In Death 09 - Loyalty in Death Page 12

  "She'll live through it. How'd you get the delivery, Sherry?"

  "I-I-I…" She gulped audibly, kept her eyes shut. "I'm on rotation."

  "No, how did the package come in?"

  "Oh, oh, oh, drop box. I think. I'm pretty sure. Golly, I don't know. My supervisor just told me to bring it here. It's my job."

  "Okay." Eve eased back, patted Sherry's shoulder. "We've been getting a lot of solicitations," she said with a smile. "We really hate that here." She pulled out a fifty-credit chip and pressed it into the girl's sweaty palm. "You drive careful."

  "Okay, right, thanks, gosh." She started for the door, then turned back, almost tearfully. "Man, gee lady, you're supposed to sign for it, but you don't have to if you don't want to."

  Eve simply jerked her head toward Summerset, then started upstairs with the pouch. She heard him murmur to the girl. "I'm terribly sorry. She hasn't had her medication today."

  Despite the fact that she'd seen the return address on the pouch, Eve had to grin. But the humor didn't last long. Her eyes were cool when she walked back into her office. She sealed her hands, opened the pouch, then slipped the disc it held into her machine.

  We are Cassandra.

  We are the gods of justice.

  We are loyal.

  Lieutenant Dallas, we hope our demonstration of this morning was enough to convince you of our capabilities and the seriousness of our intent. We are Cassandra, and we predict that you will show your respect to us by arranging for the release of the following political heroes now wrongly imprisoned in the gestapo facilities of Kent Prison in New York: Carl Minnu, Milicent Jung, Peter Johnson, and Susan B. Stoops.

  If these patriots of freedom are not released by noon tomorrow, we will be forced to sacrifice a New York landmark. A symbol of excess and foolishness where mortals gawk at mortals. You will be contacted at noon for verification. If our demands are not met, all lives lost will be on your head.

  We are Cassandra.

  Susan B. Stoops, Eve thought. Susie B, former nurse, who had poisoned fifteen elderly patients at the rehab facility where she'd worked. Claiming they had all been war criminals.

  Eve had been primary, had taken her in, and knew Nurse Susie B was doing five terms of life in the mentally defective ward at Kent Prison.

  She had a feeling the other "political heroes" would have similar histories.

  She copied the disc and called Whitney.

  • • •

  "It's out of my hands, at least for now," Eve told Roarke as she paced the main parlor. "The political heads are doing their circle and spin. I wait for orders. I wait for contact."

  "They won't agree to terms."

  "No. You add up the body count the four names they want are responsible for, you come up with over a hundred. Jung blew up a church claiming all religious symbols were tools of the hypocritical right. A kids' choir was rehearsing inside. Minnu burnt down a cafe in SoHo, trapping over fifty people inside. He claimed it was a front for the fascist left, and Johnson was a hired assassin who killed anyone for the right price. What the hell's the connection?"

  "Maybe there isn't one. It may just be a test. Will the governor acquiesce, or will he refuse?"

  "They have to know he'll refuse. They've left us no way to negotiate."

  "So you wait."

  "Yeah. What place in New York symbolizes excess and foolishness?"

  "What place doesn't?"

  "Right." She frowned, paced. "I did a run on that Cassandra—the Greek one. It said how she was given her gift of prophecy by Apollo."

  "I'd say this group enjoys symbolism." He glanced toward the doorway when he heard voices. "That'll be Peabody. Put it out of your mind for a couple of hours, Eve. It might help."

  Roarke walked over to greet Peabody, to tell her she looked lovely, to shake hands with Zeke. He was so damn smooth, Eve thought. It never failed to fascinate her how he could shift from mode to mode without a single visible hitch.

  Beside Zeke—gangling, his smile awkward as he struggled very obviously not to gawk—the contrast was only more marked.

  "Give her the thing, Zeke," Peabody demanded and added a quick, sisterly jab in the ribs.

  "Oh yeah. It's not much of anything." He offered that shy smile to Eve, then took a small wood carving out of his pocket. "Dee said you had a cat."

