J. Robb - Immortal in Death

That she wanted to seemed very clear to Roarke. "What were your impressions?"

"Callous, ruthless, self-interested."

"You didn't like him."

"No, I didn't. He was slick, smug, confident he could handle some city cop without straining his brain cells. And he volunteered information, just like Young and Fitzgerald did. I don't trust volunteers."

The way the mind of a cop worked was a marvel, he mused. "You'd trust him more if you'd had to pry information out of him."

"Sure." It was one of the basic rules, for her. "He was anxious to feed me Pandora's drug use. So was Fitzgerald. And all three of them were almost happy to tell me they didn't like her."

"I don't suppose you'd consider they were simply being honest."

"When people are that open, especially to a cop, there's usually another layer underneath. I'm going to do some more digging on them." She circled back, sat again. "Then there's the Illegals cop I'm butting heads with."

"Casto."

"Yeah. He wants the cases, took it well enough when he lost the stab, but it's not going to be share and share alike with him. He wants a captaincy."

"And you don't?"

Her gaze shifted coolly to his. "When I've earned it."

"And, of course, you'll be sharing and sharing alike cheerfully with Casto in the meantime."

Her lips curved. "Shut up, Roarke. The point is, I have to link Boomer's death with Pandora's solidly. I have to find the person or persons who connect them, who knew them both. Until I do, Mavis is facing a murder trial."

"As I see it, you have two avenues to explore."

"Which are?"

"The glittery road to haute couture and the gritty road to the streets." He took out a cigarette, lighted it. "Where did you say Pandora had been before she got back on planet?"

"Starlight Station."

"I have some interests there."

"What a surprise," she said dryly.

"I'll ask a few questions. The people in the circle Pandora exploited don't respond terribly well to badges."

"If I don't get the right answers, I may have to go there myself."

Something in her tone alerted him. "Problem?"

"No, no problem."

"Eve."

She pushed away from the table again. "I've never been off planet."

Bemused, he stared. "Never? As in never?"

"Not everybody just goes popping off into orbit whenever they get an itch. There's plenty to keep most of us busy right here."

"There's nothing to be afraid of," he said, reading her perfectly. "Space travel is safer than driving in the city."

"Bullshit," she said under her breath. "I didn't say I was afraid. If I have to do it, I'll do it. I'd just rather not, that's all. The closer I'm able to keep this to home, the faster I'll have Mavis out of it."

"Umm-hmm." Interesting, he thought, to discover his stalwart lieutenant had a phobia. "Why don't we see what I can find out for you?"

"You're a civilian."

"Unofficially, of course."

She looked back at him, saw amused understanding, and sighed. "Fine. I don't suppose you've got an off planet flora expert you can lend me while you're at it."

Roarke picked up his wine again, smiled. "As a matter of fact…"

The case was going in too many directions at once, Eve decided. The best course was the most familiar. She took to the streets. And she took to them alone.

She'd left Peabody with a pile of data to check, buzzed Feeney for an update, but she headed out solo.

She didn't want to make small talk, didn't want anyone looking too closely. She'd had a bad night and was well aware it showed.

The nightmare had been one of the worst so far. It had squeezed her by the throat, battered her awake in a sweaty, whimpering mess. Her only relief had been that dawn had been breaking when it had reached its peak. And she'd been alone in bed with Roarke already up and in the shower.

If he'd heard her or seen her, she'd never have gotten past him. Perhaps it had been misplaced pride, but she'd used every tactic at her disposal to avoid him, then had left him a quick memo before slipping out of the house.

She'd avoided Mavis and Leonardo as well, and had only run into Summerset long enough to have been granted one of his freezing looks.

She'd turned away from that and had walked out. There was a sick knowledge inside her that she was turning away from a great deal more.

Work was the answer, or so she hoped. Work she understood. She pulled up in front of the Down and Dirty Club in the East End and got out of the car.

"Hey there, white girl."

"How's it passing, Crack?"

"Oh, without much hassle." He grinned at her, a giant of a black man with a face seamed with tattoos. His rocket launcher chest was partially covered with a feathered vest that hung past his knees and added flair to the loincloth of neon pink he sported. "Gonna be another hot one this day."

"Got time to go inside and cool me off with a drink?"

"Might be, for you, sweet butt. You taking Crack's advice and turning in your badge to shake your talent in the Down and Dirty?"

"Not in this lifetime."

He laughed, patting his gleaming belly. "Don't know why it is I got a liking for you. You come on in, wet your whistle, and tell Crack what's rocking down."

She'd been in worse clubs, and would be eternally grateful she'd been in better. The stale smells from the night hung still: incense, bad perfumes, liquor, smoke from dubious leaves, unwashed bodies, and casual sex.

It was too early for even the most dedicated partier. Chairs were overturned onto tables, and she could see where someone had made a careless pass with a mop over the sticky floor. Substances she didn't care to identify had been left behind.

Still, the bottles behind the main bar gleamed in the colored lights. On the stage to the right, a dancer draped in pink net practiced a routine to the blare of simulated brass.

A jerk of Crack's huge head had the domestic droid and the dancer wandering off. "What's your pleasure, white girl?"

"Coffee, black."

Crack lumbered behind the bar, still grinning. "Gotcha. How 'bout a drop or two of my special reserve in that coffee?"

Eve lifted a shoulder. When in Rome. "Sure."

She watched him program the coffee, then uncode a cabinet where he took out a bottle fit for a Genie. And, leaning on the cloudy bar, smelling the smells, she relaxed a little. She knew why she had a liking for Crack, a nighthawk she barely knew but understood. He was part of a world she'd wandered in most of her life.

"Now, whatcha doing in this nasty place, honey pot? Being a cop?"

"Afraid so." She sampled the coffee, sucked in her breath. "Jesus, some reserve."

"Only for my favorite people. It skims under the legal limit." He winked. "Just. What you want Crack to do for you?"

"Did you know Boomer? Carter Johannsen. Small-time player. Data hound."

"I know Boomer. He's meat now."

"Yeah, that's right. Somebody slaughtered him. You ever do business with him, Crack?"

"He come in now and then." Crack preferred his reserve straight up. He sipped, then smacked his tattooed lips in appreciation. "Sometimes he flush, sometimes not. He liked to watch the show and talk the shit. Not much harm in old Boomer. Heard he got his face erased."

"That's right. Who'd want to do that?".

"He pissed somebody off bad, I'd say. Boomer, he had big ears. If he popped a few, he had a big mouth, too."

"When did you see him last?"

"Hell, now, hard to remember. Few weeks, anyway. Seems to me he came through one night with a pocket full of credits. Bought himself a bottle, a few tabs, and a privacy room. Lucille went with him. No, not Lucille, shit. Was Hetta. All you white girls look alike," he said with a wink.

"Did he tell anyone how he came to have full pockets?"