by J. D. Robb
“Well, well. I might not be getting answers, but I’m getting some very nice questions. Did they screw with you?”
“Off the record? They undermined my investigation, jumped over my bust, then mucked it up.”
“And yet they live. You disappoint me.”
Eve merely showed her teeth. “I think they’ll be bleeding after the media conference. I doubt you’ll disappoint me.”
“Ah, I’m being used. I feel so satisfied.” Nadine finished off her coffee, toyed with the empty cup. “Since I’m being so nice and cooperative, how about a favor?”
“I’ve given you all you’re going to get.”
“On another topic. On the auction. My media pass will get me in, but if I use it, I’m not allowed to bid. I really want to bid. Dallas, I’m a huge fan. How about finding me an extra ticket?”
“That’s it?” Eve shrugged. “Sure, I should be able to lay my hands on one.”
Tilting her head, putting a pretty plea in her eye, Nadine slowly held up two fingers.
“Two?”
“It would be more fun if I could bring a date. Be a pal.”
“Being a pal can be a real pain in the butt. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.” She hopped up. “I have to get over to the federal field office, stake out my turf. Tune in, and watch them bleed.”
“I just might.”
“Hey, Peabody.” Distracted, Nadine flipped her a wave as she dashed out.
“Peabody, I may not be able to catch the screen for the media conference. See that it’s recorded.”
“Yes, sir. Then you won’t be required to attend?”
“No. The Feebs are on their own.” She brought her report back on-screen. “I want a briefing with the team. Let’s make it for sixteen hundred if that suits Feeney and McNab. Book a conference room.”
Inwardly, Peabody winced, but she simply nodded. “Yes, sir. I spoke with Charles Monroe.”
Though her mind was elsewhere, the crackle of ice in Peabody’s voice had Eve glancing over. “Problem?”
“No, sir. He tagged Yost, and confirms he’s a regular patron at the opera. Prefers opening night of a new performance. A client pointed Yost out to Charles and stated he was an entrepreneur named Roles, Martin K.”
“That’s a fresh alias. Good. I’ll run it now. What’s the client’s name?”
“Charles was hesitant to give me that information. He’s agreed to contact the client and ask how she knows Roles. If . . .” She cleared her throat because something was burning inside it. “If that information isn’t complete or satisfactory, I’ll press.”
“That works for now.” Eve’s stomach began to clench and jitter. There were tears swimming in her aide’s eyes. Peabody’s lips were quivering. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Nothing. Sir.”
“How come you’re going to cry? You know how I feel about crying on the job.”
“I’m not crying.” And it appalled her that she was on the edge of it. “I just don’t feel very well, that’s all. I wonder, sir, if I could be excused from the briefing at sixteen hundred.”
“Too many soy fries,” Eve said, relieved. “If you’re sick, go by the infirmary and get them to fix you up. Get horizontal for thirty.” She glanced at her wrist unit to check the time, and heard a soft and muffled sob.
Her head snapped up. Relief vanished and comprehension hammered through. “Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. You went a round with McNab, didn’t you?”
“I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t mention that name in my presence,” Peabody said with watery dignity.
“I knew this was going to happen. Knew it. Knew it.” She sprang to her feet and kicked her desk.
“He said I was—”
“No!” Eve threw up her arms as if warding off an incoming meteorite. “No, uh-uh, forget it. You are not dumping it on me. I don’t want to hear about it, don’t want to know about it, don’t want to think about it. This is a cop shop! A cop shop and you are a cop.” She said it fast, and she said it clear, terrified as those tears shimmered in Peabody’s dark eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, man.” Eve pressed the heels of her hands to the sides of her head so her brain would stay in place. “Okay, here’s what I want you to do. Go to the infirmary and take something. Lie down. Then you pull yourself together and get your butt to that briefing. I’ll set it up and you behave like a cop. You save personal business for after shift.”
“Yes, sir.” With another sniffle, Peabody turned.
“Officer? Do you want him to see you all blubbery?”
