The In Death Collection, Books 6-10

by J. D. Robb

  “I keep trying. So how’s Charlie?”

  She counted to ten, then replied, “Charles is fine, and it’s none of your business. Now move your skinny ass.” She gained some pleasure in elbowing him aside as she stomped out.

  McNab merely sighed, rubbed his sore gut. “You sure do it for me, She-Body,” he muttered. “Christ knows why.”

  Eve paced the conference room. She needed to put Bowers and that situation out of her mind. She was nearly there, she told herself. Just a little more cursing, a little more pacing, and she would have put Bowers in some deep, dark hole. With a few rats for company, she decided, and a single crust of moldy bread.

  Yeah, that was a good image. She took two more cleansing breaths and rounded on Peabody as her aide entered. “Death scene stills, on the board. Work up a location map, highlighting each crime scene. Victims’ names referenced with appropriate city.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “McNab. Give me what you’ve got.”

  “Okay, well—”

  “And keep the chatter and editorials to a minimum,” Eve added and made Peabody snicker.

  “Sir,” he began, miffed, “I’ve got your top health and research centers in the cities in question. On mainframe, disc and hard copy.” Since the hard copy was handy, he nudged it across the desk. “I cross-checked your short list of docs from New York. You can see there that all of them have an affiliation with at least one of the other centers. My research indicates that there are only three hundred–odd surgeons with organ plucking as a specialty who possess the skill required to have performed the procedure that killed all subject victims.”

  He stopped, damn proud of his quick, no-nonsense report. “I’m still running like crimes. The reason for the time lag stems from the filing and investigative avenues pursued in other areas.”

  He just couldn’t stand it anymore. He sat on the edge of the desk, crossed his slick green airboots at the ankles. “See, it looks to me like some of the homicide guys either buried the cases because it’s, like, who cares, or figured it was just another weird street crime. They gotta plug it in before IRCCA can pick it up on the first pass. Otherwise, we have to dig, which I’m doing. What I’m hitting mostly is cult and domestic stuff. I’ve got a lot of castrations performed in the home by irate cohabitators or spouses. Man, you wouldn’t believe how many women whack a guy off permanent because he didn’t keep his dick in his pants. Six new eunuchs in North Carolina in the past three months. It’s like an epidemic or something.”

  “That’s a fascinating bit of trivia, McNab,” Eve said dryly. “But for now, let’s stick with the internal organs.” She jerked a thumb toward the computer. “Narrow it down. I want one health center per city that fits.”

  “You ask, it’s done.”

  “Feeney.” Eve’s shoulders relaxed fractionally when he strolled in, carrying his bag of nuts. “What have you got on the pin?”

  “Nothing to that one. Three locations in the city carry that design in eighteen carat. The jewelry store at the Drake Center, Tiffany’s on Fifth, and DeBower’s downtown.”

  He juggled the bag absently, watching Peabody clip stills to the board. “The eighteen carat runs about five grand. Most of the classier health centers run an account with Tiffany’s on the pin. They buy in bulk to give to graduating interns. Gold or silver, depending on placement. Last year, Tiffany’s moved seventy-one gold, ninety-six silver. Ninety-two percent of those were through direct accounts with hospitals.”

  “According to Louise, most doctors have them,” Eve commented. “But not all of them wear them. I saw Tia Wo wearing one, Hans Vanderhaven. And Louise,” she added with a frown. “We’ll have to see if we can find out who’s lost one recently. Keep tabs on the three outlets. Whoever did might want a replacement.”

  She tucked her hands in her pockets and turned to the board. “Before we start, you need to know the commander’s put a media block on us. No interviews, no comments. We’re Code Five, so all data pertaining to any of these cases is now on a need-to-know basis. Files are to be encoded.”

  “Departmental leak?” Feeney wanted to know.

  “Maybe. But there’s pressure, political pressure, coming in from East Washington. Feeney, how much can you find out about Senator Waylan of Illinois without alerting him or his staff of a search?”

