by J. D. Robb
“No question.”
“We’re going to give them one.”
Eve kept her eyes straight ahead. “As police officers we won’t, in any way, facilitate the escape of material witnesses.”
“Right. I want to talk to my parents. Funny how when something really twists up your thinking—the order of things for you—you want to talk to Mom and Dad.”
“Wouldn’t know.”
Peabody winced. “Sorry. Shit, I get stupid when I’m this tired.”
“No problem. I’m saying I wouldn’t know because I didn’t have any—not normal ones. Neither did they. If that’s what makes them artificial, then so am I.”
“I want to talk to my parents,” Peabody repeated after a long moment. “I know I’m lucky to have them, and my brothers, my sisters, all the rest. I know they’ll listen, that’s the thing. But not having that, having to make yourself out of what gets dumped on you, creating your life out of that . . . it’s not artificial. It’s as real as it gets.”
The streets and sky were nearly empty. Occasionally an animated board bloomed out color and light. Dreams of pleasure and beauty and happiness. Bargain prices.
“Do you know why I came to New York?” Eve said.
“No, not really.”
“Because it’s a place where you can be alone. You can step out on the street with thousands of other people and be completely alone. Besides being a cop, that’s what I thought I wanted most.”
“Was it?”
“For a while, yeah. For a long while it was what I wanted. I’d gone from being anonymous to being monitored constantly through the foster program and state schools. I wanted to be anonymous again, on my terms. To be a badge, period. I don’t know, if I’d caught this case ten years ago—five years ago—if I’d have handled it the way I’m doing now. Maybe I’d just have taken them down. Black and white. It’s not just the job, the years on it that bring in all the gray. It’s the people, dead and alive, you end up connected to who paint it in.”
“I go with the last part. But no matter when you’d caught this, you’d go this way. Because it’s right. And that’s what counts, that’s what you do. Avril Icove’s a victim. Somebody needs to be on her side.”
Eve smiled a little. “She has each other.”
“Good one. A little bit of a cheap shot, but good nonetheless.”
“Get some sleep.” Eve pulled up in front of Peabody’s building. “I’ll tag you if I need you to come in, but for now plan to catch some sleep, pack, and go.”
“Thanks for the lift.” Peabody yawned again as she got out. “Happy Thanksgiving, if I don’t see you before.”
Eve eased from the curve, and saw in the rearview that McNab had left a light on in the apartment for Peabody.
There’d be a light on for her, too, she thought. And someone who’d listen.
But not yet.
She put her vehicle on autopilot, pulled out her personal ’link.
“Blah,” Nadine said, and Eve could see the faintest of silhouettes on-screen.
“Meet me at the Down and Dirty.”
“Huh? What? Now?”
“Now. Bring a notebook—paper not electronic. No recorders, Nadine, no cams. Just you, old-fashioned paper and pencils. I’ll be waiting.”
“But—”
Eve just clicked off, and kept driving.
The bouncer on the door of the sex club was big as a sequoia, black as onyx. He wore gold. A skin-shirt stretched across his massive chest, boots molded their way up the leather pants that coated his legs, and the trio of chains around his neck she imagined could be used as a weapon.
There was a tattoo of a snake slithering over his left cheek.
He was rousting two mopes as she walked up. One white, maybe two-fifty of hard fat, the other mixed race, heavy on the Asian, who looked like a contender for the sumo arena.
He had them both by the scruff of the neck and was quick-stepping them toward the curb.
“Next time you try to stiff one of my em-ploy-ees, I’m gonna twist your cocks clean off before you get a chance to use ’em.”
He knocked their heads together—a technically illegal action—then let them fall in the gutter.
He turned, spotted Eve. “Hey there, white girl.”
“Hey, Crack, how’s it going?”
“Oh, can’t bitch much.” He slapped his palms together in a drying motion, twice. “What you doing down here? Somebody dead I ain’t heard about?”
