Conspiracy in Death (27 page)

"What's one of the side effects?"

"Shit, Roarke. Sorry. I'm gonna pass out."

She never heard him curse as he swung her into his arms.

CHAPTER TWENTY

She was out, unconscious or asleep, for four hours. She didn't remember getting home, being put to bed. Fortunately for all parties, she didn't remember Roarke calling in Summerset, or the butler using his medical training to examine her and prescribe rest.

When she woke, the headache remained, but the sickness and the shakes had passed.

"You can take a blocker."

Still dim, she blinked her vision clear and stared at the little blue pill Roarke held out. "What?"

"There's been enough time since your treatment for you to take a blocker. Swallow."

"Not more drugs, Roarke, I -- "

It was as far as she got before he squeezed her jaw, popped the pill in her mouth. "Swallow."

Scowling, she did so, more out of reflex than obedience. "I'm okay. I'm fine."

"Sure you are. Let's go dancing."

She squirmed into a sitting position and dearly hoped her head would stay in its proper place on her shoulders. "Did anyone see me go down?"

"No." The hand on her jaw gentled. "Your kick-ass rep is intact."

"That's something, anyway. Man, I'm starving."

"Not surprising. Mira said you'd probably lost everything you'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours. I called her," he added when she frowned at him. "I wanted to know what had been done."

She saw the anger in his eyes, and the worry. Instinctively, she lifted a hand to his cheek, stroked. "Are you going to give me grief about it?"

"No. You couldn't have done anything else."

Now she smiled, let her head rest on his shoulder. "I was pissed off when I saw you there, mostly because I was glad you were there."

"How long will you have to wait for the results?"

"A day, maybe two. I can't think about it. I've got enough to keep me busy until... Shit, where are my clothes? My jeans? There's a disc in the pocket."

"This?" He picked up one he'd set on the table beside the bed.

"Yeah. Mira let me steal it out of her office. It's the profile. I need to read it." She tossed the covers back. "Feeney's got the disc we sent him by now. He should have picked up Wo or be on his way to. If he's already interviewed Wo, Peabody might be able to slip me some data on how it went."

She was already up, pulling on clothes. She was still very pale, with shadows like bruises under her eyes. He imagined the headache was beginning to dull from agony to simple misery.

And there was no stopping her.

"Your office or mine?"

"Mine," she said as she rummaged through a drawer and found one of her stash of candy bars. "Hey!" He snatched it out of her hand, jerked it out of reach as she made a grab.

"After dinner."

"You're so strict." Because her mouth was set for chocolate, she tried a soft-eyed smile. "I've been sick. You're supposed to pamper me."

"You hate it when I do that."

"I'm sort of getting used to it," she said as he pulled her from the room.

"No candy before dinner. We're having chicken soup," he decided. "The ageless cure for everything. Since you're feeling so much better," he continued as they turned into her office, "you can get it while I bring up Mira's profile."

She wanted to be cranky about it. After all, her head was achy, her stomach raw, her system still slightly off. Any other time, she thought as she sulked in the kitchen, he'd have annoyed the hell out of her by keeping her in bed, guarding her like a damn watchdog. But when she'd actually, maybe, appreciate just a little hovering, he was giving her kitchen duty. And if she complained, damn him, he'd smirk at her.

So she was stuck, she admitted, as she took a steaming bowl of impossibly fragrant soup out of the AutoChef. And the first spoonful slid down her throat like glory, hit her abused stomach, and nearly made her whimper in gratitude. She ate another, ignoring the cat who'd homed in on the scent and was wrapping himself around her ankles like a furred ribbon.

Before she could stop herself, she'd eaten the entire bowl. Her head was clear, her system humming competently, and her mood wonderfully lifted. Licking the spoon, she eyed the cat.

"Why is he always right?"

"Just a little talent of mine," Roarke said from the doorway. And, damn it, he did smirk. He crossed to her, tapped a finger on her cheek. "Your color's back, Lieutenant, and from the looks of you, the headache's gone and your appetite's just fine."

He glanced down at the empty bowl. "And where's mine?"

Roarke wasn't the only one who could smirk. She set the empty bowl down, snatched the full one out of the AutoChef, and dug into that. "I don't know. Maybe the cat ate it."

