by J. D. Robb
The climax rolled through her, one long, lingering wave. She felt him follow, caught in the same current, and pressed her cheek to his.
“Was that like a cookie?” she wondered.
“Hmmm?”
“You know, have a cookie. You’ll feel better.” She put her hands on either side of his face, lifting it as he laughed. “Were you making me feel better?”
“I certainly hope so. It worked for me.” He dipped his head to kiss her lightly. “I wanted you. I always do.”
“It’s funny how men can wake up with their brains in their cocks.”
“It makes us what we are.” Still chuckling, he rolled her over him, patted her butt. “Let’s take a shower. I’ll give you another cookie.”
Thirty minutes later, she stumbled out of the shower and into the drying tube. He was a quick change artist when it came to mood, she thought dizzily. From lazy to amused to hot, steamy, mind-numbing sex, all in one short morning.
Because her system was still frazzled, she braced a hand against the curve of the tube as warm air blew around her. When he stepped out of the shower, she jabbed out a finger.
“Stay away from me. You grab me again, I’ll have to take you down. I mean it. I’ve got work.”
He hummed a tune and used a towel. “I like making love to you in the morning. You only wake up fast if you get a call from dispatch or if I seduce you.”
“I’m awake now.” She stepped out, pushed a hand through her hair. Giving herself safe distance, she reached for a robe. “Go look at the stock reports or something.”
“I intend to. You’ll want breakfast,” he added as he left the room. “I’ll order it up.”
She started to tell him she wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t. But she knew without fuel she wouldn’t make it through the day.
When she joined him in the bedroom, he was slipping into a shirt, his gaze focused on the table monitor where he could view the headlines and financial reports. She walked past him to her closet, chose plain gray trousers.
“I’m sorry I lost it last night.”
He lifted his gaze, noted she kept her back to him as she pawed out a shirt. “You were upset. You had a right to be.”
“Anyway, I appreciate you not making me feel like an idiot.”
“How do you feel now?”
She jerked a shoulder. “I’ve got a job to do.” She’d come to that end while she’d tossed her way into sleep. “I’m going to do it. Maybe…Well, maybe if I do it right, Feeney won’t hate me so much when it’s over.”
“He doesn’t hate you, Eve.” When she didn’t answer, he let it drop. He’d already programmed their meal in the recessed AutoChef. “I thought ham and eggs would do the trick this morning.”
He got the coffee first, brought it to the table in the sitting area.
“It’ll do the trick any morning.” She pasted on a determined smile, went over to get the food herself. He ordered the viewing screen on Channel 75 while she shoveled in creamy eggs.
She scowled as the on-air reporter, glossy as a china doll at seven thirty in the morning, recited the data on the Wineburg homicide.
“Though Lieutenant Eve Dallas, assigned to the homicide division of NYPSD, was on the scene, only yards away from the murder site, the police have no solid leads. The investigation continues. This is the second stabbing death connected with Lieutenant Dallas in as many days. When asked if the cases are linked, Dallas refused to comment.”
“A ten-year-old kid with a vision defect could see they’re linked, for Christ’s sake.” She had been eating on automatic, and now shoved the plate aside. “That Cross bitch is sitting in her hell house, laughing.”
Springing up, she began to pace. Roarke took it as a good sign. If she was angry, she wasn’t feeling sorry for herself. He chose some fresh strawberry jam for his croissant.
“I’m going to nail her, I swear to God, I’m going to nail her. For all of them. I need to connect Wineburg to her. If I can do that, I can harass her some more. May not be enough to get me a warrant to toss her place, but I can keep on her ass.”
“Well, then.” Roarke wiped his fingers with a pale blue linen cloth, set it aside. “I should be able to help you with that.”
As she continued to pace and mutter, he rose, walked to a dresser, took a sealed disc from a drawer. “Lieutenant?”
“What? I’m thinking.”
“Then I won’t interrupt your train of thought with the list of membership from Cross’s cult.” With a half smile on his face, he tapped the disk against his palm and waited for her eyes to clear and shoot to him.
