Vengeance in Death

  "No."

  "Then he's probably sleeping peacefully tonight. I'll run employees."

  "We're nearly there," Roarke told her. "We'll know soon enough."

  The animated mermaid, naked but for her glossy green tail, was dark and still over the safety grilled window. He pulled up at the all but empty curb. It was rare for people in this ugly little section of town to have personal transportation. Without the auto-shield and security feature on Roarke's car, it wouldn't be waiting when he came out.

  He caught a glimpse of a couple of street ghosts hovering in a doorway two buildings down. They drifted out in the murky dawn, then faded back at the scream of approaching sirens.

  "I'm not waiting for the backup," she told Roarke, pulling both her weapon and her master code. Then she reached down, tugged a stunner from her boot. "Take my clinch piece—and make sure it disappears when the uniforms get here." Her eyes held his for one quick moment. "You take the left."

  Wild light and wilder music met them when they went through the door. Eve swung right, sweeping. Then sprinted forward with a shout of warning for the man clinging to the ladder on the side of the show tank.

  "Stop! Keep your hands where I can see them."

  "I've got to get him out." Summerset's knuckles scraped metal as he slid down a rung. "He's drowning."

  "Get the hell out of my way." She all but dragged him off the ladder and threw him at Roarke. "Find the drain switch, for God's sake. Hurry." Then she was scrambling up, and diving in.

  Strings of blood swam in the water like exotic fish. The man who was bolted to the floor of the tank was blue around the lips, his single eye open and staring. She could see both his fingers and ankles were raw from fighting the shackles. She grabbed his battered face, fit her mouth over his, and gave him her breath.

  Lungs burning, she pushed off, fought her way to the surface, and sucked in more air. Without wasting the breath on words, she dived again. Her gaze flicked briefly to the face of the Madonna, its carved eyes watching tortured death with absolute serenity.

  Eve shuddered once, then fought for life.

  On her third trip up, she thought the surface was closer, and swimming down, she turned her head and got a watery view of Roarke coming up the ladder.

  He'd taken time to pull off his shoes and jacket. When he reached the floor of the tank, he yanked her arm, jerked a thumb for her to go up. So they worked in tandem, one drawing in air, the other giving it while the water swirled down.

  When she could stand, her head above water, she coughed violently. "Summerset," she managed.

  "He won't go anywhere. For God's sake, Eve."

  "I haven't got time to argue about it. Can you pick the locks on the restraints?"

  Dripping, still gasping for air, he stared at her. Then he dug in his pocket for his penknife. "Here come your men."

  "I'll deal with them. See what you can do down there."

  She flipped her wet hair out of her eyes as four uniforms charged inside the club. "Dallas," she shouted. "Lieutenant Eve. Get some med-techs here, fast. Resuscitation equipment. Drowning victim. I don't know how long he was under, but there's no pulse. And someone turn that goddamn music off. Glove up. I want this scene preserved as much as possible."

  The water was down to her knees now, and the air was making her shiver in her wet clothes. Her muscles ached from supporting the dead weight of the victim. She saw Roarke finesse the lock on the first shackle and shifted to adjust.

  The minute the second ankle was free, she laid the body down in the few remaining inches of water and, straddling it, began pumping his chest.

  "I want a CPR kit in here, some blankets." The last word echoed as the music shut abruptly off. Now she could hear her ears ringing. "Come on, come on, come back," she panted, then leaned forward and forced air into his mouth.

  "Let me do it." Roarke knelt beside her. "You've got a crime scene to secure."

  "The MTs." She continued to count the chest pumps in her head. "They'll be here any minute. You can't stop until they get here."

  "I won't stop."

  At her nod, he placed his hands over hers, picked up her rhythm. "Who is he, Roarke?"

  "I don't know." He glanced up briefly as Eve got to her feet. "I just don't know."

  It was a great deal harder climbing out of the tank than it had been getting in, Eve realized. She was winded by the time she reached the lip. She took a moment to catch her breath, to draw it into lungs that felt seared and scraped. Then she swung her leg over and started down.