“I need a privacy room. I’ve got a meet,” she said when his eyebrows rose up into his wide forehead. “Nadine’s on her way. We were never here.”
“Since I figure you two don’t want one of my rooms so you can roll around naked together—and ain’t that a shame—this must be official. I don’t know nothing about official. Come on in.”
She stepped into the blast of noise, of smells that included stale brew, Zoner—and a variety of illegals that could be smoked or otherwise ingested—fresh sex, sweat, and other bodily fluids she didn’t choose to identify.
The stage at the front was jammed with naked dancers and a live band outfitted in neon loincloths. Table dancers wearing feathers, glitter, or nothing at all jiggled or wiggled to the obvious delight of the paying patrons.
The bar was jammed, most of the occupants well drunk or stoned.
It was perfect.
“Business is good,” she said at a conversational shout as he blazed a path through the packs of people.
“Holiday time. We be slammed from now ’til January, then we be slammed ’cause it’s too fucking cold to party outside. Life’s good. How ’bout you, skinny white cop girl.”
“Good enough.”
He led the way upstairs to the privacy rooms. “Your man treating you right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, he mostly has that down cold.”
They backed up when a couple stumbled out of one of the rooms, half-dressed, laughing wildly, and smelling very ripe.
“I don’t want their room.”
Crack just grinned, uncoded another. “This here is our deluxe accommodations. Crowd tonight, mostly they’re going for economy. She be clean. Make yourself at home, sweet buns, and I’ll bring that sexy Nadine right on up when she shows.
“Don’t you think about paying me,” he said when Eve dug into her pocket. “I went to the park this morning, had a talk with my baby girl by the tree you and your man had planted for her. Don’t ever think about paying me for a favor.”
“Okay.” She thought about Crack’s younger sister, and how he’d wept in Eve’s arms beside her body in the morgue. “Ah, you got any plans for Thursday?”
She’d been his family. His only family.
“Gobble Day. I got me a fine-looking female. Figure we might fit some turkey-eating in between other festivities.”
“Well, if you want the full spread, without certain areas of festivities, we’re having a dinner thing. You can bring your fine-looking female.”
His eyes softened, and the street jive vanished from his voice. “I appreciate that. I’d be pleased to come and bring my lady friend.” He laid the slab of his hand on Eve’s shoulder. “I’ll go keep watch for Nadine, even though I haven’t seen either of you.”
“Thanks.”
She stepped into the room, gave it a quick study. Apparently “deluxe” meant the room had an actual bed rather than a cot or pallet. The ceiling was mirrored, which was a little intimidating. But there was a menu screen and an order slot, along with a very small table and two chairs.
She looked at the bed, and a long, liquid longing rose up in her. She’d have given up food for the next forty-eight hours for twenty minutes horizontal. Rather than risk it, she went to the menu screen and ordered a pot of coffee, two cups.
It would be hideous. Soy products and chemicals married together to, inexplicably, resemble rancid tar. But there’d be enough caffeine juiced through it to keep her awake.
She sat, tried to focus her mind on the business at hand whil
e she waited. Her eyes drooped, her head nodded. She felt the dream crawling into her, a monster with sharp, slick claws that snatched and bit at her mind.
A white room, blazing white. Dozens upon dozens of glass coffins. She was in all of them, the child she’d been, bloody and bruised from the last beating, weeping and pleading as she tried to fight her way out.
And he stood there, the man who’d made her, grinning.
Made to order, he said, and laughed. Laughed. One doesn’t work right, you just throw it away and try the next. Never going to be done with you, little girl. Never going to be finished.
She jolted out, fumbled for her weapon. And saw the pot and cups on the table, with the menu slot still closing.
For a moment, she put her head in her hands, just to get her breath back. It was okay, she’d pulled out. She’d keep pulling out.
She wondered what dreams bit at Avril’s mind when they were too tired to beat them off.