  "Well, one lets us live here." Eve found herself grinning down at a thumb-sized carving of a sleeping cat. It was rough and simple and cleverly done. "And this, next to eating, is what he does best. Thanks, it's great."

  "Zeke makes them."

  "Just for fun," he added. "I saw your vehicle outside. It looks a little rough."

  "It sounds rougher."

  "I can take a look at it, tinker around."

  "I'd appreciate it." She started to suggest he do just that, now, when she caught Roarke's warning look and bit the words back. "Ah, let me get you a drink first."

  Damn party manners, she thought.

  "Just some water, or juice maybe. Thanks. There's beautiful work in this house," he said to Roarke.

  "Yes, there is. We'll show you through after dinner." He ignored Eve's grimace and smiled. "Most of the wood is original. I appreciate craftsmen who build to last."

  "I didn't realize so much of the nineteenth- and twentieth-century interior work was left in an urban area like this. When I saw the Branson home today, I was just staggered. But this—"

  "You were at the Bransons'?" Eve had finished scratching her head over the choices of juice Summerset had arranged. She poured something rose-colored into a glass.

  "I called this morning to express my condolences and to ask if they'd prefer to postpone the work they'd contracted for." He took the glass she offered with a smile of thanks. "But Mrs. Branson said they'd appreciate it if I'd come by and look things over today. This afternoon, after the memorial service. She said the project might help take their minds off things."

  "Zeke says they have a fully equipped workshop on the lower level." Peabody wiggled her eyebrows at Eve. "Apparently B. Donald likes to putter."

  "Runs in the family."

  "I still haven't met him," Zeke put in. "Mrs. Branson showed me around." He'd spent time with her, just a little time. And his system was still revving on it. "I'll get started tomorrow, work right there in the house."

  "And get roped into doing odd jobs," Peabody said.

  "I don't mind. Maybe I should go take a look at the car, see what I can do." He looked at Roarke. "Do you have any tools I could borrow?"

  "I think I have what you need. They're not Branson, I'm afraid. I use Steelbend."

  "Branson's good," Zeke said soberly. "Steelbend's better."

  Sending his wife a blinding smile, Roarke laid a hand on Zeke's shoulder. "Let's go see what we've got."

  "Isn't he great?" Peabody sent a look of affection after her brother. "Twenty minutes at the Bransons' and he was repairing some plumbing blip. There's nothing Zeke can't fix."

  "If he can keep that car out of the hands of the monkeys in maintenance, I'll owe him for life."

  "He'll do it."

  She started to bring up her newest worry. Something in Zeke's eyes, in his voice, when he spoke of Clarissa Branson. Just a crush, Peabody assured herself. The woman was married, years older than Zeke. Just a little crush, she told herself again, and decided her lieutenant was hardly the person to share foolish sisterly concerns with. Certainly not in the middle of a difficult investigation.

  Peabody blew out a breath. "I know this isn't a great time for socializing. As soon as Zeke's done, we'll take off."

  "We'll feed you. Look, there's this stuff all ready." Eve gestured absently to a tray of beautifully arranged canapes. "You might as well eat them."

  "Well, since you insist." Peabody plucked one up. "No word from the commander?"

  "Nothing yet. I don't expect to hear anything before morning. Which reminds me, I'll need you to report to Central at oh-six-hundred."

  Peabody swallowed the
canape before she choked. "Six. Great." She blew out a breath and snagged another canape. "Looks like it's going to be a very early evening."

  *** CHAPTER NINE ***

  Dear Comrade,

  We are Cassandra.

  We are loyal.

  It has begun. The preliminary stages of the revolution have proceeded precisely as outlined. Our symbolic destruction of the property of the capitalist Roarke was pitifully simple. The slow-witted police are investigating. The first messages of our mission have been transmitted.

  They will not understand. They will not comprehend the magnitude of our power and our plans. Now, they scramble like mice, chasing down the crumbs we've left for them.

  Our chosen adversary studies the deaths of two pawns, and sees nothing. Today, unless we were mistaken in her, she will go where we have led her. And be blinded to the true path.

