[In Death 08] - Conspiracy in Death Page 11

  “I know damn well you’ve already had yours,” she muttered. But as soon as she opened the door and the fragrant steam hit the air, Galahad sent up a screeching meow. As much in defense as affection, she spooned some into his dish. He pounced on it as if it were a lively mouse that might escape.

  Eve carried the stew and coffee to her desk, eating absently as she engaged her machine and began to review data. She knew what her gut told her, what her instincts told her, but she would have to wait for the transfer of files and pictures to run a probability scan to verify her conclusions.

  Her scan of Spindler’s medical records from the Canal Street Clinic had stated that the patient had a kidney disorder, a result of some childhood infection. Her kidneys had been functional but damaged and had required regular treatment.

  A bum heart, she mused, and faulty kidneys. She’d bet a month’s pay when she got data on the hits in Chicago and Paris, those organs would prove to be damaged as well.

  Specific, she thought. Specific victims for specifically flawed parts.

  “You get around, don’t you, Dr. Death?”

  New York, Chicago, Paris. Where else had he been, and where would he go next?

  He might not be based in New York after all, she speculated. He could be anywhere, traveling the world and its satellites for his pickings. But someone knew him, would recognize his work.

  He was mature, she decided, adding her conclusions to Mira’s profile. Educated and trained. It was likely he’d saved countless lives in his career. What had turned him to the taking of them?

  Madness? No ordinary madness seemed to fit. Arrogance, yes. He had arrogance and pride and the hands of a god. His work was methodical, and he trolled the same types of areas of his cities to select his specimens.

  Specimens, she thought, pursing her lips. Yes, she thought that was how he viewed them. Experiments then, but of what kind, for what purpose?

  She’d have to start scraping into the Drake research department.

  What link could she find between the health palace of Drake and the ghetto of the Canal Street Clinic? Somehow he’d seen the records, knew the patients. He knew their habits and their flaws.

  It was the flaws he was after.

  Brows knit, she ordered a search for articles and data on organ transplant and reconstruction.

  An hour later, the words were blurring, her head was throbbing. Frustration had risen to top levels as she’d been forced to ask for definitions and explanations of hundreds of terms and phrases.

  It would take her forever to access and dissect this medical bullshit, she thought. She needed an expert consultant, somebody who either knew this area already or who could study and relate it to her in layman’s terms. In cop terms.

  A glance at her wrist unit told her it was nearly midnight and too late to contact either Mira or Morris. These were the only medical types she trusted.

  Hissing in impatience, she began to slog through yet another article, then her brain cleared with a jolt as she read a report from a newspaper article dated 2034.

  NORDICK CLINIC FOR HEALTH

  ANNOUNCES MEDICAL BREAKTHROUGH

  After more than two decades of research and study on the construction of artificial organs, Dr. Westley Friend, chief of research for the Nordick Clinic, has announced the center’s successful development and implantation of a heart, lung, and kidneys into Patient X. Nordick, along with the Drake Center in New York, has devoted nearly twenty years to research on developing organs that can be mass-produced to replace and outperform human tissue.

  The article continued, detailing the impact on medicine and health. With the discovery of a material the body would easily accept, the medical community was dancing on the ceiling. Though it was rare with in vitro testing and repair for a child to be born with a heart defect, for example, some slipped through. An organ could be built using the patient’s tissue, but that took time.

  Now the flawed heart could be quickly removed and replaced with what Friend called a longevity replacement that would continue to perform long after the child had used up his one-hundred-twenty-year average life.

  They could, the article continued, be recycled and implanted in other patients in the event of the death of the original owner.

  Though research on the reconstructing of human organs was being discontinued at both centers, the work on artificial devices would move forward.

  Reconstructing human organs had taken the back burner some twenty years ago, Eve thought. Had someone decided to move it back up again?