When the door opened, she was pouring coffee.
“Thanks, Crack.”
“Anytime, sugar tits.” He winked, shut the door.
“Lock it,” Eve ordered. “Engage privacy mode.”
“This better be good.” Nadine complied, then dropped into the second chair. “It’s past three in the morning.”
“And yet you look lovely, and apparently your tits are sugar.”
“Give me some of that poison.”
“Empty your bag on the bed,” Eve said as she poured a second cup.
“Up yours, Dallas.”
“I mean it. Empty the bag, then I’m going to scan you for electronics. This is the majors, Nadine.”
“You should be able to trust me.”
“You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. But I’ve got to go the route.”
With obvious ill humor, Nadine opened her enormous handbag, stomped to the bed, and upended it.
Eve rose, passed her a cup of coffee, and began going through the contents. Wallet, ID, credits and debits, two herbal cigarettes in a protective case, two notepads—paper—six pencils, sharpened. One electronic notepad—disengaged—two ’links, one PPC—also disengaged. Two small mirrors, three packs of breath fresheners, a little silver box holding blockers, four tubes of lip dye, brushes—face and hair—and eleven other tubes, pots, sticks, and cakes of facial enhancers.
“Jesus. You carry all this gunk and put it on your face? Is it worth it?”
“I’ll point out that it’s three in the morning, and I look lovely. You, on the other hand, have shadows under your eyes a pack of psychotic killers could hide in.”
“NYPSD. We never sleep.”
“Neither do the defenders of the Fourth Estate, apparently. Did you catch my interview with Avril Icove today?”
“No, heard about it.”
“Exclusive.”
“What did you think of her?”
“Quiet, dignified elegance. Lovely in grief. A devoted mother. I liked her. Couldn’t get much going on her personally as she insisted this interview deal with her father-in-law and husband, out of respect. But I’ll dig down the next layers. I’ve got a three-part deal.”
The last two of which she would never collect, Eve thought. But there would be compensation. Big-time.
She ran a scanner over Nadine. “Believe it or not, I did all that to protect you as much as me. I’m about to break Code Blue.”
“Icove.”
“You’re going to want to sit while I outline my conditions—nonnegotiable. First, we never had this conversation. You’re going to go home and get rid of the ’link you used to take my transmission. You never received the transmission.”
“I know how to protect myself and a source.”
“Just listen. You’ve already done extensive research on the Icoves—and connected them, independently, to Jonah Wilson and Eva Hannson Samuels, and from there to Brookhollow. Your police sources would not confirm or deny any of your research. You’re going to make a trip to Brookhollow. You’ll need that on your logs. You’re going to connect the murder of Evelyn Samuels to those of the Icoves.”
Nadine started scribbling. “That’s the Academy’s president. When was she murdered?”
“Find out. You’re going to be curious and smart enough to run ID checks on the students and cross them with same on former students. In fact, you’ve already done that.” Eve drew a sealed disc out of her pocket. “Get this in your log. Get your prints, only your prints on the disc.”
“What’s on it?”
“More than fifty student IDs that match—exactly match—former students’ IDs. Falsified data. Make another copy, put it wherever you put data you want to protect from confiscation.”
“What were the Icoves doing that required falsifying data on students?”
“Cloning them.”
Nadine broke the tip of her pencil as her head snapped up. “You’re serious.”
“Since the Urban Wars.”
“Sweet little Baby Jesus. Tell me you have proof.”
“I not only have proof, I have three clones known as Avril Icove under house restriction.”
Nadine goggled. “Well, fuck me sideways.”
“I’ve had a long day, I’m too tired for sex games. Start writing, Nadine. When we’re finished you go home, you make an electronic trail that’ll verify you found this information. You burn those notes and make new ones. Get to Brookhollow and dig. You can contact me, and probably should, demanding confirmation or denial. I’ll give you neither, and that’s on record. I’ll go to my superiors with the fact that you’re sniffing this out. I have to. So sniff fast.”