He only laughed, bent down, and scooped up the loudly complaining cat. "Well, pal, since she's so greedy, I guess we're on our own. He programmed the AutoChef himself while Eve stood where she was, lazily spooning up soup.

"Where's my candy bar?"

"I don't know." He took out one bowl, set it on the floor where the cat all but leaped into it. "Maybe the cat ate it." He took out his own bowl, picked up a spoon, and strolled out.

"You've got a great ass, ace," she commented when she followed him in. "Now, get it out of my chair."

He grinned at her. "Why don't you come sit in my lap."

"I don't have time for your perverted games." Because he didn't appear to be moving, she rolled a chair over beside his and studied the monitor. "You have to skim through the shrink talk," she told Roarke. "All the fifty-credit words. Mature, controlled, intelligent, organized."

"That's nothing you didn't know."

"No, but her profiles are gold in court, and they confirm the direction of the investigation. God complex. High level of medical knowledge and surgical skill. Probably duality of nature. Healer/destroyer." Eve frowned at that, leaning forward as she scrolled down the text.

In breaking his oath to do no harm, he has put himself above the tenets of his profession. He is certainly, or was certainly, a doctor. With the level of skill shown in these murders, it is probable that he is currently practicing his art, saving lives, improving the qualities of lives in his patients on a daily basis. He is healer.

However, in taking lives, disregarding the rights of the people he has killed, he has removed himself from the responsibilities of his art. He is destroyer. There is no remorse, no hesitation. He is, I believe, fully aware of his actions. He has justified them in some way that will be connected to medicine. He chooses the sick, the old, the dying. They are not lives to him, but vessels. The care he takes when removing the samples indicates it is the work itself, the samples themselves, that are of importance. The vessels are no more vital than a test tube in a laboratory. Easily disposed of and replaced.

Still frowning, Eve leaned back. "Two natures."

"Your own Jekyll and Hyde. The doctor with a mission," Roarke went on, "and the evil inside him that overpowered and destroyed."

"Destroyed who?"

"The damned, the innocent. And in the end, himself."

"Good." Her eyes were coldly fierce. "The end part. Two natures," she said again. "Not split personality. That's not what she's saying."

"No, two sides of the coin. The dark and the light. We all have it."

"Don't get philosophical on me." She pushed away, needing to move while her mind worked.

"But in the end, that's what we're dealing with. His philosophy. Or hers. He takes, because he can, because he needs, because he wants. From his view, the vessels, for lack of a better word, are unimportant, medically."

She turned back. "Then we're back to the organs themselves. Their use. And the glory. Reconstruction, rejuvenation, healing of what's considered by current science to be beyond healing. What else could it be? He's found a way, or believes he can find a way, to take a dying part and give it life."

"Dr. Frankenstein. Another mad, flawed genius who was destroyed by his own mind. If we move into that area, he's not just a surgeon, but a scientist, a researcher. A seeker."

"And a politician. Damn, I need to know more about Friend, and I need to know what Feeney got out of his interview with Wo."

"Why didn't you say so? Do you want hard copy or full video/audio transcript?"

She stopped pacing as if she'd run into a wall. "You can't do that. You can't get into interview files."

He sighed lustily. "I don't know why I tolerate your constant insults. It would, however, be simpler if you got the file number and time and date stamp, but I can work without it."

"God. I don't want to know how you do it. And I don't believe I'm going to stand here and let you do it."

"Ends and means, darling. It's all just ends and means."

"I'm getting coffee," she muttered.

"Tea. Your system's had enough insults for one day. And I'll have a cup myself. The data on Friend's suicide will be up on the wall screen."

She walked to the kitchen window, away, back again. What was she doing? she asked herself. How far over the line would she go?

As far as it took, she decided, and even as she turned to the 'link, it beeped.

"Dallas."

"Got to make it fast." Peabody's face was set, her voice brisk. "Louise Dimatto was attacked at the clinic early this morning. We didn't get the data until a few minutes ago. She's at the Drake. I don't have details yet, but she's critical."

"I'm on my way."

"Dallas. Wo's at the Drake, too. Attempted self-termination is the current data. They don't think she's going to make it."