“The list? You got the membership roster? How?”
He cocked his head. “You don’t really want to know how, do you?”
“No.” She said it immediately. “No, I guess I don’t.
Just tell me he’s on it.” She closed her eyes briefly. “Just tell me Wineburg’s on the list.”
“He certainly is.”
Her grin flashed quick and fever bright. “I love you.”
Roarke handed her the disc. “I know you do.”
chapter fourteen
Feeney wanted to see Whitney first. So he made it early, and he made it personal. They, too, went back together a long way, Feeney thought as he pulled up in front of the neat two-level home in the ’burbs. He’d been here socially over the years. The commander’s wife loved to throw parties.
His mood wasn’t sociable now as he strode up the pebbled walk toward the quiet house in the wakening neighborhood. A few yards down, a dog was barking in high, monotonous yips. The bark had none of the faintly metallic ring that said droid, but held a vibrancy of flesh and blood. The kind of dog that shit in the yard, Feeney thought with a shake of his head, and scratched at fleas.
Leaves skittered playfully along the street, most of them making beelines for lawns. Lawns that were, in a neighborhood like this, tended like a religion.
Feeney, himself, didn’t get ’burb life, where you had to rake and mow and water or hire someone to rake and mow and water. He’d raised his family in the city, used the public parks. Hell, you had to pay for them, anyway. He moved his shoulders restlessly, not quite comfortable with the morning silence.
Anna Whitney answered his knock, and though she couldn’t have been expecting company at that hour, she was already decked out in a trim jumpsuit. Her light hair waved stylishly, and her makeup was subtle and perfect. Her lips curved in welcome. Her eyes may have flickered with surprise and curiosity, but she was too much the cop’s wife to ask questions.
“Feeney, how nice to see you. Come in, please, have some coffee. Jack’s just having his second cup in the kitchen.”
“Sorry to disturb you at home, Anna. I need a few minutes of the commander’s time.”
“Of course. And how’s Sheila?” she asked as she led the way down the hall toward the kitchen.
“She’s fine.”
“She looked just wonderful the last time I saw her. Her new stylist is terrific. Jack, you’ve got company for coffee.” She breezed into the kitchen, caught the surprise, then the speculation in her husband’s eyes. She knew enough to make a quick exit. “I’ll let you two chat. I’ve got a million things to do this morning. Feeney, you give Sheila my best, now.”
“I will. Thanks.” He waited until the door swung closed, never taking his eyes off Whitney’s. “Goddamn it, Jack.”
“This should be discussed in my office, Feeney.”
“I’m talking to you.” Feeney jabbed a finger. “To someone I’ve known twenty-five years. To someone who knew Frank. Why’d you cut me out of this? Why did you order Dallas to lie to me?”
“That was my decision, Feeney. The investigation had to be on a need-to-know basis.”
“And I didn’t need to know.”
“No.” Whitney folded his big hands. “You didn’t need to know.”
“Frank and I raised some of our kids together. Alice was my godchild. Frank and I rode as partners for five fucking years.
Our wives are like sisters. Who the hell are you to decide I don’t need to know he’s being investigated?”
“Your commander,” Whitney said shortly and pushed his still steaming coffee aside. “And the reasons you just stated are the very reasons I made the decision.”
“You pushed me aside. You know damn well my division should have been involved. You needed records.”
“Records were part of the problem,” Whitney said evenly. “There was no record of a heart defect in his medical files, no record of a connection, personal or professional, between him and a known chemi-dealer.”
“Frank had nothing to do with illegals.”
“No records,” Whitney continued. “And his closest friend is the best E-detective in the city.”
Feeney’s eyes went wide, and his color rose hot. “You think I wiped records? You had Dallas looking at me?”
“No, I didn’t think you wiped records, but it wasn’t something I could ignore with IAD breathing down my neck. Who would you have picked to do the work, Feeney?” Whitney demanded with an impatient gesture. “I knew that Lieutenant Dallas would be thorough and careful and that she’d bust her ass to clear both you and Frank. I knew she had—contacts—that could access those records.”
