Betrayal in Death

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Peabody hustled off the glide, rounded the corner toward her squad room, and ran straight into McNab.

"There you are." He beamed at her like a boy who'd just found his lost puppy after a long, whistling search.

"No, there you are. I was looking for you. I just got word the FBI's going to hold a media conference. They're pushing to have Dallas attend and fall into the spin."

"Oh, yeah, that'll happen. Have you heard the one about the Easter Bunny, too?" There was a door beside him. Never one to miss an opportunity, McNab bumped the handle.

"So far I haven't heard if Whitney's going to toss her in, but if he does, I think we should all be there. The one our guys had on for this afternoon's on hold."

As he nudged her into the narrow empty maintenance room he nodded. "Just tag me and let me know when and where if it comes down. Meanwhile…" He already had her up against the wall so he could chew on her neck.

"Jeez, McNab." But she wasn't putting up much of a struggle. "Get a grip."

"Gonna." With one hand he fumbled down, engaged the lock. With the other, he began disengaging the buttons on her uniform jacket. "Mmm, She-Body, you are so female. What's a guy supposed to do?"

His teeth were nibbling their way down… over… Oh yeah. "I think you're doing it."

She flipped open the hook of his trousers. After all, if she couldn't spare a few minutes for a fellow officer, what kind of cop was she?

He was hard as rock.

"How do you guys walk around with this thing kicking between your thighs?"

"Practice." The smell of her, the feel of her was driving him crazy. When her firm, capable hand wrapped around him, he decided he was the happiest madman on or off planet. "Jesus, Peabody." His mouth found hers, all but gulped her down. "I need – "

Her pocket-link rang, shrill and insistent.

"Don't answer it." He tugged at her trousers, in a rage to get inside her. "Don't."

"Have to." She couldn't breathe, and her knees were trembling, but duty was duty. "Just… wait." She wiggled away, sucked in air then blew it out explosively. Her cheeks were flushed, her breasts achy and exposed. She had the wit to block video as she opened transmission.

"Peabody."

"Delia. You sound so official and out of breath. Very sexy."

"Charles." She willed away the fog over her brain and didn't notice McNab go rigid and slit-eyed beside her. "Thanks for getting back to me."

"One of my favorite things to do is getting back to you."

That made her smile, a little foolishly. He always said the sweetest things. "I know you're busy, but I thought you might be able to help me out on a detail in an investigation."

"Never too busy for you. What can I do?"

Furious, McNab turned to stare at a line of industrial-sized cleaners and disinfectants. Couldn't she hear the snake oil in his voice? Didn't she know if he'd been busy it was because he'd been collecting a fat fee after doing the naked tango with some rich and bored society chick?

"I'm trying to confirm an identification," Peabody went on. "A man, mixed race, middle fifties. Opera buff. He takes the front box seat, stage right, at the Met."

"Front box, stage right… Sure, I know who you mean. Never misses an opening performance, comes alone."

"That's him. Can you describe him?"

"Other than what you've already said, he's big. More like an Arena Ball tackle than an opera fan. Clean-shaven, head and face. Designer black-tie. Always perfectly groomed. Doesn't mingle during intermission. I had a client recognize him once."

"Recognize him?"

"Yeah. She pointed him out, mentioned that he was an entrepreneur, which could mean anything."

"Did she tell you his name?"

"Probably. Give me a second. Roles. Martin K. Roles. I'm nearly positive."

"Can I have her name?"

"Delia." His voice was pained now. "You know how awkward that is for me."

"Okay, how about this. Could you contact her, casually ask how she knows this man? That might be enough."

"That I can do. Why don't I relay whatever information I get to you over drinks later? I have a ten o'clock appointment, but that leaves plenty of time. I could meet you at The Palace Hotel, The Royal Bar, say about eight?"

The Royal Bar, she thought. It was so lush and gorgeous, and they served olives the size of dove's eggs in pretty silver dishes when you sat down for a drink.

Plus, you never knew which celebrity might drop in for a glass of champagne.

She could wear her blue dress with the long skirt that slimmed down her hips, or…

"I'd really like that. I just don't know if I'll be working or not."

"A cop's life. I miss seeing you."

"Really?" Pleasure shimmered through her, and had her smiling again. "Me, too."

"Why don't we do this? I'll leave the early evening open. If you can spare time for a drink any time between six and nine, we'll get together. Otherwise, I'll take a rain check and just pass on what I find out."

"Great. I'll let you know as soon as I can. Thanks, Charles."

"Always my pleasure. Later, Beautiful."

She disengaged, glowing a bit. Beautiful wasn't a term she heard applied to herself often. "That might be a break," she began briskly, and after pocketing her 'link began to hook her bra and button her shirt. "If he can – "

"What the hell do you take me for?"

She blinked. That raw and dangerous edge in McNab's voice was something else rarely heard. And when she focused on his face she saw his eyes were glittering, sharp as shards of green glass. "Huh?"

"What do you take yourself for?" he tossed out. "You let me put my hands on you one minute, and I'd have been inside you in another. Then you're flirting on the 'link and making a goddamn date with a goddamn LC."

