J. Robb - Immortal in Death

She caught herself snarling at the I LOVE NEW YORK hologram sticker on the bumper jammed in front of hers.

The sanest idea, she decided, was to get some work done in her car.

"Peabody," she ordered the 'link, and after a few frustrating hisses of static, it engaged.

"Peabody. Homicide."

"Dallas here. I'm going to pick you up in front of the Cop Shop, west side. ETA, fifteen minutes."

"Yes, sir."

"Bring all files pertinent to the Johannsen case and the Pandora case, and be…" She trailed off and squinted at the screen. "Why is it so quiet in there, Peabody? Aren't you in the bull pen?"

"Only a couple of us made it in this morning. There's a bad traffic snag on Ninth."

Eve scanned the sea of traffic. "Is that a fact?"

"It pays to listen to the traffic network in the morning," she added. "I took an alternate route."

"Shut up, Peabody," Eve muttered and broke transmission. She spent the next couple of minutes retrieving messages from her desk 'link, then set up a morning appointment at Paul Redford's office in midtown for an interview. She called the lab to harass them for the toxicology report on Pandora, got the runaround, and left them with a creative threat.

She was debating whether to call Feeney and nag him when she saw a narrow break in the wall of cars. She jogged forward, cut left, squeezed through, ignoring the rude blast of horns and spearing middle fingers. Praying her vehicle would cooperate, she punched vertical. Rather than spring up, she wavered, but she did rise the minimum ten feet.

She swerved right, nipped by a jammed people glide where she caught the blur of miserable, sweaty faces, and rattled over to Seventh while her control panel warned of overload. After five blocks, the car was wheezing, but she'd cleared the worst of the jam. She set down with a teeth-rattling thud and swung toward the west entrance of Cop Central.

The dependable Peabody was waiting. How the woman managed to look cool and unperturbed in her sweltering blues, Eve didn't want to know.

"Your vehicle sounds a little rough, Lieutenant," Peabody commented when she climbed in.

"Really? I didn't notice."

"You sound a little rough yourself. Sir." When Eve merely bared her teeth and started to cut across town to Fifth, Peabody dug into her kit, took out a small porta-fan, and clipped it to the dash. The blast of cool air nearly made Eve whimper.

"Thanks."

"The temperature control on this model isn't dependable." Peabody's face remained smooth and bland. "But you probably haven't noticed."

"You've got a clever mouth, Peabody. I like that about you. Give me a rundown on Johannsen."

"The lab's still having trouble with all the elements in the powder we found. They're stalling. If they've completely analyzed the formula, they're not saying. The buzz I get from a contact I have is, Illegals is demanding priority, so there's some politicking going on. Second search found no trace of chemicals, illegal or otherwise, in the victim's body."

"So he wasn't using," Eve mused. "Boomer tended to sample, but he had himself a big, fat bag of shit and didn't take a taste. What does that tell you, Peabody?"

"From the state of his flop and the statement of the lobby droid, we know he had the time and opportunity to use it. He had a history of chronic if mild abuse. Therefore, my deduction would be he knew or suspected something about the substance that put him off."

"That would be my guess. What do you get from Casto?"

"He claims to be in the dark on this one. He's been cooperative, if not overly forthcoming, with information and theories."

Something in the tone had Eve glancing over. "He coming on to you, Peabody?"

Peabody kept her eyes straight forward, narrowed slightly under the bowl-cut fringe of bangs. "He hasn't exhibited any inappropriate behavior."

"Cut the drill, pal, that's not what I asked."

Color snuck up under the collar of the standard-issue blues into her cheeks. "He's indicated a certain personal interest."

"Jesus, you sound like a cop. Is this certain personal interest reciprocated?"

"It might be considered, if I didn't suspect the subject had a much more personal interest in my immediate superior." Peabody slid her gaze to Eve's. "He's got a thing for you."

"Well, he'll have to keep his thing to himself." But she couldn't make herself completely displeased to hear it. "My certain personal interests lie elsewhere. He's a powerful looking sonofabitch, isn't he?"

"My tongue gets all swelled up in my mouth when he looks at me."

"Hmm." Eve ran her own around her teeth experimentally. "So go for it."

"I'm not prepared to become involved in a romantic relationship at this point."

"Hell, who said anything about relationship? Screw each other blind a couple times."

"I prefer affection and companionship in sexual encounters," Peabody said stiffly. "Sir."

"Yeah. It does make a difference." Eve sighed. It was almost a painful effort to keep her mind from leapfrogging back to Mavis, but she tried to focus. "I was just ragging on you, Peabody. I know what it's like when you're standing there, trying to do your job, and some guy hits you between the eyes. I'm sorry if you're uncomfortable working with him, but I need you."

"It's not a problem." Loosening up, Peabody smiled. "And it's not exactly a sacrifice to look at him." She glanced up as Eve swung toward the underground parking beneath a spearing white tower on Fifth. "Isn't this one of Roarke's buildings?"

"Most of them are." The electronic attendant scanned her vehicle and passed it through. "This is his main office. It's also the New York base of Redford Productions. I've got an interview with him re the Pandora homicide." Eve slipped into the VIP spot Roarke had arranged for her, shut down her car. "You're not officially attached to this case, but you're officially attached to me. Feeney's up to his ass in data, and I want another set of eyes and ears. Objections?"

"None come to mind, Lieutenant."

"Dallas," Eve reminded her as they stepped from the car. The safety barrier blinked on, surrounding the car to protect it from dings, scratches, and theft. As if, Eve thought sourly, it didn't already have so many dings and scratches a thief would insult himself by looking twice. She strode up to the private executive elevator, entered her code, and tried not to be embarrassed. "Saves time," she muttered.

Peabody's eyes widened as they stepped onto thick carpeting. The car was large enough for a party of six, and boasted a lush arrangement of fragrant hibiscus. "I'm all for saving time."

"Thirty-fifth floor," Eve requested. "Redford Productions, executive offices."

"Floor three-five," the computer acknowledged. "East quadrant, executive level."

"Pandora had a small party on the night she died," Eve began. "Redford might be the last person to have seen her alive. Jerry Fitzgerald and Justin Young also attended, but left early after Mavis Freestone and Pandora fought. They alibi each other for the rest of the night. Redford remained with Pandora for a time. If Fitzgerald and Young are telling the truth, they're in the clear. I know Mavis is telling the truth." She waited a beat, but Peabody made no comment. "So we see what we can shake out of the producer."

The elevator smoothly shifted to horizontal, gliding east. The doors opened and noise poured in.

Obviously Redford's employees liked music with their daily grind. It rocked out of recessed speakers, filled the air with energy. Two men and a woman worked at a wide circular console, chatting cheerfully into 'links, beaming at computer screens.

There appeared to be a small party in progress in the waiting area to the right. Several people milled around drinking from small cups or nibbling on tiny pastries. The sound of tinkling laughter and cocktail hour conversation underscored the lively music.