Deluged by emotion, Feeney turned to stare out of the gleaming window into the backyard with its tidily mowed grass and majestic fall flowers. “You put her in a bad spot. You ordered her into a lousy position, Jack. Is that what happens when you command? You put your troops’ backs to the wall?”
“Yeah, that’s what happens.” Whitney ran a hand over his dark, grizzled hair. “You do what needs to be done, and you live with it. I had IAD drooling. My priority was to clear Frank and shield his family from anymore hardship. Dallas was my best shot. You trained her, Feeney, you know she was my best shot.”
“I trained her,” Feeney agreed, sick inside.
“What would you have done?” Whitney demanded. “Straight, Feeney. You’ve got a dead cop who’s been tagged buying illegals from a suspected dealer who’s under surveillance. There were drugs in his system when he died. Your gut tells you no way, no way he was dirty. And maybe your heart’s telling you, too, because you remember when you were both rookies. But IAD’s got no gut, and it’s got no heart. What would you have done?”
And because he’d had a sleepless night to think on it, to worry the steps, Feeney shook his head. “I don’t know. But I know I don’t want your job. Commander.”
“You’ve got to be crazy to want this job.” Whitney’s wide face relaxed slightly. “Dallas has gone a long way to clearing Frank, and she took you out of it within the first twenty-four hours. She’d hardly had more than a week on this, and she’s already cleared a path. With her reports, I’ve been able to back IAD off. They’re not happy about Frank setting up his own sting, but they’ve eased the pressure.”
“That’s good.” Feeney dug his hands into his pockets as he turned back. “She’s good. Christ, Jack, I hit her hard.”
Whitney’s brows knit. “You should have come to me. Going after her was off, Feeney. I gave the orders.”
“I took it personal. I made it personal.” He remembered how she’d looked at him, her face pale, her eyes blank. He’d seen people with that look before—victims, he thought now, who were used to taking a fist in the face. “I’ve got to fix it with her.”
“She called in a couple minutes before you showed up. She’s doing a follow-through on a new lead. At home.”
Feeney jerked his head in a nod. “I’d like a couple hours personal time.”
“You’ve got it.”
“And I want in on this.”
Whitney sat back, considered. “That’ll be up to Dallas. She’s primary. If we’re opening this up, she chooses her own team.”
“Answer the ’link, will you, Peabody?” Eve continued to scan the data on-screen as her ’link beeped insistently. It was a wonder to her how many names she recognized from the social, political, and professional registers. It was doubtful she’d have recognized quite so many a year before, but connecting with Roarke had broadened her horizons.
“Doctors, lawyers,” she muttered. “Christ, this guy’s been to dinner here. And I think Roarke used to sleep with this woman. This dancer. She’s got a hit on Broadway and a mile of leg.”
“It’s Nadine,” Peabody announced and wondered if Eve was talking to herself or really wanted to share that particular information. She hacked, sneezed, then added in her now raspy voice. “Furst.”
“Perfect.” Eve cleared the screen, just in case, and turned to the ’link. “So, Nadine, what’s the story?”
“You’re the story, Dallas. Two dead people. It’s dangerous to know you.”
“You’re still breathing.”
“So far, so good. I thought you might be interested in some data that’s come my way. We can do a trade.”
“Show me yours, maybe I’ll show you mine.”
“Exclusive one on one, in your home, with you discussing the investigation of both knifings, for the noon broadcast.”
Eve didn’t bother to snort. “One on one reporting the status of my investigation, in my office, for the evening broadcast.”
“The first body was found at your house. I want in.”
“It was found outside on the sidewalk, and you’re not getting in.”
Nadine huffed out a breath. The pout was for her own benefit. She knew better than to think it would budge Eve. “I want the noon.”