She nearly said "Huh?" again, because her mind wasn't quite computing the words. But the tone, the basic and nasty meaning of them, rang through loud and clear. "I wasn't flirting, you idiot." Or hardly, she thought, despising the quick, vicious tug of guilt. "I was doing a follow-up, as ordered by my lieutenant. And it's none of your business."

"It isn't?" He had her by the shoulders, had her shoved back against the wall again. But there was nothing sexual now, nothing playful.

Nerves jittered up to dance with guilt. "What's the matter with you? Let go or I'll knock you down." Normally, she would have been sure she could do just that. But this wasn't normally and her belly was quivering.

"The matter with me? You want to know what's the matter with me?" Fury exploded out of him. "I'm sick and tired of having you roll out of my bed and prance on over to roll in Monroe's, that's what's the matter with me."

"What?" She goggled. "What?"

"You think I'm going to keep playing backup fuck to some hired dick, you're wrong, Peabody. You are way wrong."

Her color flashed, then faded. It was nothing like that. Nothing like that, as her relationship with Charles was purely platonic. But she'd be damned if she'd say so now.

"That's a stupid and a horrible thing to say. Get off me, you son of a bitch."

She shoved, and was as angry as she was uneasy when she didn't budge him. "Yeah? Well, that's what I'm saying. How would you feel if I'd taken a call from some skirt while my hands were still on you? How the hell would you take that?"

She didn't know. It had never occurred to her. So she swung back hard to anger. It seemed to be her only defense. "Look, McNab, you can talk to anybody, skirts included, any time you damn well want. And you better crawl back out of my throat over who I talk to and what I do. We work together, we have sex together, but we're not exclusive, and you've got no right taking pops at me for talking to a source. And if I want to dance naked on Charles's tabletop while I do it, it's none of your damn business."

Not that she ever had. She'd never been naked with Charles. But that was beside the point.

"That's the way you want it?" Hurt was fighting to slice through temper. He couldn't allow it. So he nodded, stepped back. "That flows with me just fine."

"Well, good."

"Yeah, great." He yanked at the door, cursed because he'd forgotten to unlock it and had spoiled his exit. He sent her one last fulminating look and got out, closing the door smartly behind him.

She snarled, hastily buttoned her uniform jacket, smoothed it. Sniffled. Heard herself. Oh no, she thought, straightening her shoulders. She was not going to cry in the maintenance closet. And she was certainly not going to waste perfectly good tears over a moron like Ian McNab.

Eve was adding the results of her probability scans to her updated report when Nadine Furst walked into her office.

The first thing Eve did was swear. The second was to save and dump on-screen data before the slick reporter could get a look at it over her shoulder.

"What?" was Eve's greeting.

"Nice to see you, too. Looking good. Why, yes, I'd love some coffee." At home, Nadine strolled to the AutoChef, programmed for two cups.

She was a lovely woman, with perfectly styled dark blonde hair that flattered her somewhat foxy face. Her suit was poppy red and tailored to flatter a curvy figure and really good legs.

All of that was part of the requirement for being one of the top on-air reporters in the city. Added to it, Nadine had a few more advantages. A sharp and clever brain, and a sensitive nose that could sniff out a story even when it was buried under two tons of bullshit.

"Busy here, Nadine. See you later."

"Yes, I imagine so." Unmoved, unoffended, Nadine set a fresh cup of coffee on Eve's desk and settled down in the creaky and uncomfortable chair beside it. "Media conference in about an hour with the FBI on that botched bust uptown."

"So why aren't you prepping for it?"

"Oh." With a feline smile, Nadine sipped her coffee. "I am. I get word about the conference, then get a whiff that you're to be involved. Even as I begin to ponder on that, I get word you're out. And, the previously scheduled media conference with the NYPSD is now washed. So… comments, Lieutenant Dallas?"

"None." She'd spent twenty minutes strategizing with Whitney over just that. "It was a federal operation, not mine or my department's."

"But you were there, after the fact. I got a whiff of that, too. Why were you there?"

"I was in the neighborhood."

"Come on, Dallas." Nadine leaned forward. "It's just you and me. No camera, no recorder. Give me an edge."

"You're edgy enough all by yourself. I'm swamped here, Nadine."

"Yeah, swamped in homicides. Two. Same method, which points to one killer. If you're so swamped with them and the social obligation of the upcoming Magda Lane auction, why are you poking into a failed federal bust?"

"I don't poke."

"That's right, Dallas, you don't." Pleased, Nadine sat back again. "What's the connection between your homicides and the FBI operation?"

Now Eve smiled, kicked back, sipped coffee. "Why don't you ask Special Agent Jacoby that question? Why don't you ask him, and/or Special Agent Stowe why they took an entire team, at taxpayers' expense, into a privately owned building without first assuring that their target was in residence? And you might ask how they feel about the fact that tromping their FBI asses into that building without first pinpointing their target has now alerted that target, who remains at large."

"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 re-enactments. 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 man-made 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-a-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.