The In Death Collection 06-10 (65 page)

The best that could be said about the slop served at Cop Central’s Eatery was that it filled the hole
serious hunger could dig. Between bites of what was supposed to be a spinach omelette, Peabody accessed data on her palm
PC.

“Ellen Bowers,” she reported. “No middle initial. Graduated from the academy, New
York branch, in ’46.”

“I was there in ’46,” Eve mused. “She’d have been right ahead of
me. I don’t remember her.”

“I can’t get her academy records without authorization.”

“Don’t bother with that.” Scowling, Eve hacked at the cardboard disguised as a
pancake on her plate. “She’s been on the force a dozen years and she’s scooping stiffs downtown? Wonder
who else she pissed off.”

“Assigned to the one sixty-two for the last two years, spent another couple at the four-seven. Before
that, assigned to Traffic. Man, she’s bounced all over, Dallas. Did time in Cop Central in Records, another stint at the
two-eight—that’s Park Patrol, mostly on-foot stuff.”

Since even the small lake of syrup Eve had used to drown the pancake didn’t soften it, she gave up
and switched to gut-burning coffee. “Sounds like our friend’s
had trouble finding her niche or
the department’s been shuffling her.”

“Authorization’s required to access transfer documents and/or personal progress
reports.”

Eve considered, then shook her head. “No, it feels sticky, and we’re probably done with her,
in any case.”

“I’ve got that she’s single. Never married, no kids. She’s thirty-five, parents
live in Queens, three sibs. Two brothers and one sister. And, we have my personal take,” Peabody added as she set the PPC
aside. “I hope we’re done with her, because she’d really, really like to hurt you.”

Eve only smiled. “That’s gotta be frustrating for her, doesn’t it? Do you have a
personal take on why?”

“Not a clue except you’re you and she’s not.” Uneasy, Peabody moved her
shoulders. “I’d pay attention, though. She looked like the kind who’d come at you from behind.”

“We’re not likely to run into each other on a regular basis.” Eve filed the matter,
dismissed it. “Eat up. I want to go see if this sleeper of Trueheart’s knows anything.”

She decided to use an interview room, knowing the stark formality of that often loosened tongues. One look
at the Gimp warned her that while he might be coherent now, thanks to a hefty dose of Sober-Up, his skinny body still jittered and his
nervous eyes jumped.

A quick spin through the decontamination tank had likely chased off any parasites and had laid a thin layer
of faux citrus over the stink of him.

An addict, Eve thought, with an assortment of vices that had certainly fried a good portion of his brain
cells.

She brought him water, knowing most brew hounds suffered from dry mouth after decon. “How old
are you, Gimp?”

“Dunno, maybe fifty.”

He looked to be a very ill-preserved eighty, but she thought he was probably close to the mark.
“You got another name?”

He shrugged. They’d taken away his clothes and disposed of them. The gray smock and drawstring
pants hung on him and were nearly the same color as his skin. “Dunno. I’m Gimp.”

“Okay. You know Officer Trueheart here, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Suddenly, the beaten face glowed with a smile as pure as a baby’s.
“Hi! You slipped me some credits, said I should get some soup.”

Trueheart flushed painfully, shifted on his regulation shoes. “I guess you bought brew with
it.”

“Dunno.” The smile faded as his busy eyes landed on Eve again. “Who are you?
How come I have to be here? I didn’t do nothing. Somebody’s gonna take my stuff if I don’t watch
out.”

“Don’t worry about your stuff, Gimp. We’ll take care of it. I’m
Dallas.” She kept her voice low and easy, her face bland. Too much cop, she thought, would just spook him. “I just
want to talk to you. You want something to eat?”

“Dunno. Maybe.”

“We’ll get you something hot after we talk. I’m going to turn on the recorder, so we
get it all straight.”

“I didn’t do nothing.”

“Nobody thinks you did. Engage recorder,” she ordered. “Interview with witness
known as the Gimp regarding case number 28913-H. Interviewer Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Also attending, Peabody, Officer Delia, and
Trueheart, Officer . . . ?” She glanced over.

“Troy.” He flushed again.

“Troy Trueheart?” Eve said with her tongue in her cheek. “Okay.” Then she
pinned her gaze on the pitiful man across from her. “Subject witness is not under suspicion for any wrongdoing. This
investigator appreciates his cooperation. Do you understand that, Gimp?”

“Yeah, guess. What?”

