Conspiracy in Death (11 page)

It was another thing he wouldn't allow, and that made her -- by turns -- grateful and uneasy. "I'm not used to you. Every time I think I am, I'm not." But she laid her hands over his. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you're home."

"I bought you a present."

"Roarke."

The knee-jerk exasperation in her voice made him grin. "No, you'll like it." He kissed the shallow dent in her chin, then turned away to pick up the briefcase he'd dropped when he'd come into the room.

"I already need a warehouse for all the stuff you've bought me," she began. "You really need to develop a control button about this."

"Why? It gives me pleasure."

"Yeah, maybe, but it makes me..." She trailed off, baffled, when she saw what he took out of the briefcase. "What the hell is that?"

"I believe it's a cat." With a laugh, he held the doll out to her. "A toy. You don't have nearly enough toys, Lieutenant."

A chuckle tickled her throat. "It looks just like Galahad." She ran a finger down the wide, grinning face. "Right down to the weird eyes."

"I did have to ask them to fix that little detail. But when I happened to see it, I didn't think we could do without it."

She was grinning now, stroking the soft, fat body. It didn't occur to her that she'd never had a doll before -- but it had occurred to Roarke. "It's really silly."

"Now, is that any way to talk about our son?" He glanced back at Galahad who'd taken possession of the chair again. His dual-colored eyes narrowed with suspicion before he shifted, lifted his tail in derision, and began to wash. "Sibling rivalry," Roarke murmured.

Eve set the doll in a prominent position on her desk. "Let's see what they make of each other."

"You need sleep," Roarke said when he saw her frown at her computer. "We'll deal with work in the morning."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. All this medical stuff is jumbled in my head. You know anything about NewLife replacement organs?"

His brow lifted, but she was too distracted to notice. "I might. We'll talk about it in the morning. Come to bed."

"I can't contact anyone until tomorrow, anyway." Burying impatience, she saved data, disengaged. "I might have to take some travel, go talk to other primaries in person."

He simply made agreeable noises and led her to the door. If Chicago held bad memories for her, she wouldn't be going alone.

She woke at first light, surprised by how deeply she'd slept and how alert she was. Some time during the night, she'd wrapped herself around Roarke, legs and arms hooked as if binding him to her. It was so rare for her to wake and not find him already up and starting his day that she savored the sensation of warmth against warmth and let herself drift.

His body was so hard, so smooth, so... tasty, she thought, skimming her mouth over his shoulder. His face, relaxed in sleep, was heart stopping in its sheer male beauty. Strong bones, full, sculpted mouth, thick, dark lashes.

Studying him, she felt her blood begin to stir. A low, spreading neediness filled her belly, and her heart began to thud in anticipation and in the knowledge that she could have him, keep him, love him.

Her wedding ring glinted in the light pouring through the sky window over the bed as she slid a hand up his back, nuzzled his mouth with hers. His lips, already warmed, opened with hers for a slow, tangling dance of tongues.

Slow, easy, and no less arousing for its familiarity. The skim and slide of hands over curves, planes, angles well known, only added to the excitement that built, layer by layer, in the clear light of dawn. Even as his heart began to pound against hers, they kept the rhythm loose and lazy.

Her breath caught once, twice, as he cupped her, as he sent her up that long, long curve to a peak that shimmered like wine in sunlight. And his moan mixed with hers.

Every pulse in her body throbbed, every pore opened. The need to take him into her, to mate, was an ache in the heart as sweet as tears.

She arched to him, breathed his name, then sighed it as he slid into her. The ride was slow, slippery, a silky ebb and flow of breath and bodies. His mouth met hers again, with an endless tenderness that swamped her.

He felt her soar again, tighten around him, tremble. Lifting his head, he watched her in the harsh winter light. His heart stumbled, love destroyed him, as he watched the glow pleasure brought to her face, watched those golden brown eyes blur even as they stayed locked on his.

Here, he thought, they were both helpless. And bringing his mouth to hers again, he let himself go.

She felt limber, steady, and very close to cheerful as she showered. When she stepped out, she heard the muted sound of the morning news on-screen and imagined Roarke half listening to the headlines as he studied the stock reports and sipped his first cup of coffee.

It was so married, she thought with a quick snort and jumped into the drying tube. When she came out into the bedroom, it was exactly as she'd imagined. He was drinking coffee in the sitting area, scanning the financial data on the computer, while Nadine Furst gave Channel 75's take on the news of the day on the screen just over his shoulder.