  A slow smile brightened Feeney’s rumpled face. “Oh, just about anything down to the size of his jockies.”

  “I’m betting on fat ass and small dick,” she muttered and had McNab snorting. “Okay, here are my thoughts. He’s collecting,” she began, moving to the board to gesture at the stills. “For fun, for profit, because he can. I don’t know. But he’s systematically collecting defective organs. He removes them from the scene. In at least one case, we know there was a transfer bag, so odds are that pattern holds for all. If he’s careful to preserve the organ, he has to have some place to keep them.”

  “A lab,” Feeney said.

  “It follows. Private. Maybe even in his home. How does he find them? He’s tagged each one of them ahead of time. These three,” Eve added, tapping a finger on stills, “were all taken out in New York and all had a connection with the Canal Street Clinic. He has access to their data. He’s either associated with the clinic or he has someone on the inside passing him what he wants.”

  “Could be a cop,” Peabody murmured and shifted uncomfortably when all eyes turned to her. “Sir.” She cleared her throat. “The beat cops and scoopers know these people. If we’re concerned about a leak in the department, maybe we should consider the leak includes passing data to the killer.”

  “You’re right,” Eve said after a moment. “It could be right at our door.”

  “Bowers works the sector where two of the victims were taken out.” McNab swiveled in his chair. “We already know she’s a wild hair. I can run an all-level search and scan on her.”

  “Shit.” Uneasy, Eve paced to the window, winced against the bouncing glare of sun off snow. If she ordered the search, it would have to go through channels, be put on record. It could, and would in some quarters, smell of harassment.

  “We can order it out of EDD,” Feeney said, understanding. “My name goes on the request, it puts it off you.”

  “I’m primary,” Eve murmured. So it was duty to the job and to the dead. “The order goes out of here, with my name on it. Send it now, McNab, let’s not piss around.”

  “Yes, sir.” He swung back to the computer.

  “We’re getting no cooperation from the primary in Chicago,” she went on. “So we turn the heat up there. We wait for the data to come in from London.” She walked back to the board, studied the faces. “But we sure as hell have enough to keep us busy in the meantime. Peabody, what do you know about politics?”

  “A necessary evil that on rare occasions works without corruption, abuse, and waste.” She smiled a little. “Free-Agers rarely approve of politicians, Dallas. But we’re terrific at nonviolent protests.”

  “Tune up your Free-Ager and take a look at the American Medical Association. See how much corruption, abuse, and waste you can find. I’m going to put a fire under that asshole at CPSD, and check with Morris to see if the autopsy’s finished on Jilessa Brown.”

  Back in her office, she tried Chicago first, and when she was again passed to Kimiki’s E-mail, she snarled and opted to go over his head.

  “Putz,” she said under her breath and waited to be transferred to his shift commander.

  “Lieutenant Sawyer.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD,” she said briskly, measuring her man. He had a long, thin, weary face the color of tobacco, eyes of a deep gray, and a mouth thin as a stiletto from corner to corner. “I’m working on a series of homicides here that appear to link with a case out of your house.”

  She continued to watch his face as she detailed information, saw the faint line form between his brows. “One minute, New York.”

  He blanked the screen, leaving Eve drumming her fingers on th
e desk for three full minutes. When he came back on, his face was carefully composed. “I haven’t received a request for data transfer in this matter. The case you refer to has been shifted to inactive and unsolved.”

  “Look, Sawyer, I talked to the new primary over a week ago. I made the request. I’ve got three bodies here, and my investigation points to a connection with yours. You want to dump the case, fine, but dump it here. All I’m asking is a little professional cooperation. I need that data.”

  “Detective Kimiki is currently on leave, New York. We get our share of dead files here in Chicago, too. I’d say your request just fell through the cracks.”

  “Are you going to fish it out?”

  “You’ll have the files within the hour. I apologize for the delay. Let me have your ID number and transfer information. I’ll handle it personally.”

  “Thanks.”

  One down, Eve thought when she finished with Chicago. She caught Morris in his office.

