Immortal in Death (In Death #3)(101)

“Try again, ace. Not interested. Hey!” The quick pinch on her arm annoyed more than hurt. But her vision was already wavering as she was muscled through the hooting crowd and shoved into a privacy room.

“Goddamn it, I said I wasn’t interested.” She started to reach for her badge, missed her pocket completely. At a gentle nudge, she spilled backward onto a narrow bed.

“Take a rest, Eve. We have to talk.” Casto dropped down next to her and crossed his feet at the ankles.

Roarke wasn’t in a party going mood, but as Feeney had gone to some trouble to create a monstrously hedonistic atmosphere, he played his part. It was a hall of sorts, crowded with men, many of whom were surprised to find themselves participating in such a pagan ritual. Still, Feeney, with his electronic expertise, had ferreted out some of Roarke’s closer business associates, and none had wanted to risk offending someone of Roarke’s stature with a refusal.

So there they were, the rich, the famous, and the scrambling, pressed into a badly lit room with life-size screens flickering with naked bodies in various, imaginative acts of sexual frenzy, a trio of live strippers already entertainingly naked, and enough beer and whiskey to sink the Seventh Fleet and all its crew.

Roarke had to admit it had been a nice gesture and was doing his best to live up to Feeney’s expectations as a man on his final night of freedom.

“There you are, boy-o, another whiskey for you.” After several of the Irish himself, Feeney had slipped comfortably into the brogue of the country he’d never seen — that indeed his great-great-grandparents had never set foot on. “Up the rebels, eh?”

Roarke cocked a brow. He himself had been born in Dublin and had spent most of his youth wandering its streets and alleys. Yet he couldn’t claim the sentimental attachment Feeney did for a land and its rebellions. “Slainte,” he said to please his friend, and sipped.

“There’s a lad. Now you see here, Roarke, the ladies among us are for looking purposes only. No touching for you now.”

“I’ll do my best to restrain myself.”

Feeney grinned and slapped Roarke on the back hard enough to stagger him. “She’s a prize, isn’t she? Our Dallas.”

“She’s…” Roarke scowled into his whiskey. “Something,” he decided.

“Keep you on your toes, she will. Keeps them all on their toes. Got a mind like a f**king shark. You know, focused on one thing till the thing’s done. Tell you straight, this last case had her bug-shit.”

“She hasn’t let it go,” Roarke murmured, and smiled coolly when a naked blonde sidled up to rub her hands up his chest. “You’ll have better luck with that one,” he told her, gesturing to a glaze-eyed man in charcoal gray pinstripes. “He owns Stoner Dynamics.”

When she looked blank, Roarke gently disengaged the hands that were gliding cheerfully toward his crotch. “He’s loaded.”

She shimmied off, leaving Feeney gazing wistfully after her. “I’m a happily married man, Roarke.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“It’s lowering to admit I’m not but a little tempted to give a pretty young thing like that a quick ride in a dark room.”

“You’re a better man for it, Feeney.”

“That’s the truth.” He sighed, low and long, then veered back to the former topic. “Dallas goes off for a few weeks, she’ll put this aside, get on with the next.”

“She doesn’t like losing, and she thinks she has.” He tried to dismiss it. Damn if he wanted to spend the night before his wedding picking apart a homicide. With a muttered curse, he steered Feeney to a quiet corner. “What do you know about that dealer who got hit in the East End?”

“Cockroach. Not much to know. Dealer, fairly slick, fairly stupid. It’s amazing how many of them are both. Stuck to his own turf. Liked a quick, easy profit.”

“Was he a weasel, too? Like Boomer?”

“Usta weasel. His trainer retired last year.”

“What happens when a trainer retires?”

“Another one takes on the weasel, or he’s let go. Didn’t find any new trainer for Cockroach.”

Roarke started to shrug it off, but it kept niggling. “The cop who retired? Did he work with anybody?”

“What d’you think? I got memory chips in my head?”

“Yes.”

Flattered, Feeney preened. “Well, as a matter of fact, I recall he was partnered with an old pal of mine. Danny Riley. That was back in, oh, forty-one. Seems like he cruised with Mari Dirscolli for a few years to about forty-eight. Might be forty-nine.”

“Never mind,” Roarke muttered.

“Then he teamed with Casto a couple years.”

Roarke’s attention snapped back. “Casto? Was he partnered with Casto while he was Cockroach’s trainer?”

“Sure, but only one leg of a team works as trainer. ‘Course,” Feeney murmured as his brow furrowed. “Usual procedure is to take over your partner’s contacts. No record Casto did. He had his own weasels.”

Roarke told himself it was his own prejudice, his own ridiculous knee-jerk jealousy. He didn’t give a damn. “Not everything’s locked into record. You don’t find it coincidental that two weasels who worked close to Casto got hit, both of them with connections to Immortality?”