J. Robb - Immortal in Death

"Dare you."

"Dare me what? To get up there? Shit, that's nothing."

"Then do it." Eve leaned over, grinned in her face. "Let's see some action."

"You think I won't." Rising, Nadine teetered, righted herself. "Hey, hot stuff," she shouted to the closest dancer. "Give me a hand up."

The crowd loved her, Eve decided. Especially when Nadine got into the spirit and stripped down to purple underwear. Eve sighed into her mineral water. She sure knew how to pick her friends. "How's it going, Trina?"

"I'm having an out of body experience. I think I'm in Tibet."

"Uh-huh." Eve cast a look at Dr. Mira. The way the woman was cheering, Eve was afraid she'd leap up onstage herself. She didn't think either one of them wanted that vision in their memory logs. "Peabody." She had to jab her fingers into Peabody's arm to get even a vague reaction. "Let's get some more food here."

Peabody grunted. "I could do that."

Following her gaze, Eve watched Nadine in a crotch grind with a seven-foot black in body paint. "Sure you could, pal. You'd bring the house down."

"It's just that I've got this little pouch." She staggered, and Eve caught her neatly by the arm. "Jake called it my jelly belly. I'm saving up to have it sucked."

"Just do some more abs. Don't go for the vacuum."

"It's heditary."

"Hereditary."

"Right." She swayed and hobbled as Eve steered her through the crowd. "Everybody in my family's got one. Jake likes ' em skinny. Like you."

"Screw him, then."

"Did." Peabody giggled, then leaned heavily on a serving bar. "Screwed our brains out. That's not what does it, though, you know that, Evie."

Eve sighed. "Peabody, I don't want to punch a fellow officer when she's impaired. So don't call me Evie."

"Right. Know what does it?"

"Food," she ordered from the server droid. "Any kind and lots of it. Table three. What does what, Peabody?"

"What does it. It. What you and Roarke got, that's what does it. Connection. Inside connections. Sex is just the extra."

"Sure. You and Casto having problems?"

"Nope. Just don't have much connection now that the case is closed." Peabody shook her head and lights exploded in front of her eyes. "Jesus, I'm plowed. Gotta use the John."

"I'll go with you."

"I can do it myself." With some dignity, Peabody nudged Eve's hand from her arm. "I don't care to vomit in front of a superior officer, if it's all the same to you."

"Suit yourself."

But Eve watched her like a hawk as she toddled across the floor. They'd been at it nearly three hours, she judged. And though fun was fun, she was going to get some food into her little playmates and see that they all got transport home.

Smiling, she leaned on the bar herself, watching Nadine, still wearing purple briefs, sitting at the table having an earnest discussion with Dr. Mira. Trina had her head on the table now and was probably communing with the Dhali Lama.

Mavis, eyes shining, was onstage, screeching out an impromptu number that had the dance floor rocking.

Damn it, she thought as she felt her throat burn. She loved the whole snockered lot of them. Peabody included, she decided, and opted to take a short peek into the toilet to make sure her aide hadn't passed out or drowned.

She made it nearly halfway across the club before she was grabbed. As it had been happening on and off all evening as hopeful clubgoers trolled for partners, she started to shake off good-naturedly.

"Try again, ace. Not interested. Hey!" The quick pinch on her arm annoyed more than hurt. But her vision was already wavering as she was muscled through the hooting crowd and shoved into a privacy room.

"Goddamn it, I said I wasn't interested." She started to reach for her badge, missed her pocket completely. At a gentle nudge, she spilled backward onto a narrow bed.

"Take a rest, Eve. We have to talk." Casto dropped down next to her and crossed his feet at the ankles.

Roarke wasn't in a partygoing mood, but as Feeney had gone to some trouble to create a monstrously hedonistic atmosphere, he played his part. It was a hall of sorts, crowded with men, many of whom were surprised to find themselves participating in such a pagan ritual. Still, Feeney, with his electronic expertise, had ferreted out some of Roarke's closer business associates, and none had wanted to risk offending someone of Roarke's stature with a refusal.

So there they were, the rich, the famous, and the scrambling, pressed into a badly lit room with life-size screens flickering with naked bodies in various, imaginative acts of sexual frenzy, a trio of live strippers already entertainingly naked, and enough beer and whiskey to sink the Seventh Fleet and all its crew.

Roarke had to admit it had been a nice gesture and was doing his best to live up to Feeney's expectations as a man on his final night of freedom.

"There you are, boy-o, another whiskey for you." After several of the Irish himself, Feeney had slipped comfortably into the brogue of the country he'd never seen – that indeed his great-great-grandparents had never set foot on. "Up the rebels, eh?"

Roarke cocked a brow. He himself had been born in Dublin and had spent most of his youth wandering its streets and alleys. Yet he couldn't claim the sentimental attachment Feeney did for a land and its rebellions. "Slainte," he said to please his friend, and sipped.

"There's a lad. Now you see here, Roarke, the ladies among us are for looking purposes only. No touching for you now."

"I'll do my best to restrain myself."

Feeney grinned and slapped Roarke on the back hard enough to stagger him. "She's a prize, isn't she? Our Dallas."

"She's…" Roarke scowled into his whiskey. "Something," he decided.

"Keep you on your toes, she will. Keeps them all on their toes. Got a mind like a fucking shark. You know, focused on one thing till the thing's done. Tell you straight, this last case had her bug-shit."

"She hasn't let it go," Roarke murmured, and smiled coolly when a naked blonde sidled up to rub her hands up his chest. "You'll have better luck with that one," he told her, gesturing to a glaze-eyed man in charcoal gray pinstripes. "He owns Stoner Dynamics."

When she looked blank, Roarke gently disengaged the hands that were gliding cheerfully toward his crotch. "He's loaded."

She shimmied off, leaving Feeney gazing wistfully after her. "I'm a happily married man, Roarke."

"So I've been told."

"It's lowering to admit I'm not but a little tempted to give a pretty young thing like that a quick ride in a dark room."

"You're a better man for it, Feeney."

"That's the truth." He sighed, low and long, then veered back to the former topic. "Dallas goes off for a few weeks, she'll put this aside, get on with the next."

"She doesn't like losing, and she thinks she has." He tried to dismiss it. Damn if he wanted to spend the night before his wedding picking apart a homicide. With a muttered curse, he steered Feeney to a quiet corner. "What do you know about that dealer who got hit in the East End?"

"Cockroach. Not much to know. Dealer, fairly slick, fairly stupid. It's amazing how many of them are both. Stuck to his own turf. Liked a quick, easy profit."

"Was he a weasel, too? Like Boomer?"

"Usta weasel. His trainer retired last year."

"What happens when a trainer retires?"

"Another one takes on the weasel, or he's let go. Didn't find any new trainer for Cockroach."

Roarke started to shrug it off, but it kept niggling. "The cop who retired? Did he work with anybody?"

"What d'you think? I got memory chips in my head?"

"Yes."

Flattered, Feeney preened. "Well, as a matter of fact, I recall he was partnered with an old pal of mine. Danny Riley. That was back in, oh, forty-one. Seems like he cruised with Mari Dirscolli for a few years to about forty-eight. Might be forty-nine."