by J. D. Robb
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me before?”
“I’m telling you now. It was just confirmed five minutes ago. You can probably contact security on Vegas II and have the florist questioned.”
She was swearing as she pounded to her ’link, gave orders for just that.
“Even if they crack him, it’ll take weeks to cut through the bureaucracy and have him transported on planet so I can have a go at him.” But she rubbed her hands together, anticipating it. “You might have mentioned you were doing this.”
“If it came to nothing, you wouldn’t be disappointed. Instead, you have to be grateful.” His eyes sobered. “Eve, this doesn’t change the situation overmuch.”
“It means Redford was working on his own longer than he wanted us to know about. It means—” She broke off and dropped into a chair. “I know she could have done it, Roarke. On her own. She could slip out of Young’s apartment without detection. She could have left him sleeping, come back, cleaned up. Every fucking time. Or he could have known. He’d go to the wall for her, and he’s an actor. He’d toss Redford to the wolves in a heartbeat, but not if it implicated Jerry.”
She lowered her head to her hands a moment, fingers rubbing hard over her brow. “I know she could have done it. I know she could have seen a window of opportunity and gotten into the drug hold. She might have decided to end it her way, it suits her personality. But it just doesn’t feel right.”
“You can’t blame yourself for her death,” Roarke said quietly. “For the obvious reason that you aren’t to blame, and also a reason you’ll accept, guilt clouds logic.”
“Yeah. I know.” She rose again, restless. “I’ve been off my stride with this one. Mavis, remembering about my father. I’ve missed details, overlapped where it wasn’t necessary. All these distractions.”
“Including the wedding?” he suggested.
She managed a weak smile. “I’ve tried not to think too much about that. Nothing personal.”
“Consider it a formality. A contract, if you like, with a few trimmings.”
“Have you considered that a year ago we didn’t even know each other? That we’re living in the same house, but for a good deal of the time we’re on two different steps? That all this . . . stuff we feel for each other might not really be the sort of thing that holds up in the long stretch?”
He looked at her steadily. “Are you going to piss me off the night before we’re married?”
“I’m not trying to piss you off, Roarke. You brought it up, and since it has been one of the distractions, I’d like to clear it up. These are reasonable questions and deserve reasonable answers.”
His eyes went dark. She recognized the warning and braced herself for the storm. Instead, he rose, spoke with such icy calm she nearly shuddered. “Are you backing out, Lieutenant?”
“No. I said I’d do it. I just think we should . . . think,” she said lamely, and hated herself.
“Well, you think then, find your reasonable answers. I have mine.” He glanced at his watch. “And I’m running late. Mavis is waiting downstairs for you.”
“For what?”
“Ask her,” he said with the slightest edge to his voice as he walked out.
“Damn it.” She kicked the desk with enough force to have Galahad eyeing her maliciously. She kicked it again because pain had some rewards, then limped out to go find Mavis.
An hour later, she found herself being dragged into the Down and Dirty Club. She’d suffered through Mavis’s orders to change her clothes, to do something about her hair, her face. Even her attitude. But when the music and noise hit her like a roundhouse punch, she balked.
“Jesus, Mavis. Why here?”
“Because it’s nasty, that’s why. Bachelor parties are supposed to be nasty. Christ, look at that guy onstage. His cock’s big enough to drill spikes. Good thing I asked Crack to save us an A table. The place is sardine city, and it’s barely midnight.”
“I have to get married tomorrow,” Eve began, finding it a handy excuse for the first time.
“That’s the point. Jesus, Dallas, loosen up. Hey, there’s our party.”
Eve was used to shocks. But this was a doozy. It was a bit more than credulity could bear to see a table directly under a cock swinger crowded by Nadine Furst, Peabody, a woman who she thought was probably Trina, and, dear God Almighty, Dr. Mira.
Before she could close her mouth, Crack swooped up behind her and hoisted her off her feet. “Hey there, skinny white girl. Gonna party tonight. Got you a bottle of champagne on the house.”
“You’ve got any champagne in this joint, pal, I’ll chew the cork.”
