Reunion in Death (In Death #14)(31)

"Well then." He gave her a quick, hard squeeze. "Easy and smooth? Those are marital problems we'll never have to worry about."

CHAPTER 7

With slack jaws and shuffling feet, hundreds of commuters loaded on shuttles. Or were loaded on, Eve thought, like cargo and corpses, by the red uniformed drones and droids of Manhattan Commuter Transport Service.

The terminal was a hive of noise, a great cacophony of sound that had an insectile hum as an undertone. Over it, the incomprehensible voices of flight announcers buzzed, babies wailed, pocket-links pinged.

She wondered whose idea it was to design places like this with soaring ceilings and white walls so those who had the misfortune to use the services were like ants trapped inside a drum.

She smelled bad coffee, sweat, overpowering colognes, and what she assumed was a diaper in desperate need of changing.

"Like old times," Feeney said after they'd managed to muscle their way on and snag two of the seats designed for the narrow asses of twelve-year-old anorexics. "Guess it's been awhile since you used a public shuttle."

"I thought I missed it." She did her best to pull her face back from the parade of crotches and butts that pressed in to make the forced shuffle down the crammed aisle. "How wrong can you get?"

"Not so bad. Be there inside a half hour if they don't screw something up." He jiggled the sugared almonds in the bag he pulled out of his pocket. "We'd've shaved time off that with one of Roarke's transpos."

She dipped into the bag, munched, considered. "You figure I'm stupid for not using his stuff?"

"Nah. You're just you, kid. And being smothered in here helps keep us in touch with the common man."

When the third briefcase cracked her in the shin, and a guy corkscrewed himself into the seat beside her, plastering her against Feeney so they had less personal space than a pair of Siamese twins, Eve decided keeping in touch with the common man was overrated.

They took off with the kind of mechanical shudder that always pitched her stomach to her knees. She kept her teeth gritted and her eyes shut until landing. Passengers vomited off the shuttle, scattered. Eve and Feeney joined the herd heading for the east-bound train.

"Wasn't so bad," he commented.

"Not if you like to start your day with carnival rides. This dumps us out about a half block from the facility. Warden's name is Miller. We'll have to dance with him first."

"You want to go down the list together, or split off?"

"I'm thinking we split off, save time, but let's get the lay of the land first. Guess we need to play politics, stop in on the Chicago cops."

"Could be Julianna's backtracking from her past. If she is, Chicago'd be her next stop."

Eve opted to stand on the train, and grabbed a hook. "Yeah. I can't get inside her head. What's her purpose this time around? There's a logic to what she does. It's screwed-up, but it's a logic. I'm wondering if she came back to New York because that's where things went to hell for her. She's got something to prove, to us, Feeney. If that's it, then the targets are secondary. It's about beating us, beating the system, this time out." She shook her head. "Anyway you play it, she's already got her next mark."

...

Dockport resembled a small, self-contained, and tidy city with guard towers, bars, and shock-walls. She doubted the residents fully appreciated the well-maintained roads, the patches of green, or the suburban architecture. Not when an overwhelming urge for a stroll outside the boundaries would result in a sensor alert and a zapping shock that would knock you back a good ten feet on your ass.

Droid dogs patrolled the perimeter. The woman's recreation yard was vast and equipped with basketball court, running track, and scrubbed-down picnic tables painted a cheerful blue.

The walls around it were twelve-feet high and three-feet thick.

Inside, the floors were as clean and sparkling as a grandmother's kitchen. Walkways were wide and roomy. Areas were sectioned off with doors of riot glass designed to withstand the blast of homemade boomers or a laser shot.

Guards wore dark blue, other staff street clothes topped with chef-white coats. Inmates wore neon-orange jumpsuits emblazoned on the back with the black block initials DRC.

They were run through security at the main entrance, politely tagged with both ID shield and bracelets, and requested to surrender any and all weapons.

Miller, dapper and distinguished despite the silly coat, was all smiles as he greeted them. He gripped Eve's then Feeney's hand in both of his, spewing welcomes like the owner of some fashionable resort.

"We appreciate you taking the time to see us, Warden Miller," Eve began.

"Supervisor." He gave a quick, hearty chuckle. "We no longer use antiquated terms such as warden. Dockport Rehabilitation Center is a completely modem facility. We were built just twenty-five years ago, and began accepting residents in '34. Here at the Women's Center of DRC, we house a maximum of fifteen hundred, and maintain a staff of six hundred and thirty full-time, fifty-eight part-time, and twenty outside consultants. We're fully self-contained with health facilities, banking, shops, and dining facilities. We do hope you'll join us for lunch in the staff eatery. Overnight accommodations for visitors and consultants, physical therapy and exercise, mental and emotional fitness centers, training facilities that offer classes in a variety of career choices and skills geared toward resocialization are all available on the premises. The Men's Center is similarly equipped."