Loyalty in Death (In Death #9)(93)

“Whoever had pulled J. C. Branson’s homicide would have been tagged? They moved to you because of that?” Peabody considered. “That was their big mistake.”

“That was excellent sucking up, Peabody. Smooth, subtle.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“The politics are more smoke — pull the attention away, waste our time. It’s the money they’re after and the sheer delight in destroying.”

“But they have money.”

“More’s better, especially if you grew up on the run, hiding out, maybe scraping for the good life. What do you want to bet Clarissa Branson spent her formative years in Apollo?”

“That’s a big leap, Lieutenant.”

“‘We are loyal,’” Eve quoted as she zipped through the security gate to the parking area under Roarke’s midtown offices.

Peabody gawked a little when they moved into the private elevator, but before she could comment, Eve’s ‘link beeped.

“Lieutenant Dallas? Captain Sully, Boston PD. The patrols just reported in from the Rowan address. Monica Rowan has been the victim of what appears to be a bungled B and E. She’s dead.”

“Damn it. I’ll need a full report on that, priority level, Captain.”

“I’ll get you as much as I can as quick as I can. Sorry we can’t be of more help.”

“So am I,” Eve murmured as she ended the call. “Goddamn it, I should’ve put a wall around her.”

“How could you know?”

“I do know. Just a little too late.” She strode out of the elevator, moved past Roarke’s efficient assistant without stopping.

Efficiency prevailed, however. Roarke was opening the door for her himself when Eve got there.

“Lieutenant, I didn’t expect you personally.”

“I’m heading in. I’m pressed to the wall here.” She looked in his eyes, wished she could say… wanted to. “Things are coming together, and the clock’s running.”

“Then you’ll want your bait.” He looked into her eyes. “I assume several million in counterfeit bonds is bait — with you as hook.”

“We’re closing in. With any luck, this should finish it. I — Peabody, take a walk,” she said without looking back.

“Sir?”

“Step out, Peabody.”

“Stepping out, Lieutenant.”

“Look…” Eve began. “I’m really hitting the wire on this, so I can’t get into stuff. I’m sorry about before.”

“You’re sorry I’m irritated.”

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry you’re irritated, but I have to ask for a favor.”

“Personal or official?”

Oh, he was going to make it tough. She leveled her gaze, and a muscle in her cheek twitched. “Both. I need everything you can dig up on Clarissa Branson — everything — And I need it really fast. I can’t spare Feeney, and even if I could, you’ll be quicker and you won’t leave fingerprints.”

“Where do you want me to send the data?”

“I need you to call me with it, privacy mode, on my personal palm-link. I don’t want her to know I’m looking.”

“She won’t.” He turned and lifted a wide steel case. “Your bonds, Lieutenant.”

She tried a smile. “I won’t ask you how you managed this so fast.”

He didn’t smile back. “Best not.”

She nodded, hefted the case, and felt miserable. She couldn’t remember another time when they’d been together for five minutes and he hadn’t touched her in some way. She’d gotten so used to it, so dependent on it, that she felt the loss like a backhanded slap.

“Thanks. I’ll — The hell with it.” She took a fistful of his hair, and swallowing what for her was a great gulp of pride, pressed her mouth hard to his. “See you later,” she muttered and turned on her heel, stormed out.

Now he smiled, just a little, and walked to his desk to do the favor she’d asked of him.

“You okay, Dallas?”

“Yeah, shit. I’m dancing.” She was stripped down to her undershirt and jeans, a fact which mildly embarrassed both her and Feeney.

“I can call in a female to, ah, finish this.”

“Hell, I don’t want any ham-handed EDD chick pawing at me. Just do it.”

“All right, okay.” He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders. “The tracker’s wireless. It’s going to go right over your heart. We figure they’ll scan you, but we’re going to coat it with this stuff — it’s like skin. They’re using it on droids. If they pick it up at all, it’ll look like a blemish or something.”

“So they’ll think I have a pimple on my tit. Fine.”

“You know, Peabody could do this.”

“Jesus, Feeney.” Somebody had to get going, so keeping her gaze trained over his shoulder, she yanked up her shirt. “Put the damn thing where it goes.”

The next five minutes were mortifying for both of them.

“You, ah, want to hold your shirt out for a couple of minutes, till the skin strip dries.”

“I’ve got it.”