When she moved by him to the closet, his eyes followed her. And he smiled. "You look rested, Lieutenant."

"I feel pretty good. I need to get a jump on the day, though."

"I thought we already did."

That made her toss a grin over her shoulder. "I should've said on the workday."

"I should be able to help you in that area as well." He watched her shrug on a plain white shirt, button it briskly. "Last weather update calls for high in the mid-teens. You won't be warm enough in that."

"I'll be inside mostly." She only rolled her eyes when he rose, crossed over, and selected a navy pullover in thin, warm wool. Handed it to her. "You're a nag, Roarke."

"What choice do I have?" When she dragged the sweater over her head, he shook his own and adjusted the collar of her shirt himself. "I'll order up breakfast."

"I'll catch something at Central," she began.

"I think you'll want to take time to have it here so we can discuss a couple of matters. You mentioned NewLife products last night."

"Yeah." She remembered only vaguely. She'd been tired and still a little shaken by the dream. "It's an angle I'll be looking into later. They're artificial replacements made from this longevity stuff discovered at the Nordick Clinic, but there may be a connection with the organ thefts I'm dealing with."

"If there is, we're both going to be very unhappy about it. I bought out NewLife about five years ago."

She stared. "Shit, Roarke."

"Yes, I thought you'd feel that way about it. Though I did tell you one of my companies manufactures artificial organs."

"And it just had to be NewLife."

"Apparently. Why don't we sit down? You can tell me how you worked your way around to NewLife, and I'll do what I can to get you all the data you need."

She told herself it was useless to be irritated, as she dragged both hands through her hair. It was certainly unfair to want to snarl at Roarke. So she snatched trousers out of the closet and jammed her legs in.

"Okay, I'm going to try to look at this as a good thing. I won't get any runaround or a bunch of company bullshit when I need information. But damn it." She yanked the trousers over her hips and snarled at him anyway. "Do you have to own everything?"

He considered a moment. "Yes," he said and smiled beautifully. "But that's really a different matter. Now I want some breakfast."

He ordered them both a plate of high-protein waffles, some fresh seasonal fruit, and more coffee. When he settled back into his chair, Eve was still standing. Still scowling.

"Why do you have to own everything?"

"Because, darling Eve, I can. Drink your coffee. You won't be so cross once you do."

"I'm not cross. What a stupid word that is, anyway." But she sat, picked up her cup. "It's a big business, artificial organs?"

"Yes, NewLife also manufactures limbs as well. It's all quite profitable. Do you want financial statements?"

"I might," she murmured. "Do you have doctors on the payroll, as consultants?"

"I believe so, though it's more of an engineering sort of thing." He moved his shoulders. "We have an ongoing R and D department, but the basic products were refined years before I took over the company. How does NewLife fit in with your investigation?"

"The process for mass-producing artificial organs was developed at the Nordick Center, in Chicago. They have connections to Drake. I have bodies in both cities. I've got another in Paris, and I need to see if there's another health center that connects to these two. NewLife was the product Westley Friend endorsed specifically."

"I don't have the information on Paris, but I can get it. Very quickly."

"Did you know Dr. Westley Friend?"

"Only slightly. He was on the board at NewLife during the takeover, but I never had cause to deal with him otherwise. Do you suspect him?"

"Hard to, since he self-terminated last fall."

"Ah."

"Yeah, ah. From what I can gather from the data I sifted through, he headed the team that developed the process for mass-producing organs. And at the time that was implemented, the research on reconstructing human organs was cut. Maybe someone decided to start it up again, in his own way."

"Hardly seems cost effective. Organ growing is time consuming and quite expensive. Reconstruction, from the little I know, is not considered viable. We can manufacture a heart at somewhere around fifty dollars. Even adding overhead and profit, it can be sold for about twice that. You add the doctor's take, the health center's cut of the operation, and still you have yourself a new heart, one guaranteed for a century, for less than a thousand. It's an excellent deal."

"Cut out the manufacturer, deal with the subject's damaged organ, or a donor's, repair, reconstruct, and the medical end takes all the profit."

Roarke smiled a little. "Very good, Lieutenant. That's a clear view of business at work. And with that in mind, I believe you can feel safe that none of the major stockholders of NewLife would care for that scenario."

"Unless it's not about money," she said. "But we'll start there. I need everything you can give me on the deal you made, who was involved on both sides. I want a list of personnel, concentrating on research and development. And any and all medical consultants."

"I can get you that within the hour."

She opened her mouth, waged a small personal war, and lost it. "I could use any underground data you can get me on Friend. His suicide seems very timely and convenient."

