J. Robb: Loyalty in Death

When it hit the media, and it would, she imagined a lot of dissatisfied sexual partners were going to be eyeing the tool closet.

Lover piss you off? she thought. Well, see how he likes a taste of the Branson 8000 – the choice of professionals and serious hobbyists. Oh yeah, she thought Lisbeth Cooke could work up a pretty jazzy ad campaign using that angle. Sales would shoot right up.

Relationships had to be society's most baffling and brutal form of entertainment. Most could make an arena ball playoff game look like a ballroom dance. Still, lonely souls continued to seek them out, cling to them, fret and fight over them, and mourn the loss of them.

No wonder the world was full of whacks.

The glint of her wedding ring caught her eye and made her wince. That was different, she assured herself. She hadn't sought anything out. It had found her, taken her down like a hard tackle to the back of the knees. And if Roarke ever decided he wanted out, she'd probably let him live.

In a permanent body cast.

Disgusted all around, she spun back to her machine and began to hammer out the investigative report the PA's office apparently didn't want to bother with.

She glanced up as E-Detective Ian McNab poked a head in her doorway. His long golden hair was braided today, and only one iridescent hoop graced his earlobe. Obviously to make up for the conservative touch, he wore a thick sweater in screaming greens and blues that hung to the hips of black pipe-stem trousers. Shiny blue boots completed the look.

He grinned at her, green eyes bold in a pretty face. "Hey, Dallas, I finished checking out your victim's 'links and personal memo book. The stuff from his office just came in, but I figured you'd want what I've got so far."

"Then why isn't your report on my desk unit?" she asked dryly.

"Just thought I'd bring it over personally." With a friendly smile, he dropped a disc on her desk, then plopped his butt on the corner.

" Peabody 's running data for me, McNab."

"Yeah." He moved his shoulders. "So, she's in her cube?"

"She's not interested in you, pal. Get a clue here."

He turned his hand over, examined his nails critically. "Who says I'm interested in her? She still seeing Monroe, or what?"

"We don't talk about it."

His eyes met hers briefly, and they shared a moment of the vague disapproval neither of them liked to show for Peabody 's continued involvement with a slick if appealing licensed companion. "Just curious, that's all."

"So ask her yourself." And report back to me, she added silently.

"I do." He grinned again. "Gives her a chance to snarl at me. She's got great teeth."

He got up, paced around Eve's cramped box of an office. They both would have been surprised to realize their thoughts on relationships were, at that moment, running on parallel lines.

McNab's hot date with an off-planet flight consultant had cooled and soured the night before. She'd bored him, he thought now, which should have been impossible as she'd put her truly magnificent breasts on display in something sheer and silver.

He hadn't been able to work up any enthusiasm because his thoughts had continued to drift to the way a certain prickly cop looked in her starched uniform.

What the hell did she wear under that thing? he wondered now, as he had unfortunately wondered the night before. That speculation had caused him to end the evening early, annoying the flight consultant so that when he came to his senses – as he was sure he would – he'd never get another shot at those beautiful breasts.

He was, he decided, spending too many nights home alone, watching the screen.

Which reminded him.

"Hey, I caught Mavis's video on-screen last night. Frigid."

"Yeah, it's pretty great." Eve thought of her friend; even now on her first tour to promote her recording disc for Roarke's entertainment arm, singing her butt off in Atlanta. Mavis Freestone, Eve thought sentimentally, was a long way from shrieking her lungs out for the zoned and the glazed at dives like the Blue Squirrel.

"The disc is starting to take off. Roarke thinks it'll make the top twenty next week."

McNab jingled credit chips in his pocket. "And we knew her when, right?"

He was stalling, Eve thought, and she was letting him. "I think Roarke's planning a party or something once she gets back."

"Yeah? Great." Then he perked up at the unmistakable sound of police-issue shoes slapping worn linoleum. McNab had his hands in his pockets and a look of sheer disinterest on his face when Peabody came through the door.

"NJPSD came through with – " She broke off, scowled. "What do you want, McNab?"

"Multiple orgasms, but you guys copped that one out of the goodie bag."

A laugh tried to bubble into her throat, but Peabody controlled it. "The lieutenant doesn't have time for your pitiful jokes."

"Actually, the lieutenant kind of liked that one," Eve said, then rolled her eyes when Peabody glared at her. "Take off, McNab, play period's over."

"Just thought you'd be interested," he continued, "that in running the 'links and memo books of the deceased, no calls, incoming and outgoing, were transmitted to a female other than his assailant or his office staff. No records of appointments appear in his log for liaisons," he said, rolling out the word with a smirk for Peabody, "other than those involving Lisbeth Cooke – who he often refers to as Lissy my love."

"No record of another woman?" Eve pursed her lips. "What about another guy?"

"Nope, no dates either way, and no indication of bisexuality."

"Interesting. Run the office logs, McNab. I wonder if Lissy my love was lying about her motive, and if so, why she killed him."

"I'm on it." As he strolled out, he paused just long enough to throw Peabody a loud, exaggerated kiss.

"He is such a complete asshole."

"Maybe he irritates you, Peabody – "

"There's no maybe involved."

"But he was smart enough to see that his report might change a few angles on this case."

The idea of McNab dipping his toe into one of her cases, again, had Peabody bristling. "But the Cooke case is closed. The perpetrator confessed, has been charged, booked, and bonded."

"She got man two. If it wasn't a crime of passion, maybe we get more. It's worth finding out if Branson was bouncing on somebody on the side or if she made that up to cover another motive. We'll take a run over to his office later today, ask some questions. Meanwhile…" She wagged her curled fingers toward the disc Peabody still held.

"Detective Sally's primary," Peabody began as she handed Eve the disc. "He's got no problem cooperating. Basically because he's got nothing. The body'd been in the river at least thirty-six hours before discovery. He's got no witnesses. The victim wasn't carrying any cash or credits, but he did have ID and credit cards. He was wearing a wrist unit – Carder knockoff but a good one – so Sally ruled out a standard mugging, especially when the autopsy didn't turn up a tongue."

"There's a clue," Eve muttered and slid the disc into a slot on her unit.

"ME's report indicates the tongue was severed with a serrated blade, premortem. However, lacerations and bruising at the back of the neck, and the lack of defensive indicate the victim was probably knocked unconscious before the impromptu surgery, then dumped in the river. They strapped his hands and feet before giving him the toss. Drowning's down as cause of death."

Eve tapped her fingers. "Any reason I should bother reading this report?" she asked and earned a grin.

"Detective Sally was talkative. I don't think he'd struggle if you wanted to take the case. He pointed out that since the victim lived in New York, it's a toss-up right now if he was killed here or on the other side of the river."