Witness in Death

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Before she roused a judge out of bed and risked irritating him, she tried to tag Peabody through her communicator.

"Off duty?" Sheer shock glazed Eve's eyes at the blinking red light on her pocket unit. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Why, the nerve!" Roarke clucked his tongue. "I bet she's got some insane idea that she's entitled to a life."

"It's your fault, it's your fault, it's your fault," Eve chanted under her breath while she sent the transmission to Peabody's palm 'link.

After six beeps, Eve was up and pacing. "If she doesn't answer, I'm going to – " Abruptly, Eve's desk 'link exploded with noise. Her angry yelp had the cat racing back into the kitchen.

"Peabody! For God's sake, where are you?"

"Sir? Sir, is that you? I can't really hear over the music."

The audio might have been chaos, but the video shimmered clear and gave Eve a close-up view of her aide, complete with fussy hair, lip dye, and slumberous eyes.

I knew it, was all Eve could think. I just knew it.

"You've been drinking."

"I have?" The vague eyes blinked at the information, then Eve heard what could only be described as a giggle. "Well, maybe. A couple. I'm in a club, and they have drinking here. Really rocking screamers. Is it morning already?"

"Hey, Dallas!" McNab's face pushed against Peabody's so the two of them, equally plowed by the look of things, shared the screen. "This band is ice. Why don't you get your main squeeze and come on down."

"Peabody, where are you?"

"I'm in New York City. I live here."

Drunk, Eve thought in frustration. Drunk as a Station Caspian colonist. "Never mind. Take this outside before I go deaf."

"What? I can't hear you!"

Ignoring Roarke's amused chuckle, Eve leaned into her 'link. "Officer Peabody, go outside, keep the transmission open. I need to talk to you."

"You're outside? Well, hell, come on in."

Eve sucked in a breath. "Go. Out. Side."

"Oh, okay, sure thing."

There was a great deal of fumbling, more giggling, bumpy views of a crowd of what Eve decided were maniacs leaping and spinning as the band crashed out noise. To her great pain, she heard, very clearly, McNab's hissed suggestion of what would be fun to do in one of the club's privacy rooms.

"You have to give him points for imagination," Roarke pointed out.

"I hate you for this." Patience straining, Eve held the transmission while Peabody and McNab stumbled out of the club. The noise level dropped, but not by much. Apparently McNab's choice of club was in the core of Broadway's never-ending party district.

"Dallas? Dallas? Where are you?"

"Your 'link, Peabody. I'm on your 'link."

"Oh." She lifted it again, peered at the screen. "What are you doing in there?"

"Have you got any Sober-Up in your bag?"

"Betcha. You gotta be prepared, right?"

"Take some. Now."

"Aw." Peabody's cheerfully colored lips moved into a pout. "I don't wanna. Hey, that's Roarke. I heard Roarke. Hi, Roarke."

He couldn't resist and moved into view. "Hello, Peabody. You're looking particularly delicious tonight."

"Golly, you're pretty. I could just look at you and look at you and – "

"Sober-Up, Peabody. Now. That's an order."

"Damn." Peabody rummaged through her bag, came up with the little tin. "If I gotta, you gotta," she said, plucking out two pills before shoving the tin at McNab.

"Why?"

"Because."

"Oh."

"Peabody, I need all current data on Anja Carvell, all search and scan results."

" 'Kay."

"Shoot them to my car unit. Then I want you to meet me, in uniform, at Kenneth Stiles's address. Thirty minutes. Understood?"

"Yeah, sort of… Could you repeat the question?"

"It's not a question. It's an order," Eve corrected and repeated it. "Got that now?"

"Yeah. Um, yes, sir."

"And leave your trained monkey at home."

"Sir?"

"McNab," Eve snapped, and cut transmission.

"Party pooper," Roarke murmured.

"Don't give me any lip." She rose, pulled her shoulder harness out of the desk drawer, strapped it on. "Go do some financial adjustments and point by point analyses."

"Darling, you were listening."

"I'm not laughing," she told him, and was annoyed because she wanted to. "Stay out of trouble."

He only smiled, waiting until he heard her jog down the stairs.

She was going to ease her way around the seal instead of breaking through it, he thought. There was no reason he should have the same limitations.

