Loyalty in Death

  Due to a temporary lapse in the system, all transmissions received between one hundred and six hundred and fifty hours were placed on hold.

  "Lapses." She smacked the machine again, for the hell of it. "We're just full of lapses these days. Transmit full report on Lamont, hard copy."

  Working…

  While her unit hiccupped through the printout, Eve signaled Peabody on her communicator. "Don't bother to dig up Lamont. He's in the morgue."

  "Yes, sir. The mail just came in. There's another pouch."

  Eve's nerves hummed. "I'll meet you in the conference room. Tag the rest of the team. Let's move."

  • • •

  The pouch was tested, cleared. The disc was copied, secured. Eve took a seat at the computer, slid the disc into the slot. "Run and print," she ordered.

  We are Cassandra.

  We are loyal.

  We are the gods of justice.

  We are aware of your efforts. They amuse us. Because we are amused, we will warn you a last time. Our compatriots must be freed. Until these heroes have liberty, there will be terror—for the corrupt government, the puppet military, the fascist police, and the innocent they suppress and condemn. We demand payment, as retribution for the murders and imprisonment of the righteous. The price is now one hundred million dollars, in bearer bonds.

  Confirmation of the release of the unjustly imprisoned political prophets must be received by sixteen hundred hours today. We will accept a public statement from each individual listed, made live through the national media. All must be accounted for. If even one is not released, we will destroy the next target.

  We are loyal. And our memory is long.

  Payment must be made at seventeen hundred hours. Lieutenant Dallas is to deliver this payment, alone. The bonds are to be placed in a plain black suitcase. Lieutenant Dallas is to go to Grand Central Station, track nineteen, westbound landing, and await further instruction.

  If she is accompanied, followed, tracked, or attempts to make or receive any transmissions from this position, she will be executed, and the target will be destroyed.

  We are Cassandra, prophets of the new realm.

  "Extortion," Eve murmured. "It's the money. It's the money, not those psycho jokers on the list. A public statement over national screen. A ten-year-old could figure we'd be able to rig that."

  She rose to pace and think. "That's smoke. It's the money. And they'll blow the target whether they get it or not. Because they want to."

  "Either way," Feeney pointed out, "it puts you in the crosshairs and some unknown target on countdown."

  "Can you fix me up with a tracker they can't make?"

  "I don't know what the hell they can make."

  "Do your best." She turned to Anne. "You've got a team who can work these high-end scanners?"

  "One of Roarke's geniuses is giving us a briefing on it in twenty minutes. Then we're in the field."

  "Find the target. I'll deal with the drop."

  "You're not going in alone." This time Feeney rose. "Whitney won't clear it."

  "I didn't say I was going in alone, but we'd better work out how it'll look that way," she said again. "We're going to need a hundred million in fake bearer bonds." Her smile was thin, humorless. "I think I know someone who can deliver those in time for the deadline."

  "Give Roarke my best," Feeney said with a smirk.

  She sent him a bland look. "I need you to report to Whitney and rig me a tracker."

  "McNab and I will get on that."

  "I need McNab—for a bit."

  Feeney looked at her, at his detective, nodded. "I'll get another man on it until I've finished with the commander." He took the hard copy. "We'll want a good hour to test it out on you beforehand."

  "I'll be available. Peabody, you're with me. I'll meet you at my vehicle in five minutes. McNab." She signaled him out with the flick of a finger.

  "I want you to check in with Mira," she began as they walked toward her office. "Get a line on Zeke's testing. Then I want you to put the squeeze on Dickhead in the lab. I'd do it myself, but I don't want to involve Peabody at this point."

  "I've got it."

  "Threaten him, and if that doesn't work, bribe him. Arena ball tickets should work. I can scope two VIP box seats for next weekend."

  "Yeah?" His eyes went bright. "Gee, Dallas, how come you never share with pals? The Huds are squaring off against the Rockets next weekend. If I threaten him into shagging his ass, can I have the tickets?"

  "Are you asking for a bribe, Detective?"

  Because she'd stopped, because her eyes were flat and her mouth set, he sobered quickly. "Why are you pissed off at me?"

