Tess Gerritsen - Peggy Sue Got Murdered

"Don't," she said. He went on kissing her, his mouth ever more demanding. She said again, louder, " Don't ," and pressed her hands against his chest.

He pulled away, his gaze hungrily searching her face. "What's wrong?"

"You. Me." She rolled away and slid free, onto the carpet. At once she scrambled to her feet. "It just doesn't work, Adam."

He sat up and smoothed back his hair. "I thought it was working just fine," he said with a grin.

"Tell me something," she said, restlessly moving about the room. "How often do you use that handy little couch of yours?"

He let out a sigh of frustration. "Not often enough."

"When was the last time?"

"You mean… truthfully?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "Never."

"That's being truthful?"

"I am. I've never used this couch. I mean, not for that purpose." He patted the cushion. "Look, see how clean it is? Oops, coffee stain there. But that's all." He gazed up at her with a look of pure innocence. And regret. "Tonight you and I would've inaugurated it."

She laughed. "Why is it I don't feel particularly honored?"

He sighed. "M. J., you have to understand. I've been a widower for some time now. And here you are, this wildly attractive woman. And I…" He shrugged. "Got a little carried away."

"Is that plan B? Flattery?"

"Flattery's not my style. You should know that."

"That's just it, Adam. I don't know you. Except as a phone number in the hand of a corpse. Not exactly a confidence-inspiring introduction."

They both started as the phone rang. Adam went to the desk and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Grace." A pause, then: "We're on our way." He looked at M. J. "The results are back."

They found Grace sitting in front of the computer terminal. A readout was just rolling out of the printer. She tore off the page and handed it to Adam. "There you have it, Mr. Q. A little booze. Traces of decongestant. And that." She pointed to a band on the chromatographic printout.

"Did you analyze this band?" asked Adam.

"I ran it against mass and UV spectrophotometry. I'm not a hundred percent sure of its structure. It'll take some more noodling around. But I can tell you it's a morphine analogue. Something new. Levo-N-cyclobutylmethyl-6,10 beta-dihydroxy class."

M. J. looked sharply at Adam. He was staring at the printout in shock.

"Zestron-L," said M. J.

Grace glanced at her in puzzlement. "Zestron-L? What's that?"

"Check with the research wing," said M. J. "They'll help you run the immunoassay. That should identify it once and for all."

"You mean our research wing?" Grace looked at Adam. "Then it's…"

Adam nodded. "The drug is one of ours."

Lou Beamis looked blearily across his desk at M. J. He hadn't slept much last night-domestic homicide at 2:00 A.M.-and his normally smooth black face was sprouting the bristly beginnings of a new beard.

"It's gone beyond a simple trio of OD's, Lou," M. J. said. "We're talking corporate theft. An untested drug, out on the streets. And maybe more deaths on the way."

Shradick shuffled in, looking just as shaggy as Beamis. He carried with him the definite odor of McDonald's-a sausage and biscuit, which he eagerly unwrapped as he sat down at his desk.

"Hey, Vince," said Beamis. "Hear the latest? You'll be just thrilled ."

Shradick took a bite of his breakfast. "What's new?"

"Novak's got a tox ID on two of our overdoses."

"So what is it?" asked Shradick, obviously more interested in his sausage.

"Something called Zestron-L."

"Never heard of it."

"Of course you haven't. It's something new they're cooking up at Cygnus. Shouldn't be on the street at all."

"Somehow," said M. J., "it got out of Cygnus. Which means they've had a theft."

Shradick shrugged. "We're Homicide."

"This is homicide. Three dead people, Vince. Now, you don't really want any more bodies, do you? Or are you that desperate for overtime?"

Shradick looked balefully at Beamis. "Are we chasing this?"

Beamis leaned back and groaned. "If only it was nice and neat, you know? A bullet hole, a stab wound."

"That's neat?"

"At least it's cut and dried. Homicide with a capital H. But this is spinning our wheels. Folks who OD, it's a risk they take, sticking a needle in their veins. I don't really care where they get the stuff."

"Would you care if it was strychnine they were shooting up?"

"That's different."

"No, it isn't. In large doses, Zestron-L is every bit as deadly. How do you know we haven't got some right-wing fanatic out there, some nut trying to clear the junkies off the streets? And by the way, he's doing a good job."

Beamis sighed. "I hate that about you, Novak."

"What?"

"Your unassailable logic. It isn't feminine." He hauled himself out of his chair. "Okay. Lemme arrange for us to duck out a couple of hours. We'll head over to Cygnus."

"Man, oh, man," grumbled Shradick, after Beamis had left the room. "I shoulda stayed home in bed."

The smell of Shradick's sandwich was making M. J.'s stomach turn. She shifted in her chair and glanced down at Beamis's desk. A reed-thin black woman and two lads smiled at her from a framed photo. Lou's family? She forgot sometimes that cops had families and homes and mortgage payments. Next to that was a photo of Beamis in Marine uniform-Vietnam. Then a third photo, Beamis and another man, grinning like two hucksters on the steps of the Albion PD.

"Was this Lou's partner?" asked M. J. "The one who got hit in South Lexington?"

Shradick nodded. "Sitting in a marked car, can you believe it? Some guy drives by and just starts shooting. From what I hear, he and Lou, they were like this ." He pressed two fingers together. "We lost two down there, the same corner. Bad luck spot. Got a lot of bad luck spots in this town. Bolton and Swarthmore, that's another one. That's where my partner went down. Drug bust went sour, and he got boxed in a blind alley." He put the sandwich down, as though he'd suddenly lost his appetite. "And we lost one down on Dorchester, just last month. One of our gals, five-year vet. Perp got hold of her gun, turned it on her…" He shook his head mournfully and began to gather up all the sandwich wrappings.

That must be how every cop sees this town, M. J. realized. An Albion policeman looks at a map of the city and he sees more than just street names and addresses. He sees the corner where a partner got shot, the alley where a drug deal went bad, the street where an ambulance crew knelt in the rain trying to save a child. For a cop, a city map is a grid of bad memories.

Beamis came back into the room. "Okay, Vince," he said. "Things are quiet for the moment. Might as well do it now."

M. J. rose. "I'll meet you there."

Shradick fished his pocket pager out of the drawer and clipped it to his belt. "We going to Cygnus?" he asked.

"No choice," said Beamis. "Seeing as Novak here isn't gonna let it drop."

"I'm just asking you to do your job, Lou," she said.

"Job, hell. I'm doing you a favor."

"You're doing the city a favor."

"Albion?" Beamis laughed and pulled on his jacket. "The junkies are killing themselves off. Far as I'm concerned, the biggest favor I could do Albion is to look the other way."

"It's a secured area," said Adam. "Only our cleared personnel are allowed in this wing." He punched a keypad by the door, and the words pass code accepted flashed onto the screen. Adam swung the door open and motioned for his visitors to enter.

Shradick and Beamis went in first, then M. J. As she passed Adam, he reached out and gave her arm a squeeze. The unexpected intimacy of that contact and the whiff of his after-shave made her stomach dance a jig of excitement. He had seemed all business when he'd greeted them, so sober in his gray suit. Now, seeing that look in his eye, she knew the spell was still alive between them.