Vengeance in Death (In Death #6)(2)

Within seconds Peabody’s round and sober faced filled the communicator screen. “Yes, sir.”

“I need the blood test results on Bonning. Have them sent directly to Interview A — and alert the PA that I have a murder in the first.”

“Now hold on, back up, don’t be going there.” Bonning ran the back of his hand over his mouth. He struggled a moment, telling himself she’d never get him on the big one. But Dallas had a rep for pinning fatter moths than he to the wall.

“You had your chance, Boner. Peabody — “

“He came at me, like you said. He came at me. He went crazy. I’ll tell you how it went down, straight shit. I want to make a statement.”

“Peabody, delay those orders. Inform the PA that Mr. Bonning is making a statement of straight shit.”

Peabody’s lips never twitched. “Yes, sir.”

Eve slipped the communicator back in her pocket, then folded her hands on the edge of the table and smiled pleasantly. “Okay, Boner, tell me how it went down.”

Fifty minutes later, Eve strolled into her tiny office in New York’s Cop Central. She did look like a cop — not just the weapon harness slung over her shoulder, the worn boots and faded jeans. Cop was in her eyes — eyes that missed little. They were a dark whiskey color, and rarely flinched. Her face was angular, sharp at the cheekbones, and set off by a surprisingly generous mouth and a shallow dent in the chin.

She walked in a long-limbed, loose-gaited style — she was in no hurry. Pleased with herself, she raked her fingers through her short, casually cropped brown hair as she sat behind her desk.

She would file her report, zing off copies to all necessary parties, then log out for the day. Outside the streaked and narrow window behind her, the commuter air traffic was already in a snarl. The blat of airbus horns and the endless snicking of traffic copter blades didn’t bother her. It was, after all, one of the theme songs of New York.

“Engage,” she ordered, then hissed when her computer remained stubbornly blank. “Damn it, don’t start this. Engage. Turn on, you bastard.”

“You’ve got to feed it your personal pass number,” Peabody said as she stepped inside.

“I thought these were back on voice ID.”

“Were. Snaffued. Supposed to be back up to speed by the end of the week.”

“Pain in the butt,” Eve complained. “How many numbers are we supposed to remember? Two, five, zero, nine.” She blew out a breath as her unit coughed to life. “They’d better come up with the new system they promised the department.” She slipped a disc into the unit. “Save to Bonning, John Henry, case number 4572077-H. Copy report to Whitney, Commander.”

“Nice, quick work on Bonning, Dallas.”

“The man’s got a brain the size of a pistachio. Tossed his partner out the window because they got into a fight over who owed who a stinking twenty credits. And he’s trying to tell me he was defending himself, in fear for his life. The guy he tossed was a hundred pounds lighter and six inches shorter. Asshole,” she said with a resigned sigh. “You’d have thought Boner would have cooked up the guy had a knife or swung a bat at him.”

She sat back, circled her neck, surprised and pleased that there was barely any tension to be willed away. “They should all be this easy.”

She listened with half an ear to the hum and rumble of the early air traffic outside her window. One of the commuter trams was blasting out its spiel on economical rates and convenience.

“Weekly, monthly, yearly terms available! Sign on to EZ TRAM, your friendly and reliable air transport service. Begin and end your work day in style.”

If you like the packed-in-like-sweaty-sardines style, Eve thought. With the chilly November rain that had been falling all day, she imagined both air and street snarls would be hideous. The perfect end to the day.

“That wraps it,” she said and grabbed her battered leather jacket. “I’m clocking out — on time for a change. Any hot plans for the weekend, Peabody?”

“My usual, flicking off men like flies, breaking hearts, crushing souls.”

Eve shot a quick grin at her aide’s sober face. The sturdy Peabody, she thought — a cop from the crown of her dark bowl-cut hair to her shiny regulation shoes. “You’re such a wild woman, Peabody. I don’t know how you keep up the pace.”

“Yeah, that’s me, queen of the party girls.” With a dry smile, Peabody reached for the door just as Eve’s tele-link beeped. Both of them scowled at the unit. “Thirty seconds and we’d have been on the skywalk down.”

“Probably just Roarke calling to remind me we’ve got this dinner party deal tonight.” Eve flicked the unit on. “Homicide, Dallas.”

The screen swam with colors, dark, ugly, clashing colors. Music, low octave, slow paced, crept out of the speaker. Automatically, Eve tapped the command for trace, watched the Unable to Comply message scroll across the bottom of the screen.

Peabody whipped out her porta-link, stepping aside to contact Central Control as the caller spoke.

“You’re supposed to be the best the city has to offer, Lieutenant Dallas. Just how good are you?”

“Unidentified contact and/or jammed transmissions to police officers are illegal. I’m obliged to caution you that this transmission is being traced through CompuGuard, and it’s being recorded.”