That stopped her. Peabody’s shoulders stiffened, straightened. “No.” She swiped a hand under her nose. “No,” she said again and marched out.
“Wasn’t that just perfect?” Eve muttered, then sat down to do her aide’s job.
In another section of Cop Central, the corridors were wide and the floors scrupulously clean. Cubicles were jammed with the best equipment the budget could bear and manned by cops in snazzy suits or in casual chic.
The hums and buzzes and beeps were constant, like music. Wall screens flashed with images and data in never-ending reels.
There were three holo-rooms designed for simulations and reenactments. They were used for these purposes and, nearly as often, for personal fantasies, romantic interludes, and naps.
The Electronic Detectives Division was never quiet, always crowded and painted a brain-stimulating red.
When Roarke stepped in, he scanned the room. The equipment, he noted with an expert’s eye, was reasonably good, and would be outmoded within six months. He happened to know this as one of his research and development companies had just finished a new prototype laser computer that would outpace and outperform everything currently on the market.
He made a note to himself to have one of his marketing directors contact the NYPSD’s acquisitions liaison. He imagined he could make his wife’s home away from home a very good deal.
He spotted McNab in one of those clear, three-sided cubes and made his way through the forest of them. A number of the E-detectives paced the room wearing headsets while calling out data and punching codes into palm PCs, but McNab sprawled at his desk with a brooding look in his eye.
“Ian.”
McNab jumped, rapped his knee on the underside of his desk. After the obligatory oath, he looked at Roarke. “Hey. What’re you doing here?”
“I’d hoped to see Feeney for a moment.”
“Sure, he’s back in his office. Through there,” he said, pointing at an opening in the wall. “And to the right. His door’s usually open.”
“Fine. Something wrong?”
McNab jerked his bony shoulders. “Women.”
“Ah. What else can be said?”
“They’re not worth it. That can be said.”
“Trouble with Peabody?”
“Not anymore. It’s time I got back to spreading out my talents. I’ve got a date with a redhead tonight with the best manmade breasts money can buy and an affection for black leather.”
“I see.” And because he did, very well, Roarke gave McNab’s shoulder a pat. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” McNab brushed it off and pretended his belly wasn’t full of lead weights. “I’ll get by. The redhead’s got a sister. We’re going to see if we can make it a trio.” His ’link beeped. “Got work.”
“Then I’ll let you get to it.”
Roarke passed the cubicles and the pacers and slipped into the short corridor that led to Feeney’s office. The door was indeed open, and Feeney sat at his desk, his hair standing on end, his eyes blurry as they scanned data flashing like lightning on three wall screens.
He held up a hand as he caught the movement at the door, eyes still tracking. Then he blinked. “Save, compile, and cross-reference current data with file AB-286. Hold results until command.”
Now he sat back, focused on Roarke. “Didn’t expect to see you.”
“Sorry to interrupt.�
��
“Need a minute to process anyway.”
Roarke smiled. “You or your equipment?”
“Both. I’m doing search and scans looking for probables and likelies on Yost’s employers on various hits. Maybe we find one to pigeonhole and we can get enough data to crawl up his back again.”
He reached into his bowl of nuts. “Hard on the eyes, hours of this. Going to need them fixed again.”
Roarke tipped his head so he could study Feeney’s equipment. “That’s a nice unit.”
“Took me six weeks to hound them to budget it in for me. Captain of EDD, and I gotta beg for the top of the line. It’s pitiful.”
“Your top of the line’s going to be a poor second in a few months.”
Feeney sniffed. “I know about your 60 T and M, and the upgrade on the 75,000TMS. Not that I’ve seen them anywhere but your and Dallas’s in-home offices. Guess it’s taken you so long to get them on the market, you’ve run into a few snags.”
“I wouldn’t call them snags. What would you think of a Track and Monitoring Unit, running on a 100,000 system, boosting up to five hundred simultaneous functions.”
“There is no 100,000 system. There isn’t a chip or combo of chips that can sustain that many functions, no laser power that can reach that speed.”