  “I’m putting it together now, Dallas. I’m only one man.”

  “Give me the highlights.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “You’re such a joker, Morris.”

  “Anything to brighten your day. The abdomen wound was cause of death. Wound was caused by a laser scalpel, again wielded with considerable skill. The victim was anesthetized prior to death. In this case, the wound was left unsealed, and the victim bled out. Her liver was removed. She had herself a ripe case of cancer, which had certainly affected that particular organ. She’s had some treatment for it. There was some scarring that’s typical with an advanced stage, but there was some nice pink tissue as well. The treatment was slowing down the progress, fighting the fight. She might, with regular and continued care, have beaten it back.”

  “The incision—does it match the others?”

  “It’s clean and it’s perfect. He wasn’t in a hurry when he cut. In my opinion, it’s the same pair of hands. But the rest doesn’t match. There wasn’t any pride in this one, and she wasn’t going to die. She had a good shot of living another ten years, maybe more.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  She sat back, closed her eyes to help all the new data shift through her mind. And opened them again to see Webster in her doorway.

  “Sorry to disturb your nap.”

  “What do you want, Webster? You keep showing up, I’m going to have to call my advocate.”

  “Wouldn’t be a bad idea. You got another complaint against you.”

  “It’s bogus. Have you run the voice prints?” The temper she’d managed to lock away beat viciously for freedom. “Goddamn it, Webster, you know me. I don’t make crank calls.”

  She pushed herself out of her chair. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized just how much rage she’d been chaining down. It roared through her, ripped at her throat until, for lack of something better, she grabbed an empty coffee mug off her desk and heaved it against the wall.

  Webster stood, lips pursed, nodded toward the shards. “Feel better?”

  “Some, yeah,” she replied.

  “We’ll be running the voice prints, Dallas, and I don’t expect them to match. I do know you. You’re a direct, in-the-face kind of woman. Wimpy ’link threats aren’t your style. But you’ve got a problem with her, and don’t minimize it. She’s screaming about your treatment of her on the crime scene this morning.”

  “It’s on record. You screen it, then talk to me.”

  “I’m going to,” he said wearily. “I’m going through channels on this, step by step, because it’ll work better for you. Now I see you’ve ordered a search and scan on her. That doesn’t look good.”

  “It applies to a case. It’s not personal. I ordered one on Trueheart, too.”

  “Why?”

  Her eyes went flat and cool. “I can’t answer that. IAB has nothing to do with my dead files, and I’ve been ordered to keep all data pertaining on a need-to-know. I’m Code Five per Whitney’s orders.”

  “You’re just going to make this harder on yourself.”

  “I’m doing my job, Webster.”

  “I’m doing mine, Dallas. Fucking A,” he muttered, and jammed his hands in his pockets. “Bowers just went to the media.”

  “About me? For Christ’s sake.”

  “It was quite a little rant. She’s claiming departmental cover-up, all kinds of happy shit. Your name tends to bump ratings, and this story’s going to be all over the screen by dinnertime.”

  “There is no story.”

  “You are the story,” Webster corrected. “Hotshot homicide cop, the cop who took down one of the country’s top politicians a year ago. The cop who married the richest son of a bitch on or off planet—who also happens to have a very shadowy past. You’re ratings, Dallas, and one way or the other, the media’s going to run with this.”

  “That’s not my problem.” But her throat was tight and her stomach uneasy.

  “It’s the department’s problem. Questions are going to be asked and need to be answered. You’re going to have to figure out when and how to make a statement to defuse this situation.”

  “Damn it, Webster, I’m in a media block. I can’t talk to them because too much of it touches on my investigation.”

  He gave her a level look, hoping she knew it was friend to friend now. “Then let me tell you, you’re in a squeeze. The voice prints will be compared, and a statement on the results will be issued. The record from the crime scene this morning will be reviewed, and a decision on your conduct and hers will be rendered. Your request for a search and scan will be put on hold pending those decisions. That’s the official line I’m required to give you. Now, on a personal note, I’m telling you, get a lawyer, Dallas. Get the best fucking lawyer Roarke’s money can buy, and put this away.”

