Immortal in Death (4 page)

“I bought a small planet. I’m joking,” he said when her mouth fell open. “I did, however, complete negotiations for a farming commune on Taurus Five.”

“Farming?”

“People have to eat. With a bit of restructuring, the commune should be able to provide grain to the manufacturing colonies of Mars, where I have a sizable investment. So, one hand washes the other.”

“I guess. Now about Pandora…”

He rolled her over and tugged the shirt he’d already unbuttoned off her shoulders.

“You’re not distracting me,” she told him. “Just how brief is brief in this case?”

He gave what passed for a shrug and nibbled his way from her mouth to her throat.

“Is it like a night, a week…” Her body flashed hot when he closed his mouth over her breast. “A month — Okay, now you’re distracting me.”

“I can do better,” he promised. And did.

Visiting the morgue was a lousy way to start the day. Eve strode down the silent, white tiled halls trying not to be annoyed that she’d been called in to view a body at six A. M.

Worse, it was a floater.

She paused at a doorway, holding her badge up for the security camera, and waited for her ID number to be accessed and approved.

Inside, a single technician waited near a wall of refrigerated holding drawers. Most would be occupied, she thought. Summer was always a hot time for dying.

“Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Right. You got one for me.”

“Just came in.” With the careless cheer of his profession, he moved to a drawer, coded for view. Locks and refrigeration blipped off, and the drawer, with its occupant, slid out with a small burst of icy fog. “Uniform on scene thought she recognized him as one of yours.”

“Yep.” In defense, Eve drew breath in and out of her mouth. Seeing death, violent death, was nothing new. She wasn’t sure she could have explained that it was easier, less personal somehow, to study a body where it had fallen. Here, in the pristine, almost virginal surroundings of the morgue, it was all more obscene.

“Johannsen, Carter. Aka Boomer. Last known address the flop on Beacon. Petty thief, professional weasel, occasional dealer in illegals, and pitiful excuse for a humanoid.” She sighed as she studied what was left of him. “Well, hell, Boomer, what did they do to you?”

“Blunt instrument,” the tech said, taking her question seriously. “Possibly a pipe or a thin bat. We’ll have to finish testing. A lot of strength behind the blows. Only spent a couple hours at most in the river; the contusions and lacerations are evident.”

Eve tuned him out, let him ramble on importantly. She could see well enough for herself.

He’d never been a looker, but they’d left behind very little of his face. He’d been severely beaten, the nose crushed, the mouth all but obscured with blows and bloating. Bruising at the throat indicated strangulation, as did the vivid broken blood vessels that polka-dotted what remained of his face.

His torso was purpled, and from the way his body lay, she guessed his arm had been shattered. The missing finger of his left hand was an old war wound, one she recalled he’d been rather proud of.

Somebody strong, angry, and determined had gotten to poor, pathetic Boomer.

And so, in that short floating time, had the fish.

“The uniform ran the partial prints he had left for ID, you confirm with visual.”

“Yeah. Send me a copy of the post mortem.” She turned and started out. “Who was the uniform who connected me?”

The tech pulled out his notebook, tapped keys. “Peabody, Delia.”

“Peabody.” For the first time, Eve smiled a little. “She gets around. Anybody asks for or about him, I want to know about it.”

On the way to Cop Central, Eve contacted Peabody. The uniform’s calm, serious face floated on screen. “Dallas.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“You hauled in Johannsen.”

“Sir. I’m completing my report right now. I can send you a copy.”

“Appreciate it. How did you tag him?”

“I had a porta-ident in my field kit, sir. I ran his prints. The fingers were severely damaged, so I only managed a partial, but the indication was Johannsen. I’d heard he was one of your weasels.”

“Yeah, he was. Good work, Peabody.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Peabody, you interested in assisting the primary in this case?”

Control slipped for an instant, just long enough to show the glint in Peabody’s eyes. “Yes, sir. Are you the primary?”

“He was mine,” Eve said simply. “I’ll clear it. My office, Peabody. One hour.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Dallas,” Eve muttered. “Just Dallas.” But Peabody had already broken transmission.

Eve scowled at the time, snarled at the traffic, and detoured three blocks to a drive-through cafe. The coffee was slightly less disgusting there than at Cop Central. Fueled with that and with what had probably been intended as a sweet roll, she stowed her vehicle and prepared to report to her commander.

As she rode up in the stifling excuse for an elevator, she could feel her back stiffening. Telling herself it was petty, that it should have been over, didn’t seem to matter. Resentment and hurt left over from a previous case wouldn’t completely fade.

She walked into the administration lobby with its busy consoles, dark walls, and threadbare carpeting. She announced herself at Commander Whitney’s reception station and was asked to wait by the bored voice of an office drone.

She remained where she was rather than wandering over to look out of the window or to while away time with one of the aging magazine discs. The all-news station on screen behind her had been turned to mute and didn’t interest her in any case.

A few weeks before, she had more than her fill of the media. At least, she thought, someone as low on the food chain as Boomer wouldn’t generate much publicity. The death of a weasel didn’t earn rating points.

“Commander Whitney will see you now, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.”

She was buzzed through the security doors and turned left into Whitney’s office.

“Lieutenant.”

“Commander. Thank you for seeing me.”

“Have a seat.”

“No, thank you. I won’t keep you long. I just identified a John Doe floater at the morgue. He was Carter Johannsen. One of my weasels.”

An imposing man with a hard face and tired eyes, Whitney leaned back in his chair. “Boomer? He used to wire explosives for street thieves. Blew off his right index finger.”

“Left,” Eve corrected. “Sir.”