Eve checked her watch, calculated, considered. “I’ll clear you into my office. Arrival time eleven forty-five. If I can make it, I’ll be there. If not…”
“Damn it, we need setup time. Fifteen minutes isn’t—”
“It’s enough, Nadine, for someone as good as you are. Be sure your data makes this worth my while.”
“Make sure you don’t look like a rag picker,” Nadine shot back. “Do something with your hair, for God’s sake.”
Rather than respond, Eve ended transmission. “What is this obsession people have with my hair and wardrobe?” She raked a bad-tempered hand through the hair in question.
“Mavis told me you’re overdue for a style session. Leonardo’s bummed about it.”
“You hanging with Mavis?”
“I’ve gone down to catch her act a couple times.” She blew her nose heartily. Over-the-counters were pure crap, she decided. “I like watching her.”
“I haven’t had time for a style session,” Eve muttered. “I trimmed it myself a couple days ago.”
“Yeah, I could tell.” At Eve’s narrow look, Peabody smiled blandly. “It looks just lovely, sir.”
“Kiss ass.” Eve switched her screen back on. “And if you’re finished with your critique of my personal appearance, maybe you’d like to run a few of these names.”
“I recognize some of them.” Peabody bent over Eve’s shoulder. “Louis Trivane: big shot celebrity lawyer. Gets the stars out of legal jams. Marianna Bingsley: department store heiress and professional manhunter. Carlo Mancinni, cosmetic enhancement guru—medical doctor—you have to be way rich to have him even consider doing body sculpting on you.”
“I know the names, Peabody. I want background, personal data, financial data, medical data, any arrests. I want to know the names of their spouses and kids and pets. I want to know when and how they connected with Cross and why they decided Satan was a cool guy.”
“It’ll take days.” Peabody said it mournfully and reminded Eve painfully of Feeney. “Even shooting them into the IRCCA.”
Eve said nothing. The International Resource Center on Criminal Activity was one of Feeney’s prides and joys.
“If I could tag someone in the E-Division for help, we could cut the time in half. Maybe less.” Peabody jerked a shoulder. “So, where do you want me to start?”
“We’ve got a hop on Wineburg, so dig deeper there, andon Lobar—Robert Mathias. Then start at the top and work down. I’ll start at the bottom and work up. Look for
withdrawals of large amounts at regular intervals. We damn well better have what we need when we meet in the middle.”
She narrowed her eyes, thinking. The financial data on Selina’s cult would be protected by the Privacy Act and its status as a registered religion. Still, there was a chance, a slim one, that she’d been cocky enough to make deposits in her personal account.
That was a simple matter to check on. For the other, she would have to decide if the data would hold solid if she was able to access it, and to access it, she needed Roarke.
She’d wait, she decided, a day or two. Once they ascertained how much money the membership list was suspected of feeding into Selina’s pockets, she’d reassess.
It would be tough to sell the PA on religious contributions as extortion, but it might be a start.
“With Wineburg’s name linked to Cross’s cult, I can pull her into Interview. I think we’ll make it, say, around eleven thirty.”
“You’ve got the spot with Nadine at eleven forty-five.”
“Yeah.” Eve’s smile spread. “That’ll work.”
“Oh.”
“It’s not my fault if some big-nosed reporter finds out I’m questioning Selina Cross, knows I’m primary on two recent homicides, then puts two and two together.”
“And goes on air with it.”
“Might shake up some of these fine, upstanding Satanists. Some people get real chatty when they’re shook. Get me that data, and I can shake them harder.”
“I bow to you.”
“Save it until we see if it works. You use this unit. I can use one of Roarke’s to make the first pass. Computer, copy disc, print out hard copy.” She glanced up at the movement in the doorway, went very still. “Abort,” she murmured and braced to take the next hit from Feeney.
“Peabody.” He sent her a quiet look out of sleep-starved eyes. “I need a moment with your lieutenant.”
“Sir?” Though she rose, Peabody waited for Eve’s signal.
“Take a break, Peabody. Get yourself some coffee.”
“Yes, sir.” She headed out, feeling the needles of edgy tension prickling the air.