Roarke merely smiled. “There is now.”
Feeney went pale, laid a hand over his heart. “Don’t toy with me, lad. Jokes like that could bring a man to tears.”
“How would you like to test one of the prototypes for me? Put it through its paces, give me your opinion?”
“My firstborn son is as old as you are yourself, so I don’t think you’d have much use for him. What do you want?”
“Your weight, when it comes to negotiating a contract for Roarke Industries to provide electronic equipment, including this new model, to the NYPSD and after them, as many other police and security departments nationwide, to start, as can be managed.”
“I’ll use every ounce of weight that’s in me if she does what you say. When can I have her?”
“Within the week. I’ll let you know.” He started toward the door.
“That’s what you came in for?”
“That, and to see my wife before I go. I’ve some appointments.” He turned back, met Feeney’s eyes. “Good hunting.”
With a shake of his head and a sigh of lust at the thought of a 100,000 T and M System, Feeney turned back to his own unit.
And saw the disc beside it. The one, he mused as he lifted it, that hadn’t been there before Roarke had come in.
His eyes might have been tired, Feeney admitted, but they were still sharp enough. Damned if he’d seen the boy plant the disc.
Slick as they came.
He turned the disc over, then with a chuckle loaded it. They’d just see what one slick Irishman had slipped to another on the sly.
In a lovely detached town house of three stories, Sylvester Yost enjoyed the soaring final aria from Aida while he finished a light lunch of veggie pasta in tarragon vinaigrette, topped off with a glass of excellent Fume Blanc.
He rarely indulged in wine at lunch, but felt he had earned it. He had passed the FBI’s bumbling tactical team on their way to his building, had smiled at them through the privacy-tinted glass of the long black limo minutes, literally minutes before they’d arrived at his building.
He didn’t care for such close calls, but they did add some stimulation to routine.
Still, he was not pleased. The wine had helped mellow him.
He ordered the music lower by several notches, then made his call. Both he and the receiver kept video blocked, and voices electronically altered, as agreed.
Even fully secured and encoded palm units could be hacked, if one knew where to start.
“I’ve settled in,” Yost said.
“Good. I hope you have everything you need.”
“I’m comfortable enough, for the moment. I lost a great deal this morning. The art alone was worth several million, and I’ll have to replace a considerable amount of wardrobe and enhancements.”
“I’m aware of that. I believe we can retrieve most, if not all of your possessions, given time. If not, I’ll agree to pay half your losses. I cannot and will not assume full responsibility.”
Yost might have argued, but he considered himself a fair man in business. The detection, and the resulting losses, were partially his fault. Though he had yet to determine where and when he’d made mistakes.
“Agreed. Since your transmission this morning was timely, and your pied-à-terre quite adequate for my temporary needs. Do I proceed on schedule?”
“You do. Hit the next target tomorrow.”
“That’s your decision.” Yost sipped his after-lunch coffee. “At this point, however, I feel obliged to tell you I intend to dispose of Lieutenant Dallas in my own time and fashion. She’s inconvenienced me, and beyond that, she’s come too close.”
“I’m not paying you for Dallas.”
“Oh no, this is a bonus.”
“I told you from the beginning why she wasn’t chosen for this project. Hit her, and Roarke will never stop hunting. Just keep her busy otherwise until the job is completed.”
“As I said, Dallas is for me. In my time and in my way. You aren’t contracting for her, therefore you aren’t involved and have no say in the matter. I’ll complete your contract.”
On the table, over the spotless white linen, Yost’s fist bunched and began to pound, softly, rhythmically. “She owes me, and she will pay. Consider this: With her death, Roarke will only be more distracted and make your job that much easier.”
“She is not your target.”
“I know my target.” The pounding increased until he caught himself, flexed his big hand. No, he realized with some annoyance, he wasn’t as mellow as he’d believed. There was a terrible anger inside him. And something he hadn’t felt in so long he’d forgotten the taste of it.
Fear.
