Betrayal in Death (In Death #12)(86)

"Feeney -- "

"Uh-uh, shut up." He jabbed a finger at her. "You may be primary, but I still outrank you. You think I'm just going to stand back and let you pass the baton to the Feebs after you ran the damn race? Do you know what this collar could mean to you? Every agency on and off planet's been after this bastard for twenty-five years. You bring him down, you bring him in, and you're heading toward pinning on your captain's bars. And don't you stand there and tell me you don't want them."

"I want him more." She wasn't sure if she was touched, embarrassed, or annoyed by his outburst on her behalf, but she knew she had to clear the decks. "You got the anonymous source tip," she reminded him, keeping her eyes steady on his so he'd understand she knew where it had come from. "Without that, I wouldn't have had the Winifred angle, or at least not this soon. And without that, I wouldn't have had a tool to use on Stowe to move onto that Paris triad. Agent Stowe put in a lot of hours and grief on her investigation, too. She gave me useful data; I promised her the collar. That's the deal, Feeney. I made it, and I'll keep it."

"Well, your deal sucks. Commander -- "

Whitney held up his hand. "No point in appealing to me on this one, however much I agree with you. Lieutenant Dallas heads this team. I'll give you what weight I can, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir. Excuse me," she said when her communicator beeped. She pulled it out, stepping aside to take the transmission.

"Jack," Feeney said in undertones. "She deserves the collar."

"At this point, we don't have a collar. Let's just see what we see. However it comes down, the department is fully aware of the work Dallas and the rest of you -- "

He broke off when Eve swore.

"What the hell do you mean, you lost him? How could you lose one skinny, ugly man with a stick up his ass?"

Easily, when the skinny, ugly man also had eyes in the back of his head. Summerset had survived the Urban Wars, had worked the streets, run all kinds of cons, and though those times were past, he could still smell cop at a five-block radius.

He also knew when he was being tailed. Ditching that tail was a matter of principle, and had given him a nice warm glow of satisfaction. Though he imagined Eve had set the cops on him, possibly with Roarke's approval, that didn't mean he was obliged to comply.

He might have been out of the game, but he certainly wasn't out of shape. To assume he couldn't handle himself, defend himself, on a public street was insulting.

As it was his half-day off, he intended to stroll along Madison Avenue, do a bit of personal shopping, perhaps have a light lunch alfresco at one of his favored bistros, then if his mood held, visit a gallery before returning home and to his duties.

A civilized few hours, he thought, that would not be disrupted by the hulking presence of the nosy and pitifully inefficient police.

The fact that he could imagine, with some glee, Eve's fury and frustration when it was reported to her that the target had vanished, barely entered into it.

Still his thin face held a mildly smug expression as he nipped out a third-story window of a small luxury hotel, engaged the emergency escape, rode quietly down to street level, and strode purposefully to the neighboring building to take the people glide back over to Madison.

Imagine, he thought, anyone believing a couple of clumsy-footed badges could keep up with me.

He paused at a neighborhood market, perused the sidewalk display of fresh fruit, and finding it woefully substandard, made a mental note to order some peaches from one of Roarke's agri-domes.

There would be peach melba for dessert that evening.

Still, the grapes looked reasonably promising, and he was aware Roarke liked to support local merchants. Perhaps a pound of the mixed green and red, he mused, plucking one of each color from their varitoned stems.

The merchant, a small barrel of a man plugged onto two short legs, scurried out, yipping like a terrier. He was Asian, a fourth-generation grocer. His family had run that same market, in that same spot, for nearly a century.

For the past several years, he and Summerset had gone a round or two, once a week, to their mutual satisfaction.

"You eat it, brother, you buy it!"

"My good man, I am not your brother, nor do I buy pigs in pokes."

"What pig? Where do you see a pig? Two grapes." He stuck out his hand. "Twenty credits."

"Ten credits a grape?" Summerset sniffed with his long nose. "I'm amazed you can make such a statement with a straight face."

"You ate my grapes, you pay for my grapes. Twenty credits."

Enjoying himself, Summerset gave a weary sigh. "I may be persuaded to buy a pound of your mediocre grapes, for display purposes only. Consumption is out of the question. I will pay in dollars. One pound, eight dollars."

"Ha! You're trying to rob me, as usual." An event the grocer looked forward to every week. "I'll call the beat droid. One pound, twelve dollars."

"If I paid such an exorbitant amount, I would either require psychiatric treatment or I would be forced to sue you for extortion. Then your lovely wife and children would be obliged to visit you in prison. As I don't want such a responsibility, I will pay you ten dollars, and no more."

"Ten dollars for a pound of my beautiful grapes? It's a crime. But I'll take it because then you'll go away before your sour face spoils my fruit."