  "Why did you have sex with my aide during a sensitive investigation?"

  His eyes glistened. "Does she need your permission to date, Lieutenant?"

  "This wasn't pizza and a video, McNab." She strode into her office, yanked her jacket off the hook.

  "Oh, so she only has to clear who she goes to bed with."

  Eve spun back. "You're insubordinate, Detective."

  "You're out of line, Lieutenant."

  It surprised her, she had to admit. It threw her off rhythm to see him standing there, eyes cold and fierce, body braced, teeth showing. She thought of him—when she thought of him—as a good cop with a sharp mind for details, a good hand with electronics. And as a man, a little foolish, vain, and glib, who talked too much and took nothing beyond his work seriously.

  "Don't you tell me I'm out of line." Working on control, she put her jacket on slowly. "Peabody got kicked by a cop with a pretty face before. I'm not watching it happen again. She matters."

  "She matters to me, too." The words were out before he could yank out his tongue and bite it off. "Not that she gives a damn about that. She brushed me off this morning, so you've got nothing to worry about." He kicked her chair, sent it skidding across the room. "Goddamn it."

  "Oh hell, McNab." The anger she'd worked up so nicely dipped toward nerves. "What are you doing here? You're not getting sticky on her?" His only answer was one long, miserable stare. "I knew it. I knew it. I just knew it."

  "It's probably just a blip," he muttered. "I'll get over it."

  "Do that. Just do that, will you? This isn't the time—it's never the time, but this is really not the time. So forget it, okay?" Eve didn't wait for his reply—she wanted him to understand. "Her brother's on the hot seat, we've got bombs all over the damn city. I've got one body in the morgue and another in the river. I can't afford to have two members of my team tripping over heartstrings."

  He surprised himself by laughing, and meaning it. "Christ, that's cold."

  "Yeah, I know." She remembered the way Roarke had looked at her that morning. "I suck at this, McNab. But I need you on your toes."

  "I'm on them."

  "Stay on them," she told him and walked out.

  • • •

  Since she calculated she couldn't do worse on her record of offending, insulting, and injuring people who mattered to her that morning, Eve put a call through to Roarke as she headed to the garage.

  Summerset answered, and her instinctive reaction of clenching her teeth felt a lot better than guilt. "Roarke," was all she said.

  "He's engaged on another call at the moment."

  "This is police business, you cross-eyed putz. Put me through."

  His nostrils flared in annoyance, and her mood lightened just a little more. "I will see if he's available to take your call."

  The screen went blank. Though she didn't doubt he'd have the nerve to cut her off, she counted to ten. And ten again. She was heading toward thirty when Roarke came on.

  "Lieutenant." His voice was clipped, the Irish in it frigid temper rather than music.

  "The department needs one hundred million in fake bearer bonds—good fakes, but not good enough to pass a bank check. Sheets of ten thousand."

  "When's your deadline?"

  "I could use them by fourteen hundred."

 
"You'll have them." He waited a beat. "Anything else?"

  Yes, I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. What do you want from me? "That's it. The department—"

  "Appreciates it. Yes, I know. I'm on an interplanetary conference call, so if that's all…"

  "Yeah, that's all. If you'd let me know when they're ready, I'll arrange transport."

  "You'll hear from me."

  He cut her off without another word and made her wince. "Okay," she mumbled. "That hurt. Bull's-eye." She jammed the link back in her bag.

  She remembered her advice to McNab. Just forget it. She did her best to follow it, but some of her feelings must have shown on her face. Peabody kept her mouth shut as Eve stepped up to the car. And they drove to the morgue in silence.

  • • •

  The dead house was packed like a lobby bar at a Shriners' convention. The corridors were full of techs, assistant MEs, and the medical staff drafted from local health centers to wade in during the current crisis. The stench of humanity, alive and deceased, smeared the air.

  Eve managed to snag one of the morgue staff she knew. "Chambers, where's Morris?" She'd hoped for a five-minute consult with the chief medical examiner.

