Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(96)

“You going to get grief over the bumper?” she asked him.

“The way these units get banged around? Nah.” He angled over the corner at Eighteenth. “I shouldn’t oughta’ve disrespected you, Lieutenant. This holiday traffic, it can turn you mean.”

“Yeah.” She dug out credits, slipped them through his pay slot. “We’ll call it even.”

“Appreciate it. Anyway, Merry freaking Christmas.”

Her laugh was a little looser as she got out. “Same to you.”

Pedestrian traffic was light in the sector that held crime labs and morgues and holding stations. Not a hell of a lot to buy, she mused as she jogged the half block over.

She turned into the ugly steel building that had been some idiot architect’s vision of high-tech economy, crossed the soulless lobby, and went through the security arch.

The droid on duty nodded to her as she slapped her palm on the plate, recited her name, rank, code, and destination. Cleared, she took the glide down, and frowned when she saw the hallways and offices empty. Middle of the afternoon, middle of the week, she thought. Where the hell was everybody?

She cleared herself into the lab. And found a hell of a party going on.

Music blasted over wild laughter. Someone shoved a cup with a suspicious green fluid swimming inside it into her hand. A woman wearing nothing but a lab coat and microgoggles danced by. Eve managed to snag the sleeve of the coat and spin her back.

“Where’s Dickie?”

“Oh, around and about. I gotta get me a refill.”

“Here.” Eve shoved the cup into her hand and worked her way through bodies and equipment. She spotted Dickie sitting on top of a sample table with his hand well up a drunk technician’s skirt.

At least Eve assumed the tech was drunk. How else could she let those spidery fingers between her legs?

“Hey, Dallas, join the party. Not as classy as your little get-together, but we try.”

“Where the hell are my reports? Where are my results? What the f**k’s going on around here?”

“Hey, it’s Christmas Eve. Lighten up.”

Her hand snapped out, grabbed him by the shirtfront, and yanked him off the table. “I’ve got four bodies and a woman in the hospital. Don’t you f**king tell me to lighten up, you little cross-eyed son of a bitch. I want my test results.”

“Lab closes two o’clock Christmas Eve.” He tried to shove her hand away, but didn’t budge it. “That’s official. It’s after three, hotshot.”

“For Christ’s sake, he’s out there. Did you see what he did to those people? Do you want me to show you the goddamn videos he took while he was doing it? You want to wake up tomorrow morning and find out he did it again because you couldn’t do the job? Can you swallow your Christmas goose over that?”

“Damn it, Dallas. I got next to nothing new anyway. Let go of me.” With surprising dignity, he smoothed down his shirt when she released him. “We’ll take a look in the side lab. No use spoiling everybody’s good time.”

He snaked through the crowd and unlocked the door of a side room. “Jesus, Feinstein, you can’t go banging her in here. Take her into storage like everybody else.”

Eve pressed her fingers to her eyes as a busily copulating couple unlinked, and sputtered as they grabbed discarded clothes. Was everybody insane this time of year? Eve wondered as they darted by giggling like loons.

“We mixed a hell of a brew,” Dickie explained. “All legal stuff, but it’s a punch with real punch.” He dropped down at the computer station and called up the file.

“We got his prints this time, but you already know that. No question on the ID. Same disinfectant traces on scene. The enhancements left behind match those used on the prior victims. The suit and shit you had sent down is consistent with the fibers already identified. You got your guy, Dallas. This goes to court, he’s cooked.”

“What about the sweep? I need something to find him, Dickie.”

“Sweep of scene didn’t turn up anything you wouldn’t expect. The one of his digs? We didn’t get much. This guy’s a clean fanatic. Everything’s been wiped and scrubbed and sucked. But there were fibers again — match the suit, a couple of stray hairs that are consistent with those from the last murder and the beard he left on scene last night. You get him, bring him down, I got plenty to help you lock the cage. That’s all I can give you.”

“Okay. I need you to shoot this to my unit at Central. Copy Feeney.”

Since they both knew he should have already done so, Dickie just jerked a shoulder.

“Sorry I took you away from the fun and games.”

“City’s going to close down in an hour or two anyway, Dallas. People need their holiday. They’re entitled.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a woman spending her Christmas in a hospital bed. She’s entitled, too.”

She went outside to let the cold air clear her head, wished she’d thought to ask Dickie for something potent enough to block the thudding behind her eyes. The light was already going, she realized. These were the long nights, the black month of December where the daylight barely bounced to earth before it bounced away again.

She pulled out her porta-‘link and called home. “You’re working,” she said when Roarke picked up his private line and she saw the laser fax behind him spewing out paper.