  Peabody was waiting at the bottom. "The MTs were right behind me, Dallas."

  "He's pretty far gone. Don't know if they can bring him back." She looked through the glass, watched Roarke working steadily. "Take the uniforms. Form two teams and do a search. You won't find him, but look anyway. Secure all doors. Engage recorders."

  Peabody looked over Eve's shoulder to where Summerset stood, hands at his sides, watching Roarke from the far end of the tank. "What are you going to do?"

  "My job. You do yours. I want this scene secured and a sweep team ordered. Do you have a field kit with you?''

  "I don't have a detective kit, just my street and scene bag."

  "I'll use that." She took the bag Peabody offered. "Get started," she ordered, then signaled the emergency medical team that rushed in. "Inside the tank. Drowning victim, no pulse. CPR in progress for approximately ten minutes."

  She turned away, knowing there was nothing more she could do there. Water squelched in her boots, dripped from her hair and face as she walked over to Summerset. Because her leather jacket weighed on her like a stone, she stripped it off and slammed it on the table.

  "Goddamn it, Summerset, you're under arrest. Suspicion of attempted murder. You have the right to—''

  "He was alive when I got here. I'm almost sure he was alive." His voice sounded thin and thoughtful. Eve recognized the symptoms of shock in it, and in his glassy eyes. "I thought I saw him move."

  "You'd be smart to wait until I've told you your rights and obligations before you make any statement." She lowered her voice. "You'd be real smart to say nothing, not a fucking thing, until Roarke rounds you up his fancy lawyers. Now be smart and shut up."

  • • •

  But he refused the lawyers. When Eve walked into the interview room where he was being guarded by a uniform, Summerset sat stiffly and continued to stare straight ahead. "I won't need you," she told the guard. She came around the table and sat when the guard left the room. She'd taken time to change into dry clothes, warm up her system with coffee; and she had checked with the medical team that had brought the man identified as Patrick Murray back to life, and the doctors who were fighting to keep him that way.

  "It's still attempted murder," she said conversationally. "They brought Murray back from the dead, but he's in a coma, and if he makes it he may be brain damaged."

  "Murray?"

  "Patrick Murray, another Dublin boy."

  "I don't remember a Patrick Murray." His bony fingers moved through his disordered hair. His eyes looked blindly around the room. "I would—I would like some water."

  "Sure, fine." She rose to fill a pitcher. "Why aren't you letting Roarke set up the lawyers?"

  "This isn't his doing. And I have nothing to hide."

  "You're an idiot." She slammed the pitcher in front of him. "You don't know how bad it can be once I turn the recorder on and start on you. You were at the scene of an attempted murder, caught by the primary investigator climbing out—"

  "In," he snapped. Her tone had torn away the mists that kept closing in on his mind. "I was going into the tank."

  "You're going to have to prove that. I'm the first one you're going to have to convince." She raked both hands through her hair in a gesture of fatigue and frustration that made Summerset frown. Her eyes, he noted, were reddened from the water, and deeply shadowed.

  "I can't hold back with you this time," she warned him.

  "I expect nothing from you
."

  "Good. Then we start even. Engage recorder. Interview with subject Summerset, Lawrence Charles, in the matter of the attempted murder of Patrick Murray on this date. Interview conducted by primary, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Commence oh eight fifteen. Subject has been Mirandized and has waived counsel and representation at this time. Is that correct?''

  "That is correct."

  "What were you doing in the Mermaid Club at six-thirty in the morning?"

  "I received a transmission at about six-fifteen. The caller didn't identify himself. He told me to go there, immediately and alone."

  "And you always go to sex clubs when some anonymous guy calls you up at dawn and tells you to?"

  Summerset sent her a withering look, which cheered her a bit. He wasn't down yet, she decided.

  "I was told that a friend of mine was being held there, and that she would be harmed if I didn't obey instructions."

  "What friend?"

  He poured the water now, drank one small sip. "Audrey Morrell."