  "Up to his eyebrows. The hotel bombing brought in a lot of customers. A lot of them in pieces. It's like putting a jigsaw puzzle together."

  "Well, I need to see one of your guests who checked in early this morning. Lamont. Paul Lamont."

  "Jeez, Dallas, we're working on priority here. We gotta get these stiffs ID'd."

  "It's connected."

  "All right, all right." Obviously miffed, Chambers scurried to a computer, ran the log. "We got him on ice in area D, drawer twelve. We're racking, packing, and stacking them for now."

  "I need a look at him, his personal effects and the incoming report."

  "Let's make it quick." His shoes slapped down the hall. He swung into area D, slid his key card in the slot, and led them inside. "Drawer twelve," he reminded her. "Just use your master, and I'll pull up the rest."

  Eve uncoded the drawer and out came a puff of icy smoke and Lamont. Or what was left of him. "They did a job on him," she muttered, scanning his mangled, broken body.

  "Sure did. Says here the vehicle, a black Airstream van, jumped the curve and ran right over him where he stood on the sidewalk. We haven't done anything on him yet, just stored him. He's not priority."

  "No, he'll keep." Eve slid the drawer back in place. "What did he have on him?"

  "Fifty couple in credits, wrist unit, IDs and key cards, pack of breath mints, palm-link, date book. Oooh, and a sticker." He examined the long, slim blade. "Over the legal limit, I'd say."

  "Only by a mile or two. I need the 'link and date book."

  "Fine by me. Sign for them and they're yours. Look, I have to get back. Hate to keep the customers waiting."

  She signed the checkout log. "Have these effects been dusted?"

  "Hell if I know. Enjoy."

  Eve turned to Peabody as the area doors swung shut. "We'll dust and clean first. Let's go on record."

  Peabody shifted her field kit on her shoulder. "Here? Don't you want to do this somewhere else?"

  "Why?"

  "Well, the place is full of dead people."

  "And you want to be a murder cop?"

  "I'd rather deal with one at a time." But she opened her kit and went to work. "Good clean prints on here."

  "We'll run them after we check out his 'link and log. Probably Lamont's prints."

  Eve took the 'link, turned it over in her hand. It was a top-of-the-line model, sleek and complex. She remembered his expensive shoes. "Wonder what Roarke pays these guys? She turned the control to replay all incoming and outgoing transmissions for the last twenty-four hours. "Note any numbers we hit. We'll need to run them, too."

  She watched the numbers zip by on the display, then pursed her lips. Video was blocked. But the voices came through loud and clear.

  Yes.

  They're looking at me. Lamont, Eve decided, with the faintly French accent and the squeak of nerves in his voice. The cops were here. They're looking at me. They know something.

  Calm down. You're shielded. This isn't something to discuss over 'links. Where are you?

  It's all right. I'm secured. I slipped out to the grill down from work. They called me up, Roarke was there, too.

  And what did you tell them?

  Nothing. They got nothing out of me. But I'm telling you, I'm not taking the fall for this. I want out. I need more money.

  Your father would be disappointed.

  I'm not my father, and I know when it's time to cut loose. I got you everything you needed. I'm finished here. I want my share now, tonight, and I'm gone. I did my part. You don't need me anymore.

  No, you're right. It would be best if you finished out the day as normal. You'll be contacted later as to where to pick up your share. We still have to be careful. Your work is done, but ours isn't.

  Just get me what I've got coming, and I'm gone by morning.

  It'll be arranged.

  "Idiot," Eve muttered. "Signed his own execution papers." She shook her head. "Greed or stupidity."

  There was another call, Lamont booking a private compartment on the off-planet transport to Vegas II. He used a false name and identification number.

  "Have a unit go by his place, Peabody. I bet our boy was all packed and ready to go."

  The next was an incoming, a recorded voice giving brief instructions.

  The corner of Sixth and Forty-third, one hundred hours.

  Lamont made two more outgoings, received no answer from either.

  "Run the numbers, Peabody," Eve instructed as she picked up the day book.

  "Already running the first. It's a private code."