"I'll take care of it."

"Yeah, thanks. In at least two of the cases, he went after flawed organs specifically. Snooks had a messed-up heart, Spindler dinky kidneys. I'm betting we'll find it's the same deal with the other two. There has to be a reason."

Thoughtfully, Roarke sipped his coffee. "If he's a doctor, practicing, why not confiscate damaged organs that are removed during a legitimate procedure?"

"I don't know." And it irritated her that her brain had been too mushy the night before to see that chink in her theory. "I don't know how it works, but there'd have to be records, donor or next of kin permission, and the medical facility would have to endorse his experiments or research or whatever."

She drummed her fingers on her knee a moment. "You're on the board, right? What's Drake's policy on -- what would you call it? High-risk or maybe radical experimentation?"

"It has a first-class research department and a very conservative policy. It would take a great deal of paperwork, debate, theorizing, justification -- and that's before the lawyers come in to wrangle around, and the public relations people get into how to spin the program to the media."

"So it's complicated."

"Oh." He smiled at her over the rim of his cup. "What isn't when it's run by committee? Politics, Eve, slows down even the slickest wheel."

"Maybe he got turned down at some point -- or knows he would -- so he's doing it on his own first." She pushed her plate away and rose. "I've got to get going."

"We have the Drake fundraiser tonight."

Her eyes went grim. "I didn't forget."

"No, I see that." He took her hand, tugging her down for a kiss. "I'll be in touch."

He sipped his coffee as she left and knew this was one time she would be on time for a social event. For her, for both of them now, it was business.

CHAPTER EIGHT

As her plans had been to dive straight into work, Eve wasn't pleased to see IAB waiting in her office. She wouldn't have been pleased in any case.

"Get out of my chair, Webster."

He kept his seat, turned his head, and flashed her a smile. She'd known Don Webster since her early days at the academy. He'd been a full year ahead of her, but they'd bumped into each other from time to time.

It had taken her weeks to clue in to the fact that he'd gone out of his way to make certain they'd bumped into each other. She remembered now that she'd been a little flattered, a little annoyed, and then had dismissed him.

Her reasons for joining the academy hadn't been for socializing and sex but for training.

When they'd both been assigned to Cop Central, they'd bumped into each other some more.

And one night during her rookie year, after her first homicide, they'd had a drink and sex. She'd concluded that it had been no more than a distraction for both of them, and they'd remained marginally friendly.

Then Webster had shifted into Internal Affairs and their paths had rarely crossed.

"Hey, Dallas, looking good."

"Get out of my chair," she repeated and walked straight to the AutoChef for coffee.

He sighed, rose. "I was hoping we could keep this friendly."

"I never feel friendly when the rat squad's in my office."

He hadn't changed much, she noted. His face was keen and narrow, his eyes a cool and pleasant blue. He had a quick smile and plenty of charm that seemed to suit the wavy flow of dark brown hair. She remembered his body as being tough and disciplined, his humor as being sly.

He wore the boxy black suit that was IAB's unofficial uniform, but he individualized it with a tie of screaming colors and shapes.

She remembered, too, Webster had been a fashion hound as long as she'd known him.

He shrugged off the insult, then turned to close the door. "When the complaint came down, I asked to take it. I thought I could make it easier."

"I'm not a whole lot interested in easy. I don't have time for this, Webster. I've got a case to close."

"You're going to have to make time. The more you cooperate, the less time you'll have to make."

"You know that complaint's bullshit."

"Sure, I do." He smiled again and sent a single dimple winking in his left cheek. "The legend of your coffee's reached the lofty planes of IAB. How about it?"

She sipped, watching him over the rim. If, she thought, she had to deal with this nonsense, best to deal with it through the devil you know. She programmed another cup.

"You were a pretty good street cop, Webster. Why'd you transfer to IAB?"

"Two reasons. First, it's the most direct route to administration. I never wanted the streets, Dallas. I like the view from the tower."

Her brow lifted. She hadn't realized he had ambitions that pointed to chief or commissioner. Taking the coffee out, she handed it to him. "And reason number two?"

"Wrong cops piss me off." He sipped, closed his eyes in pleasure, sighed gustily. "It lives up to the hype." He opened his eyes again, studied her.

He'd had a mild thing for her for a dozen years, he thought now. It was just a little mortifying to know she'd never realized it. Then again, she'd always been too focused on the job to give men much attention.

Until Roarke, he mused.

"Hard to picture you as a married woman. It was always business for you. It was always the job."