  “I’m not using him or his money to clean up my mess.”

  “You’ve always been a stubborn bitch, Dallas. It’s one of the many things I find attractive about you.”

  “Bite me.”

  “I did. It didn’t take.” Eyes sober again, he stepped forward. “I care about you—as a friend and a colleague. I’m warning you, she intends to take you under. And not everyone’s going to hold out a hand to keep you from sinking. When you’re in the position you’ve reached—professional and personal—there’s a lot of latent jealousy simmering. This is the kind of thing that pops the lid on it.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “Fine.” He shook his head and started out. “I’ll just tell you again: Watch your excellent ass.”

  She sat, lowered her head to her hands, and wondered what the hell to do next.

  • • •

  At the end of her shift, she opted to get the hell out. She took the files with her, including the data Chicago had finally transferred. But she was by God going home on time. A vicious headache kept her company on the drive.

  She was snarled in northbound traffic, between Fifty-first and Fifty-second on Madison when Bowers stomped up the stairs from the subway at Delancey. She was, for Ellen Bowers, decidedly cheerful. As far as she was concerned, she’d scalded Eve Dallas’s ass. Fried the bitch, she thought and very nearly skipped down the sidewalk.

  It had been so gratifying to stand in front of a camera, have a reporter nod understandingly, while she detailed all the abuse she’d suffered.

  Man oh man, it was about fucking time it was her face on-screen, her words being heard.

  She’d wanted, oh, she’d wanted to tell them how it had all started years ago, back in the academy when Dallas had walked in and taken over. Fucking taken over. Broken all the records. Yeah, she’d broken them, all right. Broken them by giving instructors blow jobs. Probably gone down on the female supervisors, too. And anybody with any sense knew the slut had been doing Feeney and probably goddamn Whitney for years. God knew what kind of sick sex games she played with Roarke in that big, fancy house.

  Her days were over, Bowers decided and treated herself by stopping into a 24/7 and springing for a q
uart of chocolate chunky ice cream. She’d eat the whole goddamn quart while she wrote her daily report in her private journal.

  Bitch thought she could kick Ellen Bowers around and get away with it. Surprise, surprise. All that bouncing around from precinct to precinct, from assignment to assignment had finally paid off.

  She had contacts. Damn right. She knew people.

  She knew the right people.

  This time, the destruction of Eve Dallas would be her springboard to fame, respect, and she’d be the one sitting at a desk in Homicide.

  She’d be the one with her face on the screen.

  Yeah, yeah, it was about goddamn time, she thought again as black hate crawled into her belly. And when she was done grinding Dallas into dust, she was going to see to it that prick Trueheart paid for his disloyalty.

  She knew damn well Dallas had let him fuck her.

  That’s the way it was, that’s the way it worked. That’s why she’d never let some slick-talking creep stick his dick into her. She knew what people thought; she knew what people said. Sure she did.

  They said she was a troublemaker. They said she was a sloppy cop. They said maybe she had a little blip in the brain somewhere.

  They were all assholes, every last one of them, from Tibble right on down to Trueheart.

  They weren’t going to slide her quietly out of the department, shake her loose of the job with half pension. She’d fucking own the NYPSD when she was done.

  All of them were coming down, all of them, starting with Dallas.

  Because it all started with Dallas.

  The rage worked under her cheer. It was always there, whispering to her. But she could control it. She’d controlled it for years. Because she was smart, smarter than all of them. Every time some department asshole ordered her to take a personality test, she hushed those whispers with a careful dose of Calm-It and passed.

  Maybe she needed higher doses just lately, and it was best if she mixed some Zoner in for a nice soothing cocktail, but she was still in control.

  She knew how to get around the assholes and their tests and their questions. And she knew what buttons to push, you bet she did. Her finger was on the trigger now, and it was staying there.