He strolled down the corridor to a private room. His voice and palm prints were checked and verified. The locks disengaged.

"Lights on," he ordered. "Full."

The room streamed with light, blocked from the outside by the secured privacy screens on the bank of windows. He crossed the wide squares of tile while the door behind him closed, re-secured.

Only three people had entry to this room. Three people he trusted without reservation. Eve, Summerset, and himself.

The slick black control panel formed a wide U. The equipment, unregistered and illegal, hummed softly in sleep mode. The wide eye of CompuGuard couldn't restrict what it couldn't see.

He'd restructured most of his questionable holdings over the years. After Eve, he'd disposed of or legitimized the rest. But, he thought as he helped himself to a brandy, a man had to have some small reminders of the past that made him.

And in his rebel's heart, the idea of a system like CompuGuard that monitored all computer business was an annoying pebble in his shoe. He was honor bound to shake it out.

He stepped to the control, swirled his brandy. "System up," he ordered, and a rainbow of lights bloomed over black. "Now, let's have a look."

Eve left her vehicle in a second-level parking slot a half a block from Stiles's apartment. She'd walked half that distance when she spotted the figure trying to blend with the trees at the edge of the facing park. "Trueheart."

"Sir!" She heard the squeak of surprise in his voice, but he'd schooled his face into calm lines by the time he stepped out of the shadows. "Lieutenant."

"Report."

"Sir, I've had the subject's building under surveillance since his return at eighteen-twenty-three. My counterpart is surveilling the rear exit. We have maintained regular communications at intervals of thirty minutes."

When she made no comment, he cleared his throat. "Subject lowered privacy screens on all windows at eighteen-thirty-eight. They have remained engaged since that time."

"That's good, Trueheart, gives me a really clear picture. Now, tell me if he's in there."

"Lieutenant, subject has not left the surveilled premises."

"Fine." She watched a Rapid Cab swing toward the opposing curb. Peabody, looking considerably more official in full uniform with her hair straight under her cap, climbed out. "Stand by, Officer Trueheart."

"Yes, sir. Sir? I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for this assignment."

Eve looked up into his very young, very earnest face. "You want to thank me for duty that has you standing out in the dark, in the cold, for…" She glanced at her wrist unit. "For approximately five and a half hours?"

"It's a homicide investigation," he said with such reverence she nearly patted his cheek.

"Glad you're enjoying it." She headed across the street, where Peabody waited. "Look me in the eye," Eve demanded.

"I'm sober, sir."

"Stick out your tongue."

"Why?"

"Because you want to. Now, stop sulking." With this, Eve walked toward the building. "And no rolling your eyes at the back of my head."

Peabody's eyes stopped in mid-roll. "Am I to be informed of the reason I've been called back on duty?"

"You'll be informed. If all your surviving brain cells are in working order, you'll get the drift when I corner Stiles. I'll fill in the blanks when we're done."

She gave her badge and palm print to the night guard for verification, got clearance. Eve ran it through quickly on the way up.

"Wow, it's like one of those daytime serials. Not that I watch them," Peabody said quickly when Eve's eyes slid coolly in her direction. "One of my sisters is addicted though. She's totally hooked on The Heart of Desire. See, Desire's this small and charming seaside town, but under the surface, there's all this intrigue and – "

"Don't. Really."

She hurried out of the elevator to prevent any possibility of a rundown of anything called The Heart of Desire. She pressed the buzzer at Stiles's apartment, held her badge up toward the security peep.

"Maybe he's asleep," Peabody said a few moments later.

"He's got a house droid." Eve pressed the buzzer again and felt the ache of tension squeeze in her gut.

She'd assigned a rookie, a rookie for Christ's sake, to surveillance on a lead suspect in two homicides. Because she'd wanted to give the kid a break.

If Stiles had slipped past him, she had no one to blame but herself.

"We're going in." She reached for her master code.

"A warrant – "

"We don't need one. Subject is suspect, dual homicide, also potential victim. There's reason to believe subject has fled or is inside, unable to respond."

She bypassed the locks with her master. "Draw your weapon, Peabody," she ordered as she reached for her own. "Go in high, to the right. Ready?"

Peabody nodded. Her mouth might have been brightly painted, but it was firm.