"My personal life doesn't change that. It's still the job."

"Yeah, I figured." He shifted, straightening. "I didn't take this complaint just for old times' sake, Dallas."

"We didn't have enough old times to generate a sake."

He smiled again. "Maybe you didn't." He sipped more coffee. His eyes stayed on hers and sobered. "You're a good cop, Dallas."

He said it so simply it dulled the leading edge of her temper. She turned, stared out the window. "She smudged my record."

"Only on paper. I like you, Dallas, always did, so I'm stepping out of procedure here to tell you -- to warn you -- she wants your blood."

"What the hell for? Because I slapped her down over sloppy work?"

"It goes deeper. You don't even remember her, do you? From the academy."

"No."

"You can bet your excellent ass she remembers you. She graduated with me, we were on our way out when you were coming in. And you shone, Dallas, right from the start. Classes, simulations, endurance tests, combat training. Instructors were saying you were the best to ever come through the doors. People talked about you."

He smiled again when she glanced over her shoulder, her brows knit. "No, you wouldn't have heard," he said. "Because you wouldn't have been listening. You concentrated on one thing: getting your badge."

He leaned a hip on her desk, savoring the coffee as he spoke. "Bowers used to bitch about you to the couple of friends she'd managed to make. Muttered that you were probably sleeping with half the instructors to get preferential treatment. I had my ear to the ground even then," he added.

"I don't remember her." Eve shrugged, but the idea of being gossiped about burned a hole in her gut.

"You wouldn't, but I can guarantee she remembered you. I'm going to stay outside of procedure and tell you that Bowers is a problem. She files complaints faster than a traffic droid writes citations. Most are dismissed, but every now and again, she finds a thread to tug and a cop's career unravels. Don't give her a thread, Dallas."

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" Eve demanded. "She fucked up, I pinned her for it. That's the whole deal here. I can't sit around worrying she's going to make life tough for me. I'm after somebody who's cutting people open and helping himself to their parts. He's going to keep doing it unless I find him, and I can't find him unless I can do my goddamn job."

"Then let's get this over with." He took a microrecorder out of his pocket, set it on her desk. "We do the interview -- keep it clean and formal -- it gets filed, and we forget this ever happened. Believe me, nobody in IAB wants to see you take heat for this. We all know Bowers."

"Then why the hell aren't you investigating her?" Eve muttered, then pursed her lips when Webster smiled, thin and sharp. "Well, maybe the rat squad has some uses, after all."

The experience left her feeling raw and irritated, but she told herself the matter was now closed. She put a call in to Paris first, and wound her way through red tape until she reached Detective Marie DuBois, primary on the like-crime case.

Since her French counterpart had little English and Eve had no French, they worked through the translation program on their computers. Frustration began to build as twice her computer sent her questions to DuBois in Dutch.

"Hold on a minute, let me send for my aide," Eve requested.

DuBois blinked, frowned, shook her head. "Why," the computer animated voice demanded, "do you say I eat dirt for breakfast?"

Eve threw up her hands in disgust. Despite the barrier, her frustration and apology must have shown clearly enough. Marie laughed. "It is your equipment, yes?"

"Yes. Yes. Please, wait." Eve contacted Peabody, then cautiously tried again. "My equipment is a problem. Sorry."

"No need. Such problems are, for cops, universal. You are interested in the Leclerk case?"

"Very. I have two like crimes. Your data and your input on Leclerk would be very helpful."

Marie pursed her lips and humor danced in her eyes. "It says you would like to have sex with me. I don't think that is correct."

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Eve slammed a fist against the machine just as Peabody walked in.

"I take it that wasn't a love tap."

"This piece of shit just propositioned the French detective. What's wrong with my translation program?"

"Let me have a shot." Peabody came around the desk, began to fiddle as she studied the monitor. "She's very attractive. Let's not blame the computer for trying."

"Ha ha, Peabody. Fix the fucker."

"Sir. Run systems check, update and clean translation program. Reload."

Working.....

"It should only take a minute. I've got a little French; I think I can explain what's going on."

With some fumbling, Peabody called out her schoolgirl French and made Marie smile.

"Oui, pas de quoi."

"She says, cool."

System fault repaired. Current program cleaned and reloaded.

"Give it another shot," Peabody suggested. "No telling how long the repair will hold."

"Okay. I have two like crimes," Eve began again, and as quickly as possible outlined her situation and requests.