“Left.” Whitney folded his hands on the desk and studied her. He’d made a mistake with Eve, a mistake in a case that had affected him personally. He understood she had yet to set it aside. He had her obedience and her respect, but the nebulous friendship that could have existed between them was gone.

“I take it this was homicide.”

“I haven’t gotten the post mortem, but it appears the victim was beaten and strangled before entering the river. I’d like to pursue the matter.”

“Were you working with him on any ongoing investigation?”

“Nothing ongoing, no sir. He occasionally fed the Illegals with data. I need to find out who he worked with in that department.”

Whitney nodded. “Your caseload at the moment, Lieutenant?”

“Manageable.”

“Which means you’re overloaded.” He lifted his fingers, curled them down again. “Dallas, people like Johannsen court disaster, and they usually find it. You and I both know the murder rate rises in this kind of heat. I can’t waste one of my top investigators on this kind of case.”

Eve set her jaw. “He was mine. Whatever else he was, Commander, he was mine.”

Loyalty, he mused, was one of the values that made her one of his best. “You can shuffle it to the top for twenty-four hours,” he told her. “Keep it open, in your files, for seventy-two. After that, I’ll have to transfer the case to a junior investigator.”

It was no more than she expected. “I’d like to have Officer Peabody with me on it.”

He stared at her balefully. “You want me to approve an aide for a case like this?”

“I want Peabody,” Eve returned without flinching. “She’s proven herself excellent in the field. She’s aiming for detective. I believe she’ll get it quick with some hands-on training.”

“You can have her for three days. If something more vital comes through, you’re both off.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dallas,” he began when she turned to leave. He bit down on his pride. “Eve… I haven’t had the chance to offer my best wishes, personally, for your upcoming marriage.”

Surprise flickered in her eyes before she controlled it. “Thank you.”

“I hope you’ll be happy.”

“So do I.”

A bit unsettled, she made her way through the maze of Cop Central to her office. She had another favor to call in. Wanting privacy, she closed her door before engaging her tele-link.

“Feeney, Captain Ryan. Electronic Detective Division.”

She was relieved when his rumpled face filled her screen. “You’re in early, Feeney.”

“Shit, didn’t even have time for breakfast.” He spoke mournfully and through a mouthful of Danish. “One of the terminals springs a leak, and nobody can fix it but me.”

“Being indispensable’s tough work. Can you fit in a search for me — unofficial?”

“My favorite kind. Shoot.”

“Somebody whacked Boomer.”

“Sorry to hear it.” He took another bite of Danish. “He was a shit, but he usually came through. When?”

“I’m not sure; he was fished out of the East River early this morning. I know he sometimes fed somebody over in Illegals. Can you find out for me?”

“Linking weasels and their trainers is dicey work, Dallas. You got to be real security conscious about that stuff.”

“Yes or no, Feeney?”

“I can do it, I can do it,” he muttered. “But don’t bring this back on me. Cops hate to have their files searched.”

“Tell me about it. I appreciate it, Feeney. Whoever did him worked him over hard. If he knew something worth killing him over, I don’t think it was one of my ongoings.”

“So maybe it was somebody else’s. I’ll get back to you.”

She leaned back from the blank screen and tried to clear her mind. Into it floated Boomer’s battered face. A pipe or a bat maybe, she mused. But fists, too. She knew what hard, bare knuckles could do to a face. She knew what they felt like.

Her father had had big hands.

It was one of the things she tried to pretend she didn’t remember. But she knew how they’d felt, how the blow would shock even before the brain registered the pain.

What had been worse? The beatings or the rapes? One was so mixed with the other in her mind, in her rears.

That odd angle of Boomer’s arm. Broken, she mused, and dislocated. She had a vague, hideous memory of the brittle sound of a bone snapping, the nausea that went above the agony, the high-pitched whine that substituted for a scream when a hand was clamped over your mouth.

The cold sweat, and the bowel-loosening terror of knowing those fists would come back, and come back until you were dead. Until you wished to God Almighty that you were.

The knock at her door had her jolting, had her swallowing a yelp. Through the glass she saw Peabody, uniform pressed, shoulders straight.

Eve ran a hand over her mouth to steady herself. It was time to go to work.

Boomer’s flop was better than some. The building had once been a low-rent hourly motel that had catered to hookers on a budget before prostitution had been licensed and legalized. It was four stories, and no one had ever bothered to put in an elevator or glide, but it did boast a dingy lobby and the dubious security of a surly-faced droid.

From the smell, the health department had recently ordered insect and rodent extermination.

The droid had a tick in her right eye from a faulty chip, but she focused her good one on Eve’s badge.

“We’re up to code,” she claimed, standing behind cloudy safety glass. “We have no trouble here.”

“Johannsen.” Eve tucked her shield away. “Anyone visit him lately?”

The droid’s dinky eye hitched and rolled. “I’m not programmed to monitor visitors, only to collect rents and maintain order.”

“I can confiscate your memory discs and play them back for myself.”

The droid said nothing, but a faint hum indicated she was running her own disc. “Johannsen, room 3C, has not returned in eight hours, twenty-eight minutes. He left alone. He had no visitors in the last two weeks.”

“Communications?”

“He does not use our communication system. He has his own.”

“We’re going to have a look at his room.”

“Third floor, second door left. Don’t alarm other tenants. We have no trouble here.”

“Yeah, it’s a paradise.” Eve headed up the steps, noting the crumbling wood, well gnawed by rodents. “Record, Peabody.”

“Yes, sir.” Dutifully, Peabody clipped her recorder to her shirt. “If he was here about eight hours ago, he didn’t last long after he left. Probably no more than a couple hours.”