"Damn it. Did you get her into interview?"

"No. I'm sorry. And Vanderhaven's still loose. We picked up Young. He's in holding until we can get to him."

"I'm on my way."

"They won't let you see Wo or Louise."

"I'm coming in," Eve said shortly, and broke transmission.

She got as far as the nurses' station in Intensive Care before she was blocked.

"Dimatto, Louise. Room and condition."

The nurse eyed her. "Are you family?"

"No."

"I'm sorry. I can only give that information to immediate family and authorized personnel."

Eve reached down out of habit, then curled her fingers into a frustrated fist when she remembered she had no badge to slap on the counter. "Wo, Doctor Tia. Same questions."

"Same answers."

Eve took a deep breath, prepared to launch the dozen vile and frustrated curses dancing on the tongue, when Roarke stepped forward smoothly. "Nurse Simmons. Dr. Wo and I are on the board of this facility. I wonder if you could page her attending and ask him to speak with me. The name's Roarke."

Her eyes popped wide, her color rose. "Roarke. Yes, sir. Right away. The waiting area is just to your left. I'll page Dr. Waverly immediately."

"Page Officer Peabody while you're at it," Eve demanded and was met with a baleful look.

"I don't have time -- "

"If you'd be so kind," Roarke interrupted, and Eve thought resentfully that he should bottle the charm oozing out of his pores for the less fortunate, "we'd very much like to speak with Officer Peabody. My wife..." He laid a hand on Eve's vibrating shoulder. "Both of us are quite anxious."

"Oh." The nurse gave Eve a considering stare, obviously stunned to realize the disheveled woman was Roarke's wife. "Certainly. I'll take care of it for you."

"Why didn't you ask her to kiss your feet while you were at it?" Eve muttered.

"I thought you were in a hurry."

The waiting room was empty but for a view screen tuned to the latest comedy series. Eve ignored it and the coffeepot that likely held the first cousin to mud.

"I bribed her into that hospital bed, Roarke. I used your money to do it so she'd get me data I couldn't get myself."

"If that's true, she made her own choice as we all do. And the one who's responsible for her being in that bed is the one who attacked her."

"She'd have done anything to whip that clinic into shape." Eve covered her eyes with the tips of her fingers, pressed hard. "It's what mattered most to her. I used her on a hunch to close a case that isn't even mine anymore. If she dies, I have to live with knowing that."

"I can't tell you you're wrong, but I'll tell you again: You didn't put her here. If you keep thinking that way, you'll go soft." He nodded when she dropped her hands back to her sides. "You're too close to finishing what you started to go soft. Shake it off, Eve, and do what you do best. Find the answers."

"Do those answers have anything to do with why my niece is in a coma?" Face haggard and grim, Cagney stepped into the room. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You involved Louise in business that was none of hers, put her in jeopardy for your own ends. Now, I suspect while doing work for you, she was viciously attacked and is fighting for her life."

"What's her condition?" Eve demanded.

"You have no authority here. As far as I'm concerned, you're a murderer, a corrupt cop, and a deviant. Whatever your reporter friends try to do to spin the public view, I know you for what you are."

"Cagney." Roarke's voice was soft as Irish mist. "You're overwrought and have my sympathy, but mind your step here."

"He can say what he likes." Eve stepped deliberately between them. "And so can I. I admire Louise for her purpose and her spine. She threw your fancy position in your rich-man's center right back in your face and went her own way. I'll accept whatever part I have in her being here now. Can you?"

"She had no business in that place." His handsome, pampered face was ravaged, his eyes sunk deep into shadows. "With her mind, her talent, her background. No business wasting her gifts on the scum people like you scrape off the streets night after night."

"The kind of scum that can be harvested for whatever parts might be useful, then disposed of?"

His eyes burned into hers. "The kind that would try to kill a beautiful young woman for the credits in her pocket, for the drugs she used to try to keep their pitiful lives going. The kind I imagine you sprang from. Both of you."

"I thought, to a doctor, all life was sacred."

"So it is." Waverly strode in, his lab coat swirling. "Colin, you're not yourself. Go get some rest. We're doing everything that can be done."