Vengeance in Death (In Death #6)(4)

“No answer,” Peabody told her. “Voice-mail announcement says he’s away for two weeks beginning today.”

“Let’s hope he’s bellied up to a pub in Dublin.” She scanned the traffic again, gauged her options. “I have to do it.”

“Ah, Lieutenant, not in this vehicle.”

Then Peabody, the stalwart cop, gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut in terror as Eve stabbed the vertical lift. The car shuddered, creaked, and lifted six inches off the ground. Hit it again with a bone-shuddering thud.

“Goddamn piece of dog shit.” Eve used her fist this time, punching the control hard enough to bruise her knuckles. They did a shaky lift, wobbled, then streamed forward as Eve jabbed the accelerator. She nipped the edge of an umbrella, causing the glide-cart hawker to squeal in fury and hotfoot in pursuit for a half a block.

“The damn hawker nearly caught the bumper.” More amazed than angry now, Eve shook her head. “A guy in air boots nearly outran a cop ride. What’s the world coming to, Peabody?”

Eyes stubbornly shut, Peabody didn’t move a muscle. “I’m sorry, sir, you’re interrupting my praying.”

Eve kept the sirens on, delivering them to the front entrance of the Luxury Towers. The descent was rough enough to click her teeth together, but she missed the glossy fender of an XRII airstream convertible by at least an inch.

The doorman was across the sidewalk like a silver bullet, his face a combination of insult and horror as he wrenched open the door of her industrial beige city clunker.

“Madam, you cannot park this… thing here.”

Eve flicked off the siren, flipped out her badge. “Oh yeah, I can.”

His mouth only stiffened further as he scanned her ID. “If you would please pull into the garage.”

Maybe it was because he reminded her of Summerset, the butler who had Roarke’s affection and loyalty and her disdain, but she pushed her face into his, eyes glittering. “It stays where I put it, pal. And unless you want me to tell my aide to write you up for obstructing an officer, you’ll buzz me inside and up to Thomas Brennen’s penthouse.”

He sucked air through his nose. “That is quite impossible. Mr. Brennen is away.”

“Peabody, get this… citizen’s name and ID number and arrange to have him transported to Cop Central for booking.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can’t arrest me.” His shiny black boots did a quick dance on the sidewalk. “I’m doing my job.”

“You’re interfering with mine, and guess whose job the judge is going to think is more important?”

Eve watched the way his mouth worked before it settled in a thin, disapproving line. Oh yeah, she thought, he was Summerset to a tee, even though he was twenty pounds heavier and three inches shorter than the bane of her existence.

“Very well, but you can be sure I will contact the chief of police and security about your conduct.” He studied her badge again. “Lieutenant.”

“Feel free.” With a signal to Peabody, she followed the doorman’s stiff back to the entrance, where he activated his droid backup to man the post.

Inside the shining silver doors, the lobby of the Luxury Towers was a tropical garden with towering palms, flowing hibiscus and twittering birds. A large pool surrounded a splashing fountain in the shape of a generously curved woman, naked to the waist and holding a golden fish.

The doorman keyed in a code at a glass tube, silently gestured Eve and Peabody inside. Unhappy with the transport, Eve stayed rooted to the center while Peabody all but pressed her nose against the glass on the ascent.

Sixty-two floors later, the tube opened into a smaller garden lobby, no less abundant. The doorman paused by a security screen outside double arched doors of highly polished steel.

“Doorman Strobie, escorting Lieutenant Dallas of the NYPSD and aide.”

“Mr. Brennen is not in residence at this time,” came the response in a soothing voice musical in its Irish lilt.

Eve merely elbowed Strobie aside. “This is a police emergency.” She lifted her badge to the electronic eye for verification. “Entrance is imperative.”

“One moment, Lieutenant.” There was a quiet hum as her face and ID were scanned, then a discreet click of locks. “Entrance permitted, please be aware that this residence is protected by SCAN-EYE.”

“Recorder on, Peabody. Back off, Strobie.” Eve put one hand on the door, the other on her weapon, and shouldered it open.

The smell struck her first, and made her swear. She’d smelled violent death too many times to mistake it.

Blood painted the blue silk walls of the living area, a grisly, incomprehensible graffiti. She saw the first piece of Thomas X. Brennen on the cloud-soft carpet. His hand lay palm up, fingers curled toward her as if to beckon or to plead. It had been severed at the wrist.

She heard Strobie gag behind her, heard him stumble back into the lobby and the fresh floral air. She stepped into the stench. She drew her weapon now, sweeping with it as she covered the room. Her instincts told her what had been done there was over, and whoever had done it was safely away, but she stuck close to procedure, making her way slowly over the carpet, avoiding the gore when she could.

“If Strobie’s finished vomiting, ask him the way to the master bedroom.”

“Down the hall to the left,” Peabody said a moment later. “But he’s still heaving out there.”