“Hell, it sparkles. What you want?” He gave her a quick spin, to the vocal appreciation of the crowd, caught her midair, and thumped her down in a seat at the table. “Ladies, y’all enjoy yourselves now, or I’m gonna hear about it.”
“You have such interesting friends, Dallas.” Nadine puffed on a cigarette. No one was going to worry about tobacco restrictions in there. “Have a drink.” She lifted a bottle of unknown substance, poured some into what looked like a fairly clean glass. “We’re way ahead of you.”
“I had to get her to change.” Mavis hipped her way into a seat. “She bitched all the way.” Then Mavis’s eyes filled. “She only did it for me.” She took Eve’s drink, swilled it down. “We wanted to surprise you.”
“You did. Dr. Mira. It is Dr. Mira, isn’t it?”
Mira smiled brilliantly. “It was when I walked in. I’m afraid I’m a little fuzzy on details at this point.”
“We gotta have a toast.” Rocky on her pins, Peabody used the table for balance. She managed to raise her glass without spilling more than half its contents on Eve’s head. “To the best fucking cop in the whole stinking city, who’s gonna marry the sexiest sumbitch I, personally, have ever laid eyes on, and who, because she’s so goddamn smart, has seen to it that I’m perman’ly attached to Homicide. Which is where any half-blind asshole could tell you I belong. So there.” She downed the rest of her drink, fell backward into her chair, and grinned foolishly.
“Peabody,” Eve said and flicked a finger under her eyes. “I’ve never been more touched.”
“I’m shit faced, Dallas.”
“The evidence points to it. Can we get any food in here that doesn’t promise ptomaine? I’m starved.”
“The bride to be wants to eat.” Still sober as a nun, Mavis bolted to her feet. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t get up.”
“Oh, and Mavis.” Eve jerked her down, murmured in her ear. “Get me something nonlethal to drink.”
“But, Dallas, it’s a party.”
“And I’m going to enjoy it. I really am, but I want to be clear-headed tomorrow. It’s important to me.”
“That’s so sweet.” Weeping again, Mavis lowered her face to Eve’s shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m a regular sugar substitute.” On impulse she jerked Mavis around and kissed her square on the mouth. “Thanks. Nobody else would have thought of this.”
“Roarke did.” Mavis mopped at her eyes with the glittering fringe swinging from her sleeve. “We worked it out together.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?” Smiling a little, Eve took another dubious look at the naked bodies gyrating on stage. “Hey, Nadine.” She topped off the reporter’s glass. “The guy up there with the red tail feathers has his eye on you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Nadine looked blearily around.
“Dare you.”
“Dare me what? To get up there? Shit, that’s nothing.”
“Then do it.” Eve leaned over, grinned in her face. “Let’s see some action.”
“You think I won’t.” Rising, Nadine teetered, righted herself. “Hey, hot stuff,” she shouted to the closest dancer. “Give me a hand up.”
The crowd loved her, Eve decided. Especially when Nadine got into the spirit and stripped down to purple underwear. Eve sighed into her mineral water. She sure knew how to pick her friends. “How’s it goi
ng, Trina?”
“I’m having an out of body experience. I think I’m in Tibet.”
“Uh-huh.” Eve cast a look at Dr. Mira. The way the woman was cheering, Eve was afraid she’d leap up onstage herself. She didn’t think either one of them wanted that vision in their memory logs. “Peabody.” She had to jab her fingers into Peabody’s arm to get even a vague reaction. “Let’s get some more food here.”
Peabody grunted. “I could do that.”
Following her gaze, Eve watched Nadine in a crotch grind with a seven-foot black in body paint. “Sure you could, pal. You’d bring the house down.”
“It’s just that I’ve got this little pouch.” She staggered, and Eve caught her neatly by the arm. “Jake called it my jelly belly. I’m saving up to have it sucked.”
“Just do some more abs. Don’t go for the vacuum.”
“It’s heditary.”
“Hereditary.”
“Right.” She swayed and bobbled as Eve steered her through the crowd. “Everybody in my family’s got one. Jake likes ’em skinny. Like you.”
“Screw him, then.”