“I’ve already done a lot of the legwork, put some of this together. I didn’t jump this far. I figured gene manipulation, designer babies, black-market fees.”
“That’s in there, too. Get it all. I’ve got a day, maybe a few hours more, before the whistle’s blown and the government steps in. They’ll cover it. Spin what they can’t bury. So get it all, get it fast. I’m going to give you everything I can, then I’m walking out. I won’t give you any more. I’m not doing you a favor,” Eve added. “If you go out with this, you’re going to take a lot of heat.”
“I know how to handle heat.” Nadine’s eyes were razor sharp as she continued to write. “I’ll be soaking in the rays while I blow this open.”
It took an hour, another pot of the vicious coffee, and both of Nadine’s notebooks.
When she left, Eve didn’t trust her reflexes and put her vehicle back on auto. But she didn’t sleep, didn’t close her eyes. Once home, she moved from the car to the house like a sleepwalker.
Summerset was waiting for her. “God. Even vampires sleep sometime.”
“There’s been no sanctioned or unsanctioned hit on either Icove.”
“Yeah, fine.”
“But you knew that. Are you also aware there is purportedly a fee-based operation that offers young women, educated through Brookhollow College in New Hampshire, to clients for purposes of marriage, employment, or sexual demands?”
She struggled to focus her exhausted brain. “How did you get that?”
“There are sources still available to me that aren’t available to you, and due to his relationship with you, that are less forthcoming with Roarke.”
“And did these sources give proof of these purported activities?”
“No, but I consider them to be very reliable. Icove was associated with Brookhollow. One of Roarke Enterprises’ jet-copters logged a route to that location today, where, it seems, the president of the institution was murdered. In the same manner both Icoves were murdered.”
“You’re a fount of information.”
“I know how to do my job. I believe you know how to do yours. People aren’t commodities. To use education as a mask, to use them as such is despicable. Your pursuit of the woman who, in all likelihood, struck back at that, is wrongheaded.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“You of all people should know.” His words stopped her as sh
e turned for the stairs. “You know what it is to be a child, trapped in a box, made to perform. You know what it is to be driven to strike back.”
Her hand tightened on the newel post. She looked back at him. “You think that’s all this is? As vicious and ugly as that is, it doesn’t even scratch it. Yeah, I know how to do my job. And I know murder doesn’t stop the vicious and the ugly. It just keeps re-forming, and coming back at you.”
“Then what stops it? A badge?”
“The badge slows it down. Nothing stops it. Not a damn thing.”
She turned away, drifted up the stairs feeling as insubstantial as a ghost.
The light in the bedroom was on dim. It was that simple thing that broke her enough to have tired tears sliding down her cheeks.
She shrugged off her weapon, took out her badge, and laid both on her dresser. Roarke had once called them her symbols. He was right, yes, he was right, but those symbols had helped save her. Helped make her real, given her purpose.
They slowed it down, she thought again. That was all that could be done. It was never quite enough.
She undressed, climbed the platform, and slid into bed beside him.
She wrapped herself around him, and because she could, with him, let the tears fall on his shoulder.
“You’re so tired,” he murmured. “Baby, you’re so tired.”
“I’m afraid to sleep. The dreams are right there.”
“I’m here. I’ll be right here.”
“Not close enough.” She lifted her head, found his mouth with hers. “I need you closer. I need to feel who I am.”
“Eve.” He said her name quietly, repeatedly, while he touched her in the dark.
Gentle, he thought, gentle now that she was fragile and needed him to remind her of all that she was. Needed him to show her she was loved, for all that she was.
Warm, he thought, warm because he knew how cold she could get inside. Her tears were damp on her cheeks, her eyes still gleaming with them.
He’d known she would suffer, and still her pain, wrapped so tight in courage, tore at his heart.
“I love you,” he told her. “I love everything you are.”