  The Nordick Center in Chicago. The Drake in New York. One more link. “Computer, search and display data on Friend, Dr. Westley, attached to Nordick Clinic for Health, Chicago.”

  Working. . . . Friend, Dr. Westley, ID# 987-002-34RF, born Chicago, Illinois, December 15, 1992. Died, September 12, 2058. . . .

  “Died? How?”

  Death ruled self-termination. Subject injected fatal dose of barbiturates. He is survived by spouse, Ellen, son, Westley Jr., daughter, Clare. Grandchildren—

  “Stop,” Eve ordered. She would worry about personal details later. “Access all data on subject suicide.”

  Working. . . . Request denied. Data is sealed.

  Sealed, my ass, Eve thought. She’d get around that in the morning. She rose to pace and think. She wanted to know all there was to know about Dr. Westley Friend, his work, and his associates.

  Chicago, she thought again and shuddered. She might have to take a trip to Chicago. She’d been there before, she reminded herself. It never bothered her.

  But she’d never remembered before.

  She shook that off and went in to refill her coffee. She’d linked the two centers, the two cities. Would she find that there was a sister center in Paris as well? And maybe other cities, other places?

  It made sense, didn’t it? He’d find his specimen, take his sample, then wouldn’t he want to work in worthy surroundings: top-notch labs—places where he would be known and not questioned?

  Then she shook her head. How could he run experiments, do research, or whatever the hell he was doing in the lab of a reputable facility? There had to be paperwork, there would be staff. There had to be questions and procedures.

  But he was taking the damn things, and he had a purpose.

  She rubbed her tired eyes, gave in enough to sit down in her sleep chair. A five-minute break, she told herself, to give her brain a chance to play with this new information. Just five minutes, she thought again and closed her eyes.

  She dropped into sleep like a stone into a pond.

  And dreamed of Chicago.

  The flight home from the coast had given Roarke time to deal with the last of his business matters. So he arrived home with his mind clear. He imagined he’d find Eve in her office. She tended to avoid their bed when he wasn’t beside her.

  He hated knowing nightmares chased her when business kept him from home. Over the last few months, he’d juggled whatever he could to keep his trips to a minimum. For her, he thought as he took off his coat. And for himself.

  Now there was someone to come home to, someone who mattered. He hadn’t been lonely before she’d come into his life, certainly hadn’t felt unfulfilled. He’d been content, focused, and his business—the many arms and branches of it—had satisfied him.

  Other women had entertained him.

  Love changed a man, he decided as he walked to the in-home scanner. After love, everything else took second place.

  “Where is Eve?” he asked.

  Lieutenant Dallas is in her office.

  “Naturally,” Roarke murmured. She’d be working, he thought as he started up the stairs. Unless exhaustion had finally taken over and she’d curled into her sleep chair for one of her catnaps. He knew her so well and found an odd comfort in that. He knew this case would occupy her mind and her heart, all of her time and skills, until it was closed. Until she’d found justice, once again, for the dead.

  He could distract her for short bursts of ti
me, ease the tension. And he could—would—work with her. That, too, was a mutual benefit. He’d discovered he enjoyed the stages of police work, the puzzle slowly put together, piece by piece.

  Perhaps it was because he’d lived on the other side of the law most of his life that he seemed to have a knack for it. It made him smile, a bit nostalgically, for the old days.

  He would change nothing, nothing he had done, for every step of his life had brought him here. And had brought her to him.

  He turned down a corridor, one of many in the enormous house that was filled with art and treasures he’d collected—by fair means or foul—over the years. Eve didn’t fully understand his delight in material possessions, he decided. How the acquiring and owning of them, even the giving of them, put more distance between him and the boy from the Dublin alleys who’d had nothing but his wits and his guts to call his own.

  He stepped to the doorway where the most precious of treasures was curled, fully dressed, weapon still strapped to her side, in the chair.

  There were shadows under her eyes and the mark of violence on her cheek. One concerned him nearly as much as the other, and he had to remind himself yet again that each was a sign of who and what she was.