“He’ll be terminated tomorrow, on schedule. And there won’t be any cause for concern about Roarke hunting either of us after I deal with the cop. I intend to eliminate him. For that, you will pay.”
“You succeed with deleting Roarke within the time agreed upon in our addendum, you’ll collect your fee. When have I ever failed to pay off a contract?”
“Then, were I you, I’d begin making arrangements to transfer funds.”
He cut transmission abruptly, pushed from the table, paced. When he felt the worst of the rage ebbing, he made himself go upstairs, into the attractive office where he’d set up his portables.
Sitting, ordering his mind to clear, he brought up the public data on Eve. And for some time he sat, studying her image and her information.
chapter fifteen
Roarke didn’t quite make it to Eve’s office. He found her down the corridor, in front of one of the vending machines. She and the machine appeared to be in the middle of a vicious argument.
“I put the proper credits in, you blood-sucking, money-grubbing son of a bitch.” Eve punctuated this by slamming her fist where the machine’s heart would be, if it had one.
ANY ATTEMPT TO VANDALIZE, DEFACE, OR DAMAGE THIS UNIT IS A CRIMINAL OFFENSE.
The machine spoke in a prissy, singsong voice Roarke was certain was sending his wife’s blood pressure through the roof.
THIS UNIT IS EQUIPPED WITH SCANEYE, AND HAS RECORDED YOUR BADGE NUMBER. DALLAS, LIEUTENANT EVE. PLEASE INSERT PROPER CREDIT, IN COIN OR CREDIT CODE, FOR YOUR SELECTION. AND REFRAIN FROM ATTEMPTING TO VANDALIZE, DEFACE, OR DAMAGE THIS UNIT.
“Okay, I’ll stop attempting to vandalize, deface, or damage you, you electronic street thief. I’ll just do it.”
She swung back her right foot, which Roarke had cause to know could deliver a paralyzing kick from a standing position. But before she could follow through he stepped up and nudged her off balance.
“Please, allow me, Lieutenant.”
“Don’t put any more credits in that thi
eving bastard,” she began, then hissed when Roarke did just that.
“Candy bar, I assume. Did you have any lunch?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You know it’s just going to keep stealing if people like you pander to it.”
“Eve, darling, it’s a machine. It does not think.”
“Ever hear of artificial intelligence, ace?”
“Not in a vending machine that dispenses chocolate bars.”
He made the selection for her.
YOU HAVE SELECTED THE EIGHT-OUNCE ROYAL CHOCOLATE DREAM BAR. THIS FOOD PRODUCE CONTAINS SIXTY-EIGHT CALORIES AND TWO POINT ONE GRAMS OF FAT. ITS INGREDIENTS INCLUDE SOY AND SOY BYPRODUCTS, NONDAIRY MILK SUBSTITUTE, THE CHEMICAL SWEETNER TRADEMARKED AS SWEET-T, AND THE TRADEMARKED CHOCOLATE SUBSTITUTE CHOC-O-LIKE.
“Sounds just yummy,” Roarke said and retrieved the bar.
THIS PRODUCT HAS NO KNOWN NUTRITIONAL VALUE AND MAY CAUSE IRRITABILITY OR WAKEFULNESS IN SOME INDIVIDUALS. PLEASE ENJOY YOUR SELECTION AND YOUR DAY.
“Up yours” was Eve’s suggestion as she ripped off the wrapper. “They stole my candy again. I taped it on the back of my AutoChef. Two bars of the real stuff, not this chemi-mix crapola. They tagged it. I’m going to catch them sooner or later and peel the skin off their face. Slowly.”
Still, the first bite perked her up. “What are you doing here?”
“Adoring you. Absolutely.” Unable to help himself, he took her face in his hands and kissed her hard. “My God, what did I ever do before you were there?”
“Jeez, cut it out.” Even as the thrill whipped through her, she scanned the corridor for eavesdroppers and Peeping Toms. She’d be razzed for a week if anyone had spotted them. “My office.”