At Eve's signal, they went through the door, sweeping opposite directions. Eve ordered lights, narrowed her eyes against the sudden flash of them, scanned, sweeping as she angled herself to guard Peabody's back.

"Police! Kenneth Stiles, this is Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I am armed. You're ordered to step out into the living area immediately."

She moved toward the bedroom as she spoke, ears cocked for any sound. "He's not here." Every instinct told her the place was empty, but she gestured Peabody to the far side of the room. "Check that area. Watch your back."

She booted open the door, led with her weapon.

She saw a neatly made bed, a tidy sitting area, and the dark pool of the suit Stiles had worn to the memorial service on the floor.

"The droid's here, Dallas," Peabody called out. "Deactivated. No sign of Stiles."

"He's gone rabbit. Goddamn it." Still, she kept her weapon out and ready as she moved into the bath, through the adjoining door.

One look at the dressing room had her bolstering it again. "I guess that lets Trueheart off the hook," she said to Peabody when her aide joined her. Eve fingered a pot of skin toner, then lifted a wig. "Stiles is probably damn good with this stuff. Call it in, Peabody. Suspect in flight."

"Sir." Trueheart stood stiff as a petrified redwood in the entry to Stiles's dressing room. His face was white but for the high color skimming along his cheekbones. "I take full responsibility for the failure of the assignment given to me. I will accept, without qualification, any reprimand you deem appropriate."

"First, stop talking like that droid Peabody's reactivating. Second, you're not responsible for the flight of this suspect. That's on me."

"Lieutenant, I appreciate you taking my inexperience into consideration in my failure to perform my duty and complete this assignment in a satisfactory manner – "

"Shut up, Trueheart." Jesus God, spare her from rookies. "Peabody! Come in here."

"I've nearly got the droid up and running, Dallas."

"Peabody, tell Officer Trueheart here how I deal with cops who botch assignments or fail to complete same in what I deem a satisfactory manner."

"Sir, you bust their balls, mercilessly. It can be very entertaining to watch. From a discreet and safe distance."

"Thank you, Peabody. You make me proud. Trueheart, am I busting your balls?"

His flush spread. "Ah, no, sir. Lieutenant."

"Then it follows that in my opinion, you didn't botch this assignment. If my opinion was otherwise, you'd be curled on the floor, clutching said balls and begging for mercy, which Officer Peabody has succinctly pointed out I do not have. Are we clear?"

He hesitated. "Yes, sir?"

"That's the right answer." She turned away from him, studied the dressing area. The forest of clothes in different styles and sizes; the long, wide counter covered with bottles and tubes and sprays. Cubbyholes loaded with hairpieces, wigs. Drawers ruthlessly organized with other tools of the trade.

"He can make himself into anyone. I should've factored that in. Tell me who you did see leaving the building between eighteen-thirty and when I arrived on-scene. We'll verify with the security discs from the exits, but be thorough."

He nodded, and his eyes unfocused with concentration. "A couple, man and woman, white and white, thirty-five to forty. They hailed a Rapid and headed east. A single woman, mixed race, late twenties. She left on foot, in a westerly direction. Two men, black and white, early thirties. They returned within thirty minutes, carrying what appeared to be a twelve-pack of beer and a large pizza. A single man, mixed race, late forties, some facial hair."

He stopped when Eve held up a hand. She lifted a small bag to show him a few strands of hair she'd already sealed for evidence. "Is this a color match?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it again to press his lips together. "It's difficult to say with certainty, Lieutenant, as the light was going. But the subject in question appeared to have dark hair very similar in shade to the bagged evidence."

"Give me details. Height, weight, style of dress, appearance."

She listened, trying to paint a picture of the transformation from Trueheart's report.

"Okay, anyone else?"

He ran through the few people who'd left the building, but no one rang bells like the single mixed-race male.

"Was he carrying anything? A bag, a box, a parcel?"

"No, sir. He didn't have anything with him."

"Okay, then he's likely still running with the same look. Call it in."

"Sir?"

"Call in your description, Trueheart. Add it to the all-points."

His face lit up like a birthday candle. "Yes, sir!"

It was blind luck that he was spotted. Eve would think about that later, and for a long time after. Blind luck.