  He would be proud of what we accomplish here.

  After this bloody battle is won, we will take his place. Those who have stood for us, for him, will join us. Comrade, we look forward to the day we raise our flag over the new capital of the new order. When all those responsible for the death of the martyr die in pain and terror.

  They will pay, in fear, in money, in blood, as one by one and city by city, we who are Cassandra destroy what they worship.

  Gather the faithful today, Comrade. Watch the screen. I will hear your shouts of triumph across the miles that separate us.

  We are Cassandra.

  • • •

  Zeke Peabody was a conscientious man. He believed in doing a job well, in giving it all his time, his attention, and his skill. He'd learned carpentry from his father, and both father and son had been proud when the boy had outdistanced the man.

  He'd been raised a Free-Ager, and the tenets of his faith suited Zeke like his skin. He was tolerant of others; part of his beliefs included the simple knowledge that the human race was made up of diverse individuals who had the right to go their own way.

  His own sister had gone hers, choosing to become a cop. No true Free-Ager would ever carry a weapon, much less use one against another living thing. But her family was proud of her for following her own path. That, after all, was the foundation of Free-Agism.

  One of the sweetest benefits of the job he'd taken here was the chance it gave him to spend time with his sister. It gave him a great deal of pleasure to see her in what had become her milieu, to explore the city she'd made her home. And he knew he amused her by dragging her around to every cliched tourist attraction he could find on his guide disc.

  He was very pleased with her superior. Dee had called and written home countless details about Eve Dallas that Zeke had arranged into a very complex and fascinating woman. But seeing her for himself was better. She had a strong aura. The dark shimmer of violence might have troubled him a bit, but the heart of it had been bright with compassion and loyalty.

  He'd wanted to suggest that she try meditation to dull that shimmer, but he'd been afraid she'd take offense. Some people did. He'd also thought, perhaps, that nimbus of darkness might be necessary for her line of work.

  He could accept such things, even if he never fully understood them.

  In any case, he was satisfied that when the job was finished, he could return home content that his sister had found her place and was with the people she needed in her life.

  As instructed, he went to the service entrance of the Branson brownstone. The servant who admitted him was a tall male with cool eyes and a formal manner. Mrs. Branson—she'd told him to call her Clarissa—had told him that all staff members were droids. Her husband considered them less intrusive and more efficient than their human counterparts.

  He was shown to the lower-level workshop, asked if he required anything, then left alone.

  And alone, he grinned like a boy.

  The shop was nearly as well-equipped and organized as his own back home. Here, though he had no intention of using them, were the additions of a computer and tele-link system, a wall screen, VR unit and mood tube, and a droid assistant that was currently disengaged.

  He ran his hands over the oak he knew would be a joy to work with, then took out his plans. They were on paper rather than disc. He preferred to create his drawings with a pencil as his father had, and his grandfather before him.

  It was more personal, Zeke thought, more a part of himself. He spread the diagrams out neatly on the workbench, took his bottle of water from his sack, and sipped contemplatively while he visualized the project, stage by stage.

  He offered the work up to the power that had given him the knowledge and skill to build, then took his first measurements.

  When he heard Clarissa's voice, his pencil faltered. The flush was already working up his neck as he turned. The fact that there was no one there only made the blush deepen. He'd been thinking too much about her, he told himself. And had no right to think about another man's wife. No matter how lovely she was, no matter if something in her big, troubled eyes called to him.

  Especially because of that.

  Because he was flustered, it took him a moment to realize the murmur of sound he heard was coming through the old vents. They should be sealed, he mused. He would ask her if she wanted him to take care of that while he was here.

  He couldn't quite make out the words—not that he would have tried, he assured himself. Not that he would ever, ever, intrude on another's privacy. But he recognized her tone—the smooth flow of it, and his blood moved a little faster.

  He laughed at himself, went back to his measuring with the assurance that it was all right to admire a woman because of her beauty and gentle manner. When he heard a voice join hers, he nodded. Her husband. It was good to remember she had a husband.

