses me off, Dr. Cagney.”
His shoulders moved as he sighed. “I’ll send you a list, Lieutenant,” he said without turning around. “You’ll have it by the end of the day.”
“Thanks.”
She drove back to Cop Central, remembering her energy bar as she swung into the garage. She ate it on the way up to her office, chewing nutrients and chewing over her impressions of Cagney.
He had a face a patient would trust, even fear a bit, she imagined. You would tend to believe his word—medically—was law. She intended to do a run on him, but calculated him in his mid to late sixties. That meant he’d been a doctor for more than half of his life so far.
He could kill. She learned that anyone could under the right circumstances. But could he kill so cold-bloodedly? Would he protect, under the guise of professional loyalty, someone else who had?
She wasn’t sure of the answers.
The light on her computer was blinking green, indicating a new input of data. Peabody, she thought, had been hard at work. After stripping off her jacket, she called it up. It only took five frustrating minutes of grinding noises before the data popped.
Victim identified as Samuel Michael Petrinsky, born 5-6-1961, Madison, Wisconsin. ID number 12176-VSE-12. Parents deceased. No known siblings. Marital status: divorced June 2023. Former spouse Cheryl Petrinsky Sylva, age 92. Three children from marriage: Samuel, James, Lucy. Data available on request in cross file.
No known employment in last thirty years.
What happened to you, Sam? she wondered. Why’d you leave the wife and kids and come to New York to fry your mind and wreck your body on brew and smoke?
“Hell of a way to end up,” she muttered, then asked for the cross-reference on his children. She would have to notify next of kin.