It was a twist of fate that the express running to and from Toronto experienced a malfunction on its way into Grand Central. The delay would make all the difference.

But when the break came, Eve jammed her communicator back in her pocket. "Grand Central. Let's move."

She was halfway to the apartment door when she shot a glance over her shoulder. "Trueheart, is there a reason you're not one step behind me?"

"Sir?"

"When the officer in command says to move, you get your bony butt in gear and move."

He blinked rapidly, then appeared to process the information that she wanted him on the team. A goofy smile spread over his face as he rushed to the door. "Yes, sir."

"Transit cops are blocking exits, spreading to all gates. Backup's on the way." Eve relayed the information as they headed down to street level. "Suspect's bought a one-way express to Toronto."

"It's cold up there." Peabody flipped up the collar of her coat as they ran down the block to Eve's vehicle. "If I were fleeing the country, I'd head south. I've never been to the Caribbean."

"You can point that out to him when he's in lockup. Strap in," she suggested when they dived inside. She shot down the parking ramp like a rocket, hit the sirens, and did a screaming two-wheel around the corner.

Flopping in the backseat, stomach at knee level, Trueheart was in heaven.

He was in pursuit, not of a scrounging street thief, not of a whiny traffic violation, but of a murder suspect. He gripped the chicken stick to keep his balance as Eve wove fast and nervelessly through traffic. He wanted to imprint every detail on his mind. The wild speed, the flash of lights, the sudden jolt and jerk as his lieutenant – God, wasn't she amazing? – shot the vehicle into a fast vertical lift to bypass a jam on Lexington.

He listened to Peabody's clear, practical voice as she coordinated with the backup on her communicator. To Eve's low, careless cursing as she was forced to swerve sharply to avoid a pair of "fucking brain-dead morons" on a scooter.

She squealed to a halt on the west side of the transpo center. "Peabody, Trueheart, with me. Let's see what the transit boys have for us."

There were two transit cops sealing the exit. Both came to attention when Eve held up her badge. "Status?"

"Your suspect's inside, Lieutenant. Level Two, Area C. There are a number of passengers in that area. The express for Toronto was sold out. There are several shops, eateries, and rest room facilities. Men are posted at all lifts, glides, and walkways leading in or out of the area. He's in there."

"Stand by."

She walked into the great sea of noise and movement.

"Lieutenant, Feeney and McNab approaching south side of the building."

"Give them the target location. We don't have data on weapons, but we go in assuming he's armed." She crossed the wide expanse of floor while people rushing home or away streamed past her. "Alert the commanding officer we're heading down."

"Captain Stuart, sir. Channel B on your communicator. She's standing by."

"Captain Stuart, Lieutenant Dallas."

"Lieutenant, we have our net in place. Traffic Control Center will continue to announce delays for the twelve-oh-five to Toronto."

"Where's my suspect?"

Stuart's face stayed blank and hard, but her voice tightened. "We've lost direct visual of the subject. He has not, I repeat, has not exited the patrolled area. Our security cameras are executing a full sweep. We'll pick him up."

"Contact me, this channel, when you spot him," Eve said briefly. "Inform your men that NYPSD is now on-scene and taking charge. Their full cooperation and assistance is appreciated."

"This is my turf, Lieutenant. My command."

"Target is suspected of two homicides on my turf, Captain. That's an override, and we both know it. Let's get the job done. We can have a pissing contest later." Eve waited a beat. "We're approaching Level Two. Please inform your men. Weapons are to be programmed to lowest setting and to be deployed only in extreme circumstances and for the protection of bystanders. I want a clean snatch."

"I'm fully aware how to perform an operation of this nature. I was informed the target may be armed."

"We can't confirm. Use caution and minimal force. Minimal force, Captain; that's priority. The area is packed with civilians. I'll maintain this channel for further communications."

Eve tucked the communicator back in her pocket. "Hear that, Peabody?"

"Yes, sir. She wants the collar. 'This evening, the New York City Transit Authority, led by Captain Stuart, captured the primary suspect in Richard Draco's murder, in flight. Pictures at eleven.'"

"And what is our objective?"

"To identify, restrain, and incarcerate target. In one piece, and with no civilian injuries."

"You following that, Trueheart?"