“Did.” Peabody giggled, then leaned heavily on a serving bar. “Screwed our brains out. That’s not what does it, though, you know that, Evie.”
Eve sighed. “Peabody, I don’t want to punch a fellow officer when she’s impaired. So don’t call me Evie.”
“Right. Know what does it?”
“Food,” she ordered from the server droid. “Any kind and lots of it. Table three. What does what, Peabody?”
“What does it. It. What you and Roarke got, that’s what does it. Connection. Inside connections. Sex is just the extra.”
“Sure. You and Casto having problems?”
“Nope. Just don’t have much connection now that the case is closed.” Peabody shook her head and lights exploded in front of her eyes. “Jesus, I’m plowed. Gotta use the john.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“I can do it myself.” With some dignity, Peabody nudged Eve’s hand from her arm. “I don’t care to vomit in front of a superior officer, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Suit yourself.”
But Eve watched her like a hawk as she toddled across the floor. They’d been at it nearly three hours, she judged. And though fun was fun, she was going to get some food into her little playmates and see that they all got transport home.
Smiling, she leaned on the bar herself, watching Nadine, still wearing purple briefs, sitting at the table having an earnest discussion with Dr. Mira. Trina had her head on the table now and was probably communing with the Dhali Lama.
Mavis, eyes shining, was onstage, screeching out an impromptu number that had the dance floor rocking.
Damn it, she thought as she felt her throat burn. She loved the whole snockered lot of them. Peabody included, she decided, and opted to take a short peek into the toilet to make sure her aide hadn’t passed out or drowned.
She made it nearly halfway across the club before she was grabbed. As it had been happening on and off all evening as hopeful clubgoers trolled for partners, she started to shake off good-naturedly.
“Try again, ace. Not interested. Hey!” The quick pinch on her arm annoyed more than hurt. But her vision was already wavering as she was muscled through the hooting crowd and shoved into a privacy room.
“Goddamn it, I said I wasn’t interested.” She started to reach for her badge, missed her pocket completely. At a gentle nudge, she spilled backward onto a narrow bed.
“Take a rest, Eve. We have to talk.” Casto dropped down next to her and crossed his feet at the ankles.
Roarke wasn’t in a partygoing mood, but as Feeney had gone to some trouble to create a monstrously hedonistic atmosphere, he played his part. It was a hall of sorts, crowded with men, many of whom were surprised to find themselves participating in such a pagan ritual. Still, Feeney, with his electronic expertise, had ferreted out some of Roarke’s closer business associates, and none had wanted to risk offending someone of Roarke’s stature with a refusal.
So there they were, the rich, the famous, and the scrambling, pressed into a badly lit room with life-size screens flickering with naked bodies in various, imaginative acts of sexual frenzy, a trio of live strippers already entertainingly naked, and enough beer and whiskey to sink the Seventh Fleet and all its crew.
Roarke had to admit it had been a nice gesture and was doing his best to live up to Feeney’s expectations as a man on his final night of freedom.
“There you are, boy-o, another whiskey for you.” After several of the Irish himself, Feeney had slipped comfortably into the brogue of the country he’d never seen—that indeed his great-great-grandparents had never set foot on. “Up the rebels, eh?”
Roarke cocked a brow. He himself had been born in Dublin and had spent most of his youth wandering its streets and alleys. Yet he couldn’t claim the sentimental attachment Feeney did for a land and its rebellions. “Slainte,” he said to please his friend, and sipped.
“There’s a lad. Now you see here, Roarke, the ladies among us are for looking purposes only. No touching for you now.”
“I’ll do my best to restrain myself.”
Feeney grinned and slapped Roarke on the back hard enough to stagger him. “She’s a prize, isn’t she? Our Dallas.”
“She’s . . .” Roarke scowled into his whiskey. “Something,” he decided.
“Keep you on your toes, she will. Keeps them all on their toes. Got a mind like a fucking shark. You know, focused on one thing till the thing’s done. Tell you straight, this last case had her bug-shit.”