She didn’t sigh, but was momentarily afraid the detestable Bowers was right about him.
“You’re not here because you’re in trouble. I appreciate you talking to me. I hear you moved your crib last
night.”

He wet his cracked lips, drank. “Dunno.”

“You used to have it across the street, near Snooks. You know Snooks, don’t you,
Gimp?”

“Maybe.” His hand shook, slopping water on the table. “He draws pictures. Nice
pictures. I traded him some Zoner for a pretty one of a tree. He makes flowers, too. Nice.”

“I saw his flowers. They’re pretty. He was kind of a friend of yours?”

“Yeah.” His eyes filled and tears spilled over the red rims. “Maybe.
Dunno.”

“Somebody hurt him, Gimp. Did you know that?”

Now he shrugged, a hard jerk of the shoulder, and began to look around the room. Tears were still rolling
down his cheeks, but his eyes were glazed with confusion. “How come I have to be in here? I don’t like being inside. I
want my stuff. Somebody’s for sure gonna steal my stuff.”

“Did you see who hurt him?”

“Can I keep these clothes?” Cocking his head, he began to finger the sleeve of the smock.
“Am I gonna keep ’em?”

“Yeah, you can keep them.” Narrowing her eyes, she went with her gut. “How come
you didn’t take his boots, Gimp? He was dead, and they were good boots.”

“I don’t steal from Snooks,” he said with some dignity. “Not even when
he’s dead. You don’t steal from your bud, no way, no how. How come you think they done that to him?”
Looking genuinely puzzled, he leaned forward. “How come you think they put that big hole in him?”

“I don’t know.” Eve leaned forward, too, as if they were having a quiet, personal
conversation. “I keep wondering about that. Was anybody mad at him?”

“Snooks? He don’t hurt nobody. We just mind our own, that’s what. You can
panhandle some if the beat droids don’t look your way. We got no fucking beggar’s license, but you can shake some
credits loose if the droids aren’t around. And Snooks he sells his paper flowers
sometimes, and we get
some brew or some smoke and mind our own. No call to put a big hole in him, was there?”

“No, it was a bad thing they did to him. You saw them last night?”

“Dunno. Dunno what I saw. Hey!” He beamed that smile at Trueheart again. “Maybe
you give me some credits again, all right? For some soup.”

Trueheart shot a glance at Eve, got her nod. “Sure, Gimp. I’ll give you some before you go.
You just have to talk to the lieutenant for awhile more.”

“You liked old Snooks, right?”

“I liked him fine.” Trueheart smiled and, taking the cue from Eve, sat. “He drew nice
pictures. He gave me one of his paper flowers.”

“He’d only give them to people he liked,” Gimp said brightly. “He liked you.
Said so. Didn’t like that other one and me neither. She’s got mean eyes. Like to kick you in the teeth if she
could.” His head bobbed up and down like a doll’s. “What you doing going around with her?”

“She’s not here now,” Trueheart said gently. “The lieutenant is. Her eyes
aren’t mean.”

Gimp pouted, studied Eve’s face. “Maybe not. Cop’s though. Cop’s eyes.
Cops, cops, cops.” He giggled, guzzled water, eyed Peabody. “Cops, cops, cops.” He all but sang it.

“I feel really bad about old Snooks,” Trueheart continued. “I bet he’d want
you to tell Lieutenant Dallas what happened. He’d want it to be you who tells, because you were buds.”

Gimp paused, pulled on his earlobe. “You think?”

“I do. Why don’t you tell her what you saw last night?”

“Dunno what I saw.” Head cocked again, Gimp began to tap the sides of his fists on the
table. “People coming around. Don’t see people coming around at night that way. Driving a big black car. Big fucker!
Shined in the dark. They don’t say nothing.”

Eve held up a finger, indicating to Trueheart she was taking over again. “How many people,
Gimp?”

“Two. Wore long black coats. Looked warm. Had masks on so all you can see over it’s the
eyes. I think,
Hey! It ain’t fucking Halloween
.” He broke himself up, laughing delightedly. “It
ain’t fucking Halloween,” he repeated, snorting, “but they got masks on and they carrying bags like for trick or
treat.”

“What did the bags look like?”

“One has a nice big black one, shines, too. And the other has something else, it’s white and
it makes sloshy noises when he walks with it. They go right into Snooks’s crib like they was invited or something. I
don’t hear nothing but the wind, maybe I go to sleep.”