"Yes, sir."

Eve noted the transit officers holding the perimeter of Area C. And the flood of people who milled, loitered, or rushed over the wide platform and through the snaking corridors that opened into shops and eateries.

She smelled the greasy aroma of fast food, the hot scent of humanity. Babies were crying. The latest urban rock was pumping out of someone's tune box in direct violation of the noise pollution code. A small band of sidewalk singers was struggling to compete.

She saw weariness, excitement, boredom on the sea of faces. And with mild annoyance, she saw a strolling pocket-dipper snag a wallet.

"Trueheart, you're the only one who got a look at him. Keep your eyes open. We want to take this down smooth, but we don't want to waste time. The longer that express is delayed, the more nervous Stiles is going to get."

"Dallas, Feeney and McNab at nine o'clock."

"Yeah, I see them." She saw them, the surging tide of civilians, the dozens of byways. "This place is like an insect hive. We're going to spread out. Peabody, troll the right. Trueheart, take the left. Maintain visual contact."

She took the center, cutting through the crowd, eyes scanning. Across the tracks, a southbound train shot down the tunnel with a hot whoosh of air. A panhandler, his beggar's license smeared with something indefinable, worked the passengers waiting for the delayed Toronto express.

She was about to overlap with Feeney, shifted her gaze to lock Peabody's position, turned her head to lock Trueheart's.

She heard the shout, a series of screams, an explosion of glass as the panel on one of the busy storefronts shattered. Even as she spun, she saw Stiles shove his way through the panicked crowd, pursued by a transit cop.

"Hold your fire!" She shouted it, grabbing both weapon and communicator. "Stuart, order your man to cease fire! Target is cornered. Do not deploy weapons."

She was using elbows, boots, knees, to fight her way through the surge of people fleeing the area. Someone fell against her, all wild eyes and grabbing hands. Gritting her teeth, she shoved him away, bulled through an opening.

The next wave of people swarmed like bees, screaming as windows on the storefronts spat glass. She felt heat on her face, something wet ran down her neck.

She saw Stiles leap over the fallen and the cowering. Then she saw Trueheart.

He had long legs, and they moved fast. Eve used her own, burst free. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a jerk of movement.

"No! Hold your fire!" Her shouted order was drowned out in the chaos. Even as she jumped toward the transit cop, he shifted to shooting position and took aim. At the same instant, Trueheart bunched for a leap and tackle.

The shock of the beam hit him midair, turned his body into a missile that rammed hard against Stiles's retreating back. The forward force sent them both tumbling off the platform, onto the tracks below.

"No. Goddamn it. No!" She shoved the transit cop, spun to the side, and rushed to the edge of the platform. "Hold all northbound trains! There are injured on the track. Hold all trains! Oh Jesus. Oh Christ."

A tangle of bodies, a splatter of blood. She jumped down to the tracks, feeling the shock sing up her legs. Her breath panted out as she searched for the pulse in Trueheart's throat.

"Goddamn it. Goddamn it. Officer down!" Her voice cracked out of a dry throat and into her communicator. "Officer down! Require immediate medical assistance, Grand Central, Level Two, Area C as in Charlie. Deploy medi-vac units. Officer and suspect down. Hold on, Trueheart."

She yanked off her jacket, spread it over his chest, then used her hands to press down on the long gash running down his thigh.

Feeney, out of breath and sweating, landed beside her. "Ah, Christ. How bad?"

"Bad. He took a hit, jumped right into the fucking beam." She'd been a step too late. One step too late. "Then the fall. We can't risk moving him without stabilizers. Where are the MTs? Where are the fucking MTs?"

"On the way. Here." He unfastened his belt, nudged her to the side, and fastened a tourniquet. "Stiles?"

She ordered herself to maintain, crab-walked to where Stiles lay facedown, checked for a pulse. "Alive. He didn't catch the hit, and the way they went down, it looked like the kid broke the worst of his fall."

"Your face is bleeding, Dallas."

"I caught some glass, that's all." She swiped at the trickle with the back of her hand, mixing her blood with Trueheart's. "When I get done with Stuart and her hot-shots – "

She broke off, looked back down at Trueheart's young, pale face. "Jesus, Feeney. He's just a kid."