Divided in Death (In Death #18)(57)

It took an hour, then Nadine flew out of the office to lock herself in at Channel 75 to write the story.

It would explode, Eve knew, even when the initial pieces she cleared hit the airwaves. It deserved to explode. Innocent lives taken or ruined in the name of what? Global security? The sexiness of espionage?

It didn't matter, not when those lives, those innocent lives, looked to her.

Eve finished up most of the grunt work she'd once dumped on Peabody. She had to admit, having an aide the last year or so had come in handy.

Not that she'd gotten spoiled, she assured herself.

She could, of course, pull rank, and continue to dump most of the grunt work on Peabody. And really, it was a learning experience. In the long run, she'd be doing Peabody a favor.

She checked the time and decided to close up shop for the day. She could get considerably more work done at home. With the remaining cookies safe in her jacket pocket, she headed out.

She squeezed into an overburdened elevator, which reminded her why she rarely left at change of shifts. Before the door closed, a hand shot through, yanking it open again to a chorus of groans and nasty curses from the occupants.

"Always room for one more." Detective Baxter elbowed his way on. "You never call, you never write," he said to Eve.

"If you can leave on the dot of COS, you must not have enough paperwork."

"I got a trainee." He flashed his grin. "Trueheart likes paperwork, and it's good for him."

Since she'd had the same thoughts about Peabody, it was hard to argue.

"We got a manual strangulation, Upper East Side," he told her. "Corpse had enough money to choke a herd of wild horses."

"Do horses come in herds or packs?"

"I don't know, but I think herds. Anyway, she had a miserable disposition, a mile-wide mean streak, and a dozen heirs who are all glad to see her dead. I'm letting Trueheart act as primary."

"He ready for it?"

"It's a good time to find out. I'm staying close. I told him I thought the butler did it, and he just nodded, all serious, and said he'd do a probability. Christ, he's a sweet kid."

Cops popped out like corks on every level. There was almost breathable air by the time the elevator reached the garage.

"Heard you had to spring the prime suspect on the double homicide. That's gotta sting."

"It only stings if she did it." She paused by Baxter's shiny sports car. "How do you afford this ride?"

"It's not about afford, it's about the deft juggling of numbers." He looked over to where her pitiful police issue sat dolefully in its slot. "Me, I wouldn't be caught driving that heap if I was wearing a toe tag. You've got rank enough to pull better."

"Maintenance and Requisitions both hate me. Besides, it gets me where I'm going."

"But not in style." He slid into his car, gunned the engine so it roared like a mad bull, then, with another wide grin, zoomed off.

"What is it about guys and cars?" she wondered. "I just don't get how their dicks are attached to cars."

With a shake of her head, she started across the garage.

"Lieutenant Dallas."

Instinctively, her hand slipped inside her jacket and onto the butt of her weapon. She held it there as she pivoted, and studied the man who stepped out from between parked cars.

"This garage facility is NYPSD property, for authorized personnel only."

"Quinn Sparrow, Assistant Director, Data Resources, HSO." He held up his right hand. "I'm going to reach, with my offhand, for my identification."

"Reach slow, AD Sparrow."

He did, drawing out the flip case with two fingers. He held it up, waiting for her to approach. Eve studied the ID, then his face.

He looked young for any real juice in the HSO, but then she had no idea how early they recruited. He might've been forty, she supposed, but calculated he was missing a few years from that date. But he wasn't green. His calm demeanor told her he'd had some seasoning.

His body had the compact, ready look under its black, government employee suit that made her think boxer or ballplayer. His voice had no discernible accent, and he waited, without movement or word, until she'd finished summing him up.

"What do you want, Sparrow?"

"I'm told you want a conversation. Why don't we have one. My car's beside yours."

She glanced over at the black sedan. "I don't think so. Let's take a walk instead."

"No problem." He started to dip a hand in his right pocket. She had her weapon out and at his throat. She heard him suck in air, let it out. She saw the quick flicker of surprise and alarm on his face before it settled into passive lines again.

"Keep your hands where I can see them."

"That's no problem either." He held them out, and up. "You're jumpy, Lieutenant."

"I've got reason, Assistant Director. Let's walk." Rather than holstering her weapon, she slid it inside her jacket as they walked toward the garage exit. "What makes you think I want a conversation?"

"Reva Ewing spoke with a mutual contact in the Secret Service. Given the current situation, I was assigned to come over from the New York base and speak with you."

"What's your function?"