  And a lifestyle, he added, lifting a board with a casual strength his gangly body disguised. A lifestyle that was far removed from his own.

  Even as he carried the board to the braces for his first cuts, he heard the tones change. Voices raised in anger now, loud and clear enough for him to catch a few words.

  "Stupid bitch. Get the hell out of my way."

  "B. D., please. Just listen."

  "To what? More whining? You make me sick."

  "I only want to—"

  There was a thump, a crash that made Zeke wince, and the sound of Clarissa's voice, begging now: "Don't, don't, don't."

  "Just remember, you pathetic cunt, who's in charge."

  Another bullet of sound, a door slamming. Then a woman's wild and miserable weeping.

  He'd had no right, Zeke told himself, no right to listen to the intimacies of a marriage. No right to want to go upstairs and comfort her.

  But, my God, how could anyone treat their life partner so callously, so cruelly? She should be cherished.

  Despising himself for imagining doing just that, of going upstairs, gathering Clarissa against him, Zeke slipped on his ear protectors and gave her the privacy that was her right.

  • • •

  "I appreciate you changing your schedule and coming here." Eve scooped her jacket off her ratty chair and tried not to obsess that her tiny, cluttered office was a far cry from the elegant Dr. Mira's work space.

  "I know you're working against the clock on this one." Mira glanced around. Odd, she thought, she'd never been in Eve's office before. She doubted Eve realized just how completely the cramped little room suited her. No fuss, no frills, and very little comfort.

  She took the chair Eve offered, crossed her smooth legs, lifted a brow when Eve remained standing.

  "I should have come to you. I don't even have any of that tea you drink in here."

  Mira merely smiled. "Coffee would be fine."

  "That I've got." She turned to the AutoChef, which did little more than spit at her. Eve rammed it with the heel of her hand. "Goddamn budget cuts. One of these days I'm taking every lousy piece of equipment in this room and chucking it out the window. And I hope to God every piss-head in maintenance is down below when I do."

  Mira
laughed and glanced at the narrow slit of grimy glass. "You'd have a hard time fitting anything through that window."

  "Yeah, well, I'd manage. It's coming up," she said as the AutoChef gave a coughing hum. "The rest of the team is working in their areas. We're meeting in an hour. I want to be able to take them something."

  "I wish I had more to give you." Mira sat back, accepting the mug of coffee Eve offered. It was barely seven a.m., yet Mira looked as elegant and polished as fine glass. Her sable-toned hair waved gently back from her serene face. She wore one of her trim suits, this one in a quiet sage green she'd accented with a single strand of pearls.

  In her tired jeans and bulky sweater, Eve felt scruffy, gritty-eyed, and unkempt.

  She sat, thinking Roarke had said basically the same thing to her in the early hours of the morning. He'd continued to search, but he was up against equipment and minds as clever and complex as his own. It could be hours, he'd explained, or days before he broke through the tangled blocks and reached the core of Cassandra.

  "Give me what you've got," Eve said shortly to Mira. "And it'll be more than I have now."

  "This organization is exactly that," Mira began. "Organized. It would be my supposition that whatever they intend to do has been planned out meticulously. They wanted your attention, and they have it. They wanted the attention of the powers of the city, and have that as well. Their politics, however, elude me. The four people they're demanding be released are from variable points on the political compass. Therefore, this is a test. Will their demands be met? I don't believe they think they will."

  "But they've given us no mechanism to negotiate."

  "Negotiation isn't their goal. Capitulation is. The destruction of the building yesterday was merely a show. No one was hurt, they can say. We're giving you a chance to keep it that way. Then, they ask for the impossible."

  "I can't link any of the four on the list together." Eve rested a booted ankle on her knee when she sat. She'd spent hours the night before trying to find the connection while Roarke had worked on Cassandra. "No political tenet, as you said. No associations, no memberships. Ages, personal and criminal histories. Nothing connects them. I say they picked those four names out of a hat, for the hell of it. They couldn't care less if those people are back on the street or not. It's smoke."