“She hasn’t let it go,” Roarke murmured, and smiled coolly when a naked blonde sidled up to rub her hands up his chest. “You’ll have better luck with that one,” he told her, gesturing to a glaze-eyed man in charcoal gray pinstripes. “He owns Stoner Dynamics.”
When she looked blank, Roarke gently disengaged the hands that were gliding cheerfully toward his crotch. “He’s loaded.”
She shimmied off, leaving Feeney gazing wistfully after her. “I’m a happily married man, Roarke.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“It’s lowering to admit I’m not but a little tempted to give a pretty young thing like that a quick ride in a dark room.”
“You’re a better man for it, Feeney.”
“That’s the truth.” He sighed, low and long, then veered back to the former topic. “Dallas goes off for a few weeks, she’ll put this aside, get on with the next.”
“She doesn’t like losing, and she thinks she has.” He tried to dismiss it. Damn if he wanted to spend the night before his wedding picking apart a homicide. With a muttered curse, he steered Feeney to a quiet corner. “What do you know about that dealer who got hit in the East End?”
“Cockroach. Not much to know. Dealer, fairly slick, fairly stupid. It’s amazing how many of them are both. Stuck to his own turf. Liked a quick, easy profit.”
“Was he a weasel, too? Like Boomer?”
“Usta weasel. His trainer retired last year.”
“What happens when a trainer retires?”
“Another one takes on the weasel, or he’s let go. Didn’t find any new trainer for Cockroach.”
Roarke started to shrug it off, but it kept niggling. “The cop who retired? Did he work with anybody?”
“What d’you think? I got memory chips in my head?”
“Yes.”
Flattered, Feeney preened. “Well, as a matter of fact, I recall he was partnered with an old pal of mine. Danny Riley. That was back in, oh, forty-one. Seems like he cruised with Mari Dirscolli for a few years to about forty-eight. Might be forty-nine.”
“Never mind,” Roarke muttered.
“Then he teamed with Casto a couple years.”
Roarke’s attention snapped back. “Casto? Was he partnered with Casto while he was Cockroach’s trainer?”
“Sure, but only one leg of a team works as trainer. ’Course,” Feeney mu
rmured as his brow furrowed. “Usual procedure is to take over your partner’s contacts. No record Casto did. He had his own weasels.”
Roarke told himself it was his own prejudice, his own ridiculous knee-jerk jealousy. He didn’t give a damn. “Not everything’s locked into record. You don’t find it coincidental that two weasels who worked close to Casto got hit, both of them with connections to Immortality?”
“We aren’t saying Casto had Cockroach. And it’s not that coincidental. You’re dealing with illegals here, you got overlaps.”
“What other connection have you found that links Cockroach to the other murders, other than Casto?”
“Jesus, Roarke.” He ran a hand over his face. “You’re as bad as Dallas. Look, a lot of Illegals cops end up with abuse problems. Casto’s clean to the bone. Never had a trace in any of his testing. He’s got a good rep, he’s coming up for captaincy, and it’s no secret he wants it. He’s not going to go messing around with this kind of shit.”
“Sometimes a man is just a little bit tempted, Feeney, and sometimes he gives in. You want to tell me it would be the first time an Illegals cop made a few credits on the side?”
“No.” Feeney sighed again. He was sobering up with this kind of talk. And he didn’t like it. “There’s nothing to pin on him, Roarke. Dallas was working with him. If he was a wrong cop, she’d have smelled it. She’s like that.”
“She’s been distracted. Off stride,” Roarke murmured, remembering her own words. “Think it through, Feeney, no matter how fast she moved on this, she always seemed to be one step off. If someone had known her moves, they might have anticipated her. Especially someone who thinks like a cop.”
“You don’t like him because he’s almost as pretty as you,” Feeney said sourly.
Roarke let that pass. “How much can you dig up on him tonight?”
“Tonight? Jesus, you want me to dig shit up on another cop, go into personal records, because he had a couple of weasels knocked? And you want me to do it tonight?”
Roarke put a hand on Feeney’s shoulder. “We can use my unit.”
“You’ll make a good pair,” Feeney muttered as Roarke steered him through the crowd. “Both a couple of sharks.”