  The cat was sprawled over her lap and woke to stare unblinkingly.

  “Guarding her, are you? I’ll take over now.”

  The smile that curved his lips as he started forward faded as Eve began to moan. She thrashed once, a sob catching in her throat.

  He was across the room in two strides, gathering her up as she struggled and struck out.

  “Don’t. Don’t hurt me again.”

  Her voice was the thin, helpless voice of a child, and it broke his heart.

  “It’s all right. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re home. Eve, you’re home. I’m here.” It ripped at him that a woman strong enough to face death day after day could be so beaten down by dreams. He managed to shift her until he could sit, draw her onto his lap, and rock. “You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

  She clawed her way out and to the surface. Her skin was clammy and shivering, her breath a harsh burn in her throat. And she smelled him, felt him, heard him. “I’m all right. I’m okay.”

  The weakness, the fear snuck out of the dream with her, and left her ashamed. But when she tried to draw back, he wouldn’t let her. He never did. “Just let me hold you.” He spoke quietly, stroking her back. “Hold me back.”

  She did, curving herself into him, pressing her face to his throat, holding on, holding until the shuddering stopped. “I’m okay,” she said again, and nearly meant it this time. “It was nothing. Just a memory flash.”

  His hand paused, then slid up to soothe the muscles gone to knots at the back of her neck. “A new one?” When she merely jerked a shoulder, he eased her back to look at her face. “Tell me.”

  “Just another room, another night.” She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Chicago. I don’t know how I’m so sure it was Chicago. It was so cold in the room, and the window was cracked. I was hiding behind a chair, but when he came home, he found me. And he raped me again. It’s nothing I didn’t already know.”

  “Knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.”

  “I guess not. I have to move,” she murmured and rose to pace off the shakiness. “We found another body in Chicago—same MO. I guess that put the memory at the top of my brain. I can handle it.”

  “Yes, you can and have.” He rose as well, crossed to her to lay his hands on her shoulders. “But you won’t handle it alone, not anymore.”

  It was another thing he wouldn’t allow, and that made her—by turns—grateful and uneasy. “I’m not used to you. Every time I think I am, I’m not.” But she laid her hands over his. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re home.”

  “I bought you a present.”

  “Roarke.”

  The knee-jerk exasperation in her voice made him grin. “No, you’ll like it.” He kissed the shallow dent in her chin, then turned away to pick up the briefcase he’d dropped when he’d come into the room.

  “I already need a warehouse for all the stuff you’ve bought me,” she began. “You really need to develop a control button about this.”

  “Why? It gives me pleasure.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but it makes me . . .” She trailed off, baffled, when she saw what he took out of the briefcase. “What the hell is that?”

  “I believe it’s a cat.” With a laugh, he held the doll out to her. “A toy. You don’t have nearly enough toys, Lieutenant.”

  A chuckle tickled her throat. “It looks just like Galahad.” She ran a finger down the wide, grinning face. “Right down to the weird eyes.”

  “I did have to ask them to fix that little detail. But when I happened to see it, I didn’t think we could do without it.”

  She was grinning now, stroking the soft, fat body. It didn’t occur to her that she’d never had a doll before—but it had occurred to Roarke. “It’s really silly.”

  “Now, is that any way to talk about our son?” He glanced back at Galahad who’d taken possession of the chair again. His dual-colored eyes narrowed with suspicion before he shifted, lifted his tail in derision, and began to wash. “Sibling rivalry,” Roarke murmured.

  Eve set the doll in a prominent position on her desk. “Let’s see what they make of each other.”

  “You need sleep,” Roarke said when he saw her frown at her computer. “We’ll deal with work in the morning.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. All this medical stuff is jumbled in my head. You know anything about NewLife replacement organs?”

  His brow lifted, but she was too distracted to notice. “I might. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Come to bed.”