  "Yeah, she was your alibi for Brennen's killing. That didn't pan out too well for you. Sure you want to use her again?''

  "There's no need for sarcasm, Lieutenant. The transmission came in. It will be on the log."

  "And we'll check that. So this anonymous caller tells you to get over to the Mermaid Club—you knew where it was?"

  "No, I didn't. I am not in the habit of patronizing such establishments," he said so primly she had to stifle a snort. "He provided the address."

  "Damn considerate of him. He tells you to get there or your girlfriend'll be in dire straights."

  "He said—he indicated that he would do to her what had been done to Marlena."

  A jolt of pity, of understanding, of great regret thudded through her. But she couldn't offer it. "Okay, you've got a cop in the house, but you don't bother to tell this cop of a possible abduction and/or assault."

  His eyes were dark and cold on hers, but she saw the fear riding just behind the pride. "I am not in the habit of depending on the police department."

  "If your story's clean, you wouldn't be sitting here if you had." Their eyes held as she leaned forward. "You're aware that there have been three murders and that you were under suspicion for those three murders. Though the evidence is circumstantial, and your testing results were negative, you weren't sitting on a garden bench there."

  She wanted to shake him for being stupid, for disliking her so intensely he hadn't asked for help even when she would have had no choice but to give it. "Now, you claim to have gotten an anonymous call and end up on the scene of an attempted murder."

  "It isn't a claim, it's a fact. I couldn't risk someone else I cared for being hurt." It was as much as he could bear to give, that one reminder of his daughter. "I wouldn't risk it. When the transmission came through, I acted as I thought I had to act."

  It would have been easier if she hadn't understood. She eased back again. "The scene and method of this attempted murder follows the same pattern as the three more successful murders."

  She reached down into the bag she'd brought in and took out a small glass jar. It wasn't Patrick Murray's eye that floated in it. The surgeons had hope they could reattach it. But the simulation carried the same impact.

  She watched as Summerset stared at the small, floating organ, then turned her head away.

  "Do you believe in an eye for an eye?"

  "I thought I did." His voice trembled, then he steadied it. "I don't know what I believe."

  Saying nothing, she reached down again and picked out the statue of the Madonna. "The Virgin. Marlena was innocent. She was pure."

  "She was fourteen. Only fourteen." Tears swam in his eyes, paining them both. "I have to believe she's at peace. To survive I have to believe. Do you think I could do what's been done here, in her name?" He closed his eyes, desperate for control. "She was gentle, and unspoiled. I won't answer any more questions about her. Not to you."

  She nodded and rose. But before she turned he caught the pity dark and deep in her eyes. He'd opened his mouth without any idea what he would say, when she spoke again.

  "Are you aware that electronics play a primary part in said crimes, and that your incoming log is worth squat?"

  Again he opened his mouth, closed it again. What kind of woman was it, he wondered, who could go from melting compassion to whiplash in less than a blink. This time he took a deeper drink. "The transmission came in, just as I've said."

  Steady again, Eve came back, sat. The image of Marlena was ruthlessly blocked from her mind. "Did you attempt to contact Audrey Morrell and access her status?''

  "No, I—"

  "How did you travel to the Mermaid Club?"

  "I took my personal vehicle and, following the instructions I was given, parked near the side entrance of the club on Fifteenth Street."

  "How did you get in?"

  "The side door was unlocked."

  "What happened then?"

  "I called out. No one answered, but the music was very loud. All the lights were on. I went into the lounge area. I saw him right away, in the tank. He—I think he was moving. I thought I saw his lips move. His eye—his eye was gone and his face was battered."

  He began to lose color as he spoke, as the image played back in his head. "Water was still going into the tank. I didn't know how to shut it off. I started up the ladder, thinking I could pull him out. Then you came in."

  "How were you going to pull him out when he was cuffed to the tank floor?"

  "I didn't see that. I didn't see. I only saw his face."

  "You knew Patrick Murray in Dublin?"

