Visions in Death (In Death #19)(26)

It took him a moment, a long moment, before he could speak. "You are the most amazing woman I've ever known."

"Yeah." She gave his hand a squeeze. "We're a hell of a pair."

Chapter Six

Eve took a detour to EDD. It was always a culture shock for her to walk into a division where cops dressed like partygoers or weekend loafers. Lots of airboots and neon hues, and as many people walking or trotting around talking on headsets as manning cubes and desks.

Music blatted out, and she actually saw a guy dancing, or she assumed it was dancing while he worked with a handheld and porta -screen.

She made tracks through the bullpen and directly into Captain Ryan Feeney's office, where she expected to find sanity.

She lost the power of speech when she saw him, the reliable Feeney, with his fading vacation tan, his wiry ginger hair threaded with gray. His face was comfortably creased and droopy, but instead of one of the rumpled shirts he habitually wore, he was decked out in a stiff and spotless one the color of raspberry sherbet.

And he had on a tie. A tie. The closest she could come to describing the color was what you might get if you electrocuted grass.

"Jesus Christ, Feeney. What're you wearing?"

The look he sent her was that of a man bearing up under a hideous emotional weight. "Wife said I needed to start wearing color. Bought this getup then hung over me, nagged my ears off until I put it on."

"You look... you look like a manager for street LCs."

"Tell me. Look at these pants." He shot out a leg so Eve was treated to the sight of that skinny limb wrapped in modified skin-pants in the same electric shade as the tie.

"God. I'm sorry."

"Boys out there think I look iced. What're you going to do?"

"I don't honestly know."

"Tell me you've got a case for me, something that's going to take me out in the field where I can get bloody." He lifted his fists, a boxer's pose. "Wife can't bitch if these glad rags get ruined on the job."

"I've got a case, but I've got no fieldwork in the E area. Wish I could help you out. Can't you at least take that noose off?"

He tugged at the tie. "You don't know the wife like I do. She'll call. She'll be doing a damn spot-check on me all through shift to make sure I'm suited up. It's got a jacket, Dallas."

"You poor bastard."

"Ah well." He let out a heavy sigh. "What're you doing in my world?"

"The case. Sexual homicide with mutilation."

"Central Park. Heard you caught that one. We're doing the standard on the 'links and comps. You need more?"

"Not exactly. Can I close this?" She gestured toward his door, got the nod. When she'd shut it, she went over to sit on the corner of his desk. "What's your stand on consulting with psychics on the job?"

He pulled his nose. "Not much call for it in my division. When I worked Homicide, we'd get calls now and then from people claiming they had visions, or information from the spirit world. You know that."

"Yeah, still do. We waste time and manpower following them up, then go along and investigate with our measly five senses."

"Got some genuines out there." He pushed away from the desk to program for coffee. "Most departments these days have a sensitive attached as civilian consultant. More than a few carry badges, too."

"Yeah, well. We were partnered up for a long time."

He handed her a mug of coffee. "Those were the days."

"We never used a sensitive."

"No? Well, you use what you use when the tool fits."

"I've got one claims she saw the Central Park murder in a dream."

Feeney sipped contemplatively. "You check her out?"

"Yeah, and she jibes. Licensed and registered. Got a reference from Louise Dimatto."

"Doc's not an ass**le."

"No, she's not. If you were me, would you bring her in?"

He lifted a shoulder. "You know the answer to that."

She frowned into her coffee. "You use what you use. Yeah, I know. I guess I just wanted to hear it from somebody who's got his feet planted. Thanks."

She set the nearly untouched coffee down. She was getting spoiled, she thought. She was finding it easier and easier to walk away from the stuff if it wasn't real coffee. "Thanks."

"No sweat. Let me know if you need somebody to dig in, get his hands, and personal attire, dirty."

"Will do. Ah, you know somebody could spill coffee on that getup. Wouldn't be your fault."

He sent her a pitying look. "She'd know. Ain't nobody more psychic than a wife."

———«»——————«»——————«»———

She rounded up Peabody. If she was going to consult with a psychic, she was going to run the possibility by her commander first. Whitney listened as she gave her oral to back up the data she'd already sent to his attention. He didn't interrupt, but sat quiet at his desk, a big man with dark skin and close-cropped silvering hair. Years of riding a desk hadn't wiped the cop out of him. It reached right down to the bone. The only change in his wide, sober face was a quick lift of eyebrows when she mentioned Celina Sanchez. When her report was complete, he nodded, then eased back.