“Did they see you?” Eve asked him.

“Dunno. They got warm coats and good shoes, big car. You don’t go thinking they gonna
put a big hole in Snooks?” He leaned toward her again, his homely face earnest, tears trembling again. “If you think
that, you’d try to stop them maybe, or go run for the beat droid, ’cause you’re buds.”

He was crying now. Eve leaned over, laid a hand over his, despite the scabs that covered it. “You
didn’t know. It’s not your fault. It’s their fault. What else did you see?”

“Dunno.” His eyes and nose dripped like faucets. “Sleep maybe. Then maybe I woke
up and looked out. No car now. Was there a car there? Dunno. It’s getting light out, and I go over to see Snooks.
He’ll know maybe if there was a big black car. And I see him, see that big hole in him, and the blood. His mouth’s
wide open and his eyes, too. They put a big hole in him, and maybe they want to put one in me so I can’t be there.
Can’t do that, no way, no how. So I have to get my stuff away from there. All my stuff right away from there. So
that’s what I do, you bet, and then I drink all the rest of the brew I got and go back to sleep. I didn’t help old
Snooks.”

“You’re helping him now.” Eve leaned back. “Let’s talk about the
two people in the long coats some more.”

• • •

She worked him another hour, tugging him back when he wandered too far for too long. Though she
didn’t slide any more information out of him, Eve didn’t consider the hour wasted. He would know her now if she had
to hunt him up again. He’d remember her well enough, and remember the meeting hadn’t been unpleasant. Particularly
since she ordered him in a hot meal and gave him fifty credits she knew he’d spend on brew and illegals.

He should have been in Psych, she thought, or in a halfway house. But he wouldn’t have stuck.
She’d long ago accepted that you couldn’t save everyone.

“You did a good job with him, Trueheart.”

He blushed again, and while she found the trait a bit endearing, she hoped he learned to control it. The other
cops would eat him alive before the bad guys had a chance for a nibble.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate you giving me a chance to help with him.”

“You found him,” Eve said simply. “I figure you’ve got plans for yourself
out of Homicide-Lite.”

This time he squared his shoulders. “I want a detective shield, when I’ve earned
it.”

It was rare to find a uniform rookie without that particular aspiration, but she nodded. “You can start
earning it by sticking. I could and would be willing to put in a plug for your transfer—see that you got another beat and another
trainer. But I’m going to ask you to stay where you are. You’ve got good eyes, Trueheart, and I’d like you to
use them on your beat until we close this case.”

He was so overwhelmed with the offer and the request, his eyes nearly popped out of his head.
“I’ll stick.”

“Good. Bowers is going to give you grief over this.”

He grimaced. “I’m getting used to it.”

It was an opening to ask him more, to pump him for some details on Bowers. She let it pass, not wanting to
put a rookie in the position of ratting on his own trainer. “Fine, then. Go back to your station and write your report. If you
come across anything you think might apply to this case, get in touch with either me or Peabody.”

She headed to her office, already issuing orders to Peabody to have the interview disc duped. “And
let’s get the rundown on known dealers in that area. We can’t absolutely rule out the illegals connection. I
can’t think of a chemi-dealer who offs his deadbeat clients by surgically removing vital organs, but stranger things have
happened. We’ll run known cults, too,” she continued as Peabody input the orders into her memo pad. “It
feels wrong, but we’ll give it some attention.”

“I can contact Isis,” Peabody suggested, referring to a Wiccan they had dealt with on
another case. “She might know if any of the black magic cults have a routine like this.”

Eve grunted, nodded, and caught the glide with Peabody beside her. “Yeah, use the connection.
Let’s get that angle eliminated.”

She glanced toward the window wall where the glass tubes she avoided like poison carried cops, clerks, and
civilians up and down the outside of the building. Beyond them she saw a pair of air support units scream off to the west, blasting
between an advertising blimp and a commuter tram.

Inside, the pulse of the building was fast and strong. Voices, rushing feet, a crowd of bodies with jobs to
do. It was a rhythm she understood. She glanced at her wrist unit, oddly pleased to see it was barely nine. She’d been on duty
four hours, and the day was just getting started.

“And let’s see if we can get a real ID on the victim,” she continued when they
stepped off the glide. “We got his prints and DNA sample. If Morris is into the postmortem, he should at least have an
approximate age.”