  "I knew a number of people. I don't remember a Patrick Murray."

  "Okay, let's try this again."

  • • •

  She worked him for two hours, and worked him hard. His story never shifted by an inch. When she stepped out of Interview, she signaled to Peabody. "Check and see if my new vehicle's come through and what slot I'll find it in. Let me know, then meet me there in five minutes."

  "Yes, sir. He held up," she commented. "If I got hammered that hard in Interview, I'd probably confess just to get some peace."

  He'd held up, she thought, but he'd looked ten years older when she'd finished with him. Old and ill and fragile. Her stomach rolled with guilt. "The only thing he did this morning was win a stupidity prize," Eve muttered as she marched down the corridor.

  She found Roarke, as she'd expected, waiting in her office. "I'm getting you ten minutes with him. Talk him into letting you lawyer him. I don't care how you do it."

  "What happened? What was he doing there?"

  "I don't have time. He'll tell you. I've got some legwork, shouldn't take more than an hour. Then I'm going home, with Peabody. We have to do a search. Technically, I don't need a warrant to sweep his quarters as it's on your property. But you could make it sticky."

  "I've no intention of making this sticky. I want this put away as much as you do."

  "Then do us all a favor—stay away from the house, and see that he stays away once your lawyers spring bail, until after three this afternoon."

  "All right. Do you have an ID on the victim?"

  "He's alive, barely, and his name is Patrick Murray. He was the floor scraper at the club. I've got to contact his wife."

  "Pat Murray. Jesus, I didn't recognize him."

  "But you knew him."

  "More professionally than personally. He liked to gamble, I provided games." His recollection was vague and misty. "He sold me a tip on where I could find Rory McNee. He must have told someone about it. I certainly didn't, and we weren't friends. The fact is he often ran numbers and minor errands for O'Malley and the others. I never thought of him." He lifted his hand, let it fall. "The tip was a dead end, so I never thought of him."

  "Someone did. Doesn't matter if the tip was bogus or not. He sold it to you and that makes him a traitor. Which makes him a target." Her communicator beeped. "Dallas."

  "Got your vehicle, Lieutenant, garage
section D, level three, slot 101."

  "On my way. I've got to go," she said to Roarke. "Call the lawyers."

  He managed to smile a little. "I did that an hour ago. They should be convincing a judge to grant bail about now."

  Because she was in a hurry, Eve took the motor glide to section D—or as far as section C, where it broke down. She jumped off without bothering to swear and covered the next level at a fast clip. She located slot 101 and found Peabody gawking at a slick new Sunspot with an angled-down hood, converto-roof, and deflector fins, front and rear.

  "I thought you said 101."

  "I did."

  "Where's my replacement vehicle?"

  "This is it." Peabody turned with wide eyes. "Right here. This one."

  Eve only snorted. "Nobody in Homicide gets one of these muscle jobs—not even the captains."

  "Serial plates match. I checked the key code." She held out a thin metal plate that could be used by the operator if the code was forgotten. "It works. I started to call in to Vehicular Requisitions, then figured why be stupid."

  "Well." Eve pursed her lips, whistled lightly. The color might have been an unfortunate pea green, but everything else about it was prime. "Wow. Somebody screwed up, but we might as well enjoy it while we can. Get in."

  "You don't have to twist my arm." Peabody scooted under the upward-opening door and wiggled down until her butt settled comfortably. "Nice seats. You can program initial for your voiceprint."

  "We'll play with it later." Eve engaged the ignition manually and lifted a brow in approval at the big cat purr of the engine. "Not one hiss or hiccup. This could be the beginning of a fine new partnership. I hope the security shield and jacking deflectors are operational."

  "Any particular reason?"

  "Yeah." Eve backed up, swung around, and headed down the levels. "We're going back to the Mermaid Club to search out a couple of street ghosts I spotted this morning. Car like this—cop plates or not—someone's going to try to boost it."

  "It comes with full shields, deflectors, and a thievery deterrent—graduating electrical shocks."