J. Robb - Immortal in Death

Ignoring his offer of a chair, she stood facing him as he sat behind his desk. Briskly, she gave him the results of her initial interviews. Whitney folded his hands and watched her. He had good eyes, cop's eyes, and recognized nerves.

"You have a man who has confessed to the murder. A man with motive and opportunity."

"A man who doesn't remember seeing the victim on the night in question, much less bludgeoning her to death."

"It wouldn't be the first time a perp confessed in such a way to make himself seem innocent."

"No, sir. But I don't believe he's our killer. The tests may prove me wrong, but his personality type doesn't fit the crime. I was a witness to another altercation where the victim attacked Mavis. Rather than attempting to stop the fight, or showing any signs of violence, he stood back and wrung his hands."

"By his own statement, he was under the influence on the night of the murder. Drink can and does induce personality changes."

"Yes, sir." It was reasonable. In her heart she wanted to pin it on him, to take his confession at face value and run with it. Mavis would be miserable, but she'd be safe. She'd be cleared. "It's not him," she said flatly. "I recommend holding him for the maximum amount of time, reinterviewing to try to jog his memory. But we can't charge him for thinking he committed murder."

"I'll go along with your recommendation, Dallas. The other lab reports should be in shortly. We'll hope the results will clear everything up. You understand they may further incriminate Mavis Freestone."

"Yes, sir, I understand that."

"You have a long-standing friendship with her. It would be no blot on your record to withdraw as primary on this case. It would, in fact, be better for you, and certainly more rational if you were to do so."

"No, sir, I will not withdraw as primary. If you pull me, I will take leave and pursue the case on personal time. If necessary, I will resign."

For a moment, he rubbed his joined hands against his brow. "Your resignation would not be accepted. Sit down, Lieutenant. Damn it, Dallas," he erupted when she remained standing. "Sit. I'll make it a fucking order."

"Yes, Commander."

He sighed, reined in his temper. "I hurt you not long ago with a personal attack that was neither appropriate nor deserved. Because of that, I damaged something between us. I understand that you no longer feel comfortable under my command."

"You are the best commander I've ever served under. I have no problem with you as my superior."

"But no longer friends – not even remotely." He nodded, accepting her silence. "However, because of my behavior during your investigation of a case that was very personal to me, you should be aware that I fully understand what you're going through on this one. I know what it is to be torn between loyalties, Dallas. While you may be unable to discuss your feelings in this case with me, I strongly suggest that you do so with someone you can trust. My mistake in the other investigation was in not sharing the burden. Don't make the same one with this."

"Mavis didn't kill anyone. No amount of evidence will convince me otherwise. I'll do my job, Commander. And in doing it, I'll find the real killer."

"I have no doubt you'll do your job, Lieutenant, or that you'll suffer for it. You have my support, whether you choose to use it or not."

"Thank you, sir. I have a request to make on another case."

"Which is?"

"The Johannsen matter."

This time he sighed, long and deep. "You're like a damn terrier, Dallas. You never let go."

She couldn't argue the point. "You have my report on what was found at Boomer's flop. The illegal substance has not been fully identified. I've done some research of my own on the formula we discovered." She took a disc out of her bag. "It's a new blend, highly potent, its effects would probably be fairly long term as compared to what's found on the street. Four to six hours for an average dose. Too much more at one time would be, in eighty-eight percent, fatal."

Lips pursed, Whitney turned the disc over in his hands. "Personal research, Dallas?"

"I had a connection, I used it. The lab is still working, but they have identified several of the ingredients, and their ratios. My point is, this substance would be enormously profitable, as it takes only a small amount to produce results. It's highly addictive, and produces feelings of strength, delusions of power, and a kind of euphoria – not tranquillity, but a sense of control over self and others. It also contains some sort of cell regenerator. I've calculated the results of long-term addiction. Daily use for a period of five years will, in ninety-six point eight percent, result in a complete and sudden shutdown of the nervous system. And death."

"Christ Jesus. It's poison?"

"Ultimately, yes. The manufacturers certainly know this, which makes them guilty not only of distributing illegals, but of premeditated murder."

She let him chew over that a moment, knew the headache it would cause if and when the media dug its claws into the data. "Boomer may or may not have known about this aspect, but he knew enough to be killed for it. I want to pursue the case and, as I'm aware, I'm distracted by other matters, so I request that Officer Peabody be assigned as my aide until the matter is resolved."

" Peabody has little experience in illegals or homicide, Lieutenant."

"She makes up for it with brains and sweat. I'd like her to assist in my coordinating with Lieutenant Casto of Illegals, who also used Boomer as a weasel."

"I'll see to it. As to the Pandora homicide, use Feeney." He lifted a brow. "You already are, I see. Let's pretend I've just ordered it, and make it official. You'll have to deal with the media."

"I'm getting used to it. Nadine Furst is back from leave. I'll feed her what seems best. She and Channel 75 owe me a few." She rose. "I have some people to talk to. I'll contact Feeney and take him along."

"Let's see if we can get things cleared up before your honeymoon." Her face was such a study of contradictions, embarrassment, pleasure, and fear, he roared out a laugh. "You'll live through it, Dallas. I can guarantee it."

"Sure, when the guy who's designing my wedding dress is in holding," she muttered. "Thank you, Commander."

He watched her walk out. She might not have been aware that she'd dropped the barrier between them, but he was.

"The wife's going to love this." More than content to let Dallas handle the driving, Feeney leaned back in the passenger seat. Street traffic was light as they headed toward Park Avenue South. Feeney, a native New Yorker, had long since tuned out the bellows and echoes of the tourist blimps and sky buses that crowded overhead.

"They told me they were going to fix it. Those fuckers. Hear that, Feeney? Do you hear that goddamn buzzing?"

Obligingly, he focused on the sound coming from her control panel. "Sounds like a swarm of those killer bees."

"Three days," she fumed, "three days in repair, and listen to it. It's worse than it was."

" Dallas." He laid a hand on her arm. "You may have to face it, finally, learn to deal with the simple fact that your vehicle is a piece of garbage. Requisition a new one."

"I don't want a new one." Using the heel of her hand, she rapped the control panel. "I want this one, without the sound effects." She got caught at a light, tapped her fingers on the wheel. The way the controls sounded, she wouldn't be able to trust automatic. "Where the hell is 582 Central Park South?" Her controls continued to buzz, so she slapped them again. "I said, where the hell is 582 Central Park South?"

"Just ask nice," Feeney suggested. "Computer, please display map and locate 582 Central Park South."

When the display screen popped up, the holographic map highlighting the route, Eve only snarled.