J. Robb - Rapture in Death

He doubted that, sincerely. "Subsequently, you gained entry to the files at the Government Security Center, and there, confidential reports fell into your hands."

"That's correct. I don't wish to reveal my source."

"Your source?" he repeated. "Are you telling me you have a weasel at GSC?"

"There are weasels everywhere," Eve said coolly.

"That might fly," he murmured. "Or you might find yourself facing a subcommittee back in East Washington."

Eve's stomach shimmied, but her voice stayed steady. "I'm prepared for that."

"You'd better be." Whitney sat back, steepled his hands, tapped his fingertips against his chin. "The case on the Olympus Resort. You also accessed data there. That's quite a bit out of your jurisdiction, Lieutenant."

"I was on scene during that incident, and I reported my findings to interspace authorities."

"Who then took over the disposition of the matter," Whitney added.

"I'm authorized to request data when an outside case relates to one of mine, Commander."

"That's yet to be substantiated."

"The data's necessary for me to substantiate the connection."

"That would hold, Dallas, if there was a homicide."

"I believe there are four of them, including Cerise Devane."

"Dallas, I've just viewed the recording of that incident. I saw a cop and a jumper on a ledge, the cop attempting to talk the subject in, and the subject choosing the leap. She was not pushed, she was not coerced, she was not threatened in any way."

"It's my professional opinion that she was coerced."

"How?"

"I don't know." And for the first time, frustration leaked through. "But I'm sure, dead sure, that if they had enough of her brain to scrape up off the street for analysis, they'd find that same burn on the frontal lobe. I know it, Commander. I just don't know how it's getting there." She waited a beat. "Or being put there."

His eyes flickered. "Are you theorizing that someone is influencing certain individuals to self-termination through some sort of brain implant?"

"I can't find any genetic link among the subjects. No social group, education sphere, or religious affiliation. They didn't grow up in the same town, they didn't drink the same water, attend the same health clubs or centers. But they all had the same flaw in the brain. That's beyond coincidence, Commander. It was caused, and if by being caused it coerced those people to end their lives, then it's murder. And it's mine."

"You're walking a thin wire, Dallas," Whitney said after a moment. "The dead have families, and the families want this put away. Your continued investigation extends the grieving process."

"I'm sorry for that."

"It's also raising questions from The Tower," he added, referring to the Chief of Police and Security.

"I'm willing to present my report to Chief Tibble, if directed." But she hoped she wouldn't be. "I'll stand on my record, Commander. I'm not a rookie playing terrier with a dead case."

"Even experienced cops overfocus, make mistakes."

"Then let me make them." She shook her head before he could speak. "I was on that ledge today, Commander. I looked at her face, into her eyes when she went off. And I know."

He folded his hands on the edge of the desk. Administration was always a struggle in compromise. He had other cases, and he needed her on them. The budget was thin, and there was never enough time or man power. "I can give you a week, no more. If you don't have the right answers by then, you close the files."

She drew a breath. "And the chief?"

"I'll speak with him personally. Get me something, Dallas, or be prepared to move on."

"Thank you, sir."

"Dismissed," he said, then added when she reached the door. "Oh, and Dallas, if you're going to go outside the official sphere for… research, watch your step. And give my best to your husband."

She colored slightly. He'd pinned her source, and they both knew it. She mumbled something and escaped. Dodged that stun stream, she thought and dragged a hand through her hair. Then, with an oath, she dashed toward the nearest down glide. She was going to be late for court.

She was approaching the end of her shift when she made it back to her office and found Peabody settled at the desk, a cup of coffee in her hand.

Eve leaned against the doorjamb. "Comfortable, Officer?"

Peabody jerked, sloshed a little coffee, cleared her throat. "I didn't know your ETA."

"Apparently. Something wrong with your unit?"

"Ah, no. No, sir. I thought it more efficient to enter the new data directly into yours."

"That's a good story, Peabody, you stick with it." Eve walked to her AutoChef and programmed coffee for herself. It was Roarke's blend rather than the poison served in the bull pen area, which explained Peabody cozying up at her superior's desk.

"What new data?"

"Captain Feeney pulled all communications on Devane's 'links. Doesn't appear to be anything that relates, but it's all here. We have her personal datebook with all appointments and the most current data from her last health exam."

"She have any problems there?"

"Not a one. She was a tobacco addict, registered, and took regular anticancer injections. She had no sign of disease: physical, emotional, or mental. Tended toward stress and overwork, which was counteracted with soothers and tranqs. She was cohabitating, happily, by all reports. Her partner is currently off planet. You have the name of next of kin, her son from a previous partnership."

"Yeah, I contacted him. He's based at the Tattler offices in New L.A. He's coming in." Eve angled her head. "Comfortable, Peabody?"

"Yes, sir. Oh, sorry." She got up quickly from behind the desk and resettled in the ratty chair beside it. "Your meeting with the commander?"

"We've got a week," Eve said briskly as she sat. "Let's make the most of it. ME's report on Devane?"

"Not yet available."

Eve turned to her 'link. "Let's see if we can give him a little shove."

By the time she got home, she was staggering. She'd missed dinner, which she thought was just as well since she'd ended the day at the morgue viewing what was left of Cerise Devane.

Even the stomach of a veteran cop could turn.

And she would get nothing there, nothing at all. She doubted even Roarke's equipment could reconstruct enough of Devane to be of any help.

She walked in, nearly tripped over the cat who was stretched at the threshold, and drummed up the energy to bend down and lift him. He studied her, annoyance gleaming in his bi-colored eyes.

"You wouldn't get kicked, pal, if you draped your fat ass somewhere else."

"Lieutenant."

She shifted the cat, looked over at Summerset who, as usual, had appeared out of nowhere. "Yeah, I'm late," she snapped. "Give me a demerit."

He didn't add his normal withering remark. He had seen the clips on the news channel, and he had watched her on the ledge. He had seen her face. "You'll want dinner."

"No, I don't." She wanted bed and headed for the stairs.

"Lieutenant." He waited for her bad-tempered oath, waited until she'd turned her head to scowl at him. "A woman who steps out on a ledge is either very brave or very stupid."

The scowl turned into a sneer. "I don't have to ask what category you put me in."

"No, you don't." He watched her climb up and thought her courage was terrifying.

The bedroom was empty. She told herself she'd run a house scan for Roarke's location in just a minute, then fell facedown on the bed. Galahad wiggled out of the crook of her arm and climbed onto her butt to circle and knead his way to comfort.

Roarke found her there minutes later, sprawled out in exhaustion, a sausage-shaped cat guarding her flank.

He simply studied her for a while. He, too, had seen the news clips. They had paralyzed him, dried the saliva in his mouth, and turned his bowels to water. He knew how often she faced death – others' and her own – and told himself he accepted it.