  “I can’t contact anyone until tomorrow, anyway.” Burying impatience, she saved data, disengaged. “I might have to take some travel, go talk to other primaries in person.”

  He simply made agreeable noises and led her to the door. If Chicago held bad memories for her, she wouldn’t be going alone.

  She woke at first light, surprised by how deeply she’d slept and how alert she was. Some time during the night, she’d wrapped herself around Roarke, legs and arms hooked as if binding him to her. It was so rare for her to wake and not find him already up and starting his day that she savored the sensation of warmth against warmth and let herself drift.

  His body was so hard, so smooth, so . . . tasty, she thought, skimming her mouth over his shoulder. His face, relaxed in sleep, was heart stopping in its sheer male beauty. Strong bones, full, sculpted mouth, thick, dark lashes.

  Studying him, she felt her blood begin to stir. A low, spreading neediness filled her belly, and her heart began to thud in anticipation and in the knowledge that she could have him, keep him, love him.

  Her wedding ring glinted in the light pouring through the sky window over the bed as she slid a hand up his back, nuzzled his mouth with hers. His lips, already warmed, opened with hers for a slow, tangling dance of tongues.

  Slow, easy, and no less arousing for its familiarity. The skim and slide of hands over curves, planes, angles well known, only added to the excitement that built, layer by layer, in the clear light of dawn. Even as his heart began to pound against hers, they kept the rhythm loose and lazy.

  Her breath caught once, twice, as he cupped her, as he sent her up that long, long curve to a peak that shimmered like wine in sunlight. And his moan mixed with hers.

  Every pulse in her body throbbed, every pore opened. The need to take him into her, to mate, was an ache in the heart as sweet as tears.

  She arched to him, breathed his name, then sighed it as he slid into her. The ride was slow, slippery, a silky ebb and flow of breath and bodies. His mouth met hers again, with an endless tenderness that swamped her.

  He felt her soar again, tighten around him, tremble. Lifting his head, he watched her in the harsh winter light. His heart stumbled, love destroyed him, as he watched the glow pleasure br
ought to her face, watched those golden brown eyes blur even as they stayed locked on his.

  Here, he thought, they were both helpless. And bringing his mouth to hers again, he let himself go.

  She felt limber, steady, and very close to cheerful as she showered. When she stepped out, she heard the muted sound of the morning news on-screen and imagined Roarke half listening to the headlines as he studied the stock reports and sipped his first cup of coffee.

  It was so married, she thought with a quick snort and jumped into the drying tube. When she came out into the bedroom, it was exactly as she’d imagined. He was drinking coffee in the sitting area, scanning the financial data on the computer, while Nadine Furst gave Channel 75’s take on the news of the day on the screen just over his shoulder.

  When she moved by him to the closet, his eyes followed her. And he smiled. “You look rested, Lieutenant.”

  “I feel pretty good. I need to get a jump on the day, though.”

  “I thought we already did.”

  That made her toss a grin over her shoulder. “I should’ve said on the workday.”

  “I should be able to help you in that area as well.” He watched her shrug on a plain white shirt, button it briskly. “Last weather update calls for high in the midteens. You won’t be warm enough in that.”

  “I’ll be inside mostly.” She only rolled her eyes when he rose, crossed over, and selected a navy pullover in thin, warm wool. Handed it to her. “You’re a nag, Roarke.”

  “What choice do I have?” When she dragged the sweater over her head, he shook his own and adjusted the collar of her shirt himself. “I’ll order up breakfast.”

  “I’ll catch something at Central,” she began.

  “I think you’ll want to take time to have it here so we can discuss a couple of matters. You mentioned NewLife products last night.”

  “Yeah.” She remembered only vaguely. She’d been tired and still a little shaken by the dream. “It’s an angle I’ll be looking into later. They’re artificial replacements made from this longevity stuff discovered at the Nordick Clinic, but there may be a connection with the organ thefts I’m dealing with.”