  "Use my authorization number and get it. Whoever he was talking to didn't realize Lamont was on his own 'link. Had to figure he was on a public job, or he'd never have left this on the body. Even if he'd wanted it, the tails on Lamont were right on scene."

  "The code's shielded," Peabody told her. "They won't release it."

  "Oh yeah, they will." Eve whipped out her communicator. Within thirty seconds she had Chief Tibble on the line, and barely two minutes later, the governor's personal authorization.

  "Man, you are good." Peabody looked on with admiration. "You snarled at the governor."

  "Gives me that shit about privacy acts. Politicians." She set her teeth, flexed and unflexed her fingers as she waited for the last line of bureaucracy to tumble. "Well, son of a bitch."

  "What is it? Who is it?" Peabody craned her neck to see the data on Eve's display.

  "B. Donald Branson's private line."

  "Branson." The blood drained out of Peabody's face. "But, Zeke. Last night…"

  "Transmit that call to Feeney, get him to run a voice check. We need to know if that was Branson on the call." She was moving fast as she snapped out the order. "Contact the guard on Clarissa Branson's room," she continued as they strode down the corridor. "Tell him no one goes in or out of it until we get there."

  She pulled out her own communicator as they swung outside into the cold. "McNab, get down to Mira's. I want Zeke brought back up. Tuck him away until you hear from me."

  "Zeke wouldn't know anything about Cassandra, Dallas. He'd never—"

  Eve spared Peabody a look as she jumped into the car. "Toys and tools, Peabody. I'd say your brother was being used as both."

  *** CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ***

  Clarissa was gone. There was nothing to be gained by berating and browbeating the guard on duty, but Eve did it anyway.

  "She looks at him, smiles tearfully, and asks if she can go sit in the gardens." Eve rolled her eyes and tapped the note Clarissa had left behind in her palm. "Then she uses the can I have a glass of water routine she did with Zeke and our boneheaded hero runs off to fetch."

  She circled the conference room, waiting for Zeke to be brought in. "Oops, where'd she go? It takes him thirty fucking minutes to call it in b
ecause he's so sure a sweet little thing like her is still around somewhere. But does he check her room? See the tearful good-bye note?"

  Eve unfolded it again while Peabody wisely remained silent.

  I'm sorry, so sorry, for everything that happened. It was my fault. All of it. Please forgive me. I'm doing what's best for Zeke. He can't be held responsible. I can never face him again.

  "So she leaves him holding the bag. Let's hear it for true love." Though Peabody said nothing, Eve held up her hand and began to go through the steps and stages. "Zeke hears them fighting through the vent in the workroom. It's Branson's house, his workroom. He knows Zeke's down there. According to Clarissa, he was wild to keep anyone from knowing he knocked her around. So why doesn't he fix the damn vent? The staff's all droids, so he doesn't worry about them. But he's got a live one now."

  "You think he wanted Zeke to hear?"

  "Follow along, Peabody. I've been working this out since last night."

  "Last night?" Peabody's mouth dropped open. "But, Dallas, there was nothing in the prelim report about—"

  She broke off, winced, as Eve shot her a cool stare. "You read my prelim, Officer Peabody?"

  "Strap me in irons," Peabody muttered, "and flog me. He's my brother."

  "I'll reserve the flogging for a later date. No, I didn't put anything into the prelim because the main concern was getting Zeke's story down and putting him in the clear. But the whole deal screamed setup. Slick, organized, damn well-oiled, but a setup."

  "I don't see it."

  "You can't see past Zeke. Take the steps here. They pull Zeke in from out west. I don't care how good he is, they could've found somebody to do this work without transporting him in. But they pull him, a single guy, a Free-Ager. Branson kicks his wife to hell and back, but he lets her import a young, attractive man into the house. And he's diddling with having carpentry work done when, we suspect, he's laying plans for the biggest terrorist siege on the city since the Urban Wars."

  "None of it makes sense."

  "Not separately, but it does when you connect the dots. He needed a fall guy."

  "But, for God's sake, Dallas, Zeke killed him."

  "I don't think so. Why haven't they found the body? Why did this cowed, terrified woman manage to get rid of it in less than five minutes?"