Portrait in Death (In Death #16)(103)

"Well then," he remarked, and started to yank her onto his lap.

"Uh-uh, that's all you get."

"So, you just came in to torture and torment me?"

"There you go. What have you got for me?"

"A very crude answer to that question springs to mind, but I take it you're referring to my little homework assignment rather than my-"

"Affirmative." But relieved, she sat on the edge of his console to face him. It was good to see the tension gone from his face, from the set of his shoulders. "I've got Peabody working an angle, one she came up with. I've just spent a good hour stewing over one of my own without getting a bump."

"I don't know how much I can add to that. Though spreading the grease around, per your request, has netted me a few names, none fit your profile."

"Maybe I'm off." She pushed away from the console, paced over to the window to stare out at the storm. "I've been off since the get-go on this."

"If you have, I'll take the blame for it."

"You don't live inside my brain."

Don't I? he wondered. "I haven't been any help to you."

"Funny," she said without turning. "I managed to be a pretty good cop for a full decade before you came waltzing along."

"I don't believe I waltzed along. And I've no doubt you'd continue to be a great deal more than a pretty good cop without me. But the fact is I've distracted you. Worrying about me has split both your concentration and your priorities. I'm sorry for it."

"I guess you've never had them split because you were worried about me."

"I'd like to say something to you. Look at me, will you?" He waited until she'd turned. "I'm caught between pride and terror every time you put on that weapon and walk out the door. Every time. But I wouldn't have it any other way, Eve. Wouldn't have you any other way, as that's who you are and who we are together."

"It's not easy being married to a cop. You do a good job of it."

"Thanks for that." He smiled again. "You do a good one being married to a former criminal."

"Hooray for us."

"It's important to me to have a connection with what you do. Even if it's only to listen, though I enjoy doing more than that."

"Tell me."

"I'm annoyed with myself for scattering your focus on this case because I didn't do what I'd have demanded you do. I didn't dump on you. If I had, we'd have pulled this all together sooner. Next time I'm troubled like this, be sure I'll drag you into my worries straight off."

Her lips twitched. "Sounds good. And if you don't drag me quick enough, I'll just smack you around until you spill."

"Fair enough."

"Now, let's take a look at the names."

He put them on a wall screen. "There's nothing on any male in your age group. Not with a serious neurological problem."

"Maybe it's not the brain. Maybe it's some other part gone dinky."

"Well, I took that into consideration. There's still no patient out of that particular health center with a life-threatening condition in that profile. I can expand it, by spreading more grease as it were, or simply saving time and money by sliding into records in other facilities."

She considered it. It wouldn't be the first time she'd let him slither around the line. But even with his skills, it was bound to take hours, potentially days, to hack through the numerous medical facilities in the city.

And it was just a hunch. Just a gut thing.

"Let's play it by the book, more or less, for now."

She scanned the names. People were dying, she noted, but there was no killer to hunt and cage. The killer was their own body, or fate, or just bad luck. Tumors sprouting up in inconvenient places, spreading, propagating, brewing inside the brain.

Science could locate them, and if it was early enough, if the patient had the right insurance or bank account, treatment could and did eradicate. But it was often too late, she mused, reading the list of names. She'd had no idea death was so prevalent from inside the body.

Most were elderly, it was true. Most had already celebrated their centennial. But there was a scattering of younger victims.

Darryn Joy, age seventy-three. Marilynn Kobowski, age forty-one. Lawrence T. Kettering, age eighty-eight.

Already dead or dying, she noted.

Conine A. Stevenson, age fifty. Mitchell B.-

"Wait. Wait. Stevenson, Conine A., full data."

"Get a bump, did you?"

"Yeah, oh yeah." She yanked out her PPC, pulled up the resident information on one of the buildings she'd run, the one a block west of the parking port.

"Stevenson just happened to live within walking distance of the parking port. Twelfth floor-giving a nice view of the area, an excellent view if you happen to have long-range lenses."

"As a photographer would."

"Yeah." She looked back on-screen. "She died, despite what-two years of treatments-last September. No spouse on record. One child, surviving son, Gerald Stevenson. Born September 13, 2028. There's a goddamn bump. Run the son."

"Already on it," Roarke said from behind her as Peabody burst through the adjoining door.