"I'll send you copies of my files, once I have clearance," Marie agreed. "I believe you'll see that, given the condition of the body at the time of discovery, the missing organ was not considered unusual. The cats," she added with a curl of her lip, "had dined well on him."

Eve thought of Galahad and his ravenous appetite, then quickly decided not to go there. "I think we'll find your victim fits into the profile. Have his medical records been checked?"

"There was no call. The Leclerk case is not a priority, I'm afraid. The evidence was compromised. But now I would like to see also your data on the like crimes."

"I can do that. Can you give me a list of the top medical care and research centers in Paris, particularly any center that has an extensive organ replacement facility?"

Marie's brow winged up. "Yes. This is where your investigation is leading?"

"It's an avenue. And you'll want to find out where Leclerk got his health checks. I'd like to know the condition of his liver before he lost it."

"I'll start on the paperwork, Lieutenant Dallas, and try to push it through so we both have what we need as soon as possible. It was determined that Leclerk was an isolated incident. If this is incorrect, the priority on the case will be changed."

"Compare the stills of the bodies. I think you'll want to bump up the priority. Thanks. I'll be in touch."

"You think this guy's cruising the world for samples?" Peabody asked when Eve disengaged.

"Specific parts of the world, specific victims, specific samples. I think he's very organized. Chicago's next."

Despite the fact that she could dispense with the translator, she had a great deal more trouble with Chicago than she'd had with Paris.

The investigating officer had retired less than a month after the onset of the case. When she asked to speak with the detective who'd taken over, she was put on hold and treated to a moronic advertisement for a CPDS fundraiser.

Just about the time she decided her brain would explode from the tedium, a Detective Kimiki came on. "Yeah, what can I do for you. New York."

She explained the situation and her requests while Kimiki looked faintly bored. "Yeah, yeah, I know that case. Dead end. McRae got nowhere. Nowhere to go. We got it open and it's on his percentage record but it's been shifted down to unsolved."

"I've just told you I've got like crimes here, Kimiki, and a link. Your data is important to my case."

"Data's pretty thin, and I can tell you I'm not bouncing this to the top of my list. But you want it, I'll ask the boss if it can be transferred."

"Hate to see you work up such a sweat, Kimiki."

He merely smiled at the sarcasm. "Look, when McRae took early retirement, most of his opens got dumped on me. I pick and choose where I sweat. I'll get you the data when I can. Chicago out."

"Putz," Eve muttered, then rubbed at the tension building at the base of her neck. "Early retirement?" She glanced at Peabody. "Find out how early."

An hour later, Eve was pacing the corridors of the morgue, waiting to be cleared in to Morris. The minute the locks snicked open, she was through the doors and into the autopsy room.

The smell hit her first, hard, making her suck air between her teeth. The sweet, ripe stink of decomposing flesh blurred the air. She glanced briefly at the swollen mass on the table and grabbed an air mask.

"Jesus, Morris, how do you stand it?"

He continued to make his standard Y cut, his breath coming slow and even through his own mask. "Just another day in paradise, Dallas." The air filter gave his voice a mechanical edge, and behind the goggles, his eyes were big as a frog's. "This little lady was discovered last night after her neighbors finally decided to follow their noses. Been dead nearly a week. Looks like manual strangulation."

"Did she have a lover?"

"I believe the primary is currently trying to locate him. I can say, with relative certainty, she'll never have another."

"A laugh riot as always, Morris. Did you compare the Spindler data to Snooks?"

"I did. My report's not quite finished, but since you're here, I assume you want answers now. My opinion is the same hands were used on both."

"I've got that. Tell me why the Spindler case was closed."

"Sloppy work," he muttered, slipping his clear-sealed hands into the bloated body. "I didn't do the PM on her, or I'd have clicked to it right away when I saw your body. Of course, if I'd done the PM, I would have had different findings. The examiner who did the work has been reprimanded." He looked up from his own work and met Eve's eyes. "I don't believe she'll make a similar mistake again. Not to excuse her, but she claims the primary pushed her through, insisted he knew how it went down."

"However it happened, I need the full records."

Now Morris stopped and looked up. "Problem there. We can't seem to locate them."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they're gone. All her records are gone. I wouldn't have known she came through here if you hadn't been able to access the primary's files. We've got nothing."

"What does your examiner have to say about that?"

"She swears everything was filed properly."

"Then she's either lying or stupid or they were wiped."

"I don't see her as a liar. And she's a bit green at the edges, but not stupid. The records could have been inadvertently wiped, but the search and retrieve found nothing. Zip. We don't even have Spindler on the initial sign in."