The In Death Collection 06-10 (67 page)

“Can’t. I’ve got more legwork.” But the light friction on her lip made it
curve. “So, what were you buying?”

“Australia,” he said then laughed when she gaped at him. “Just a small piece of
it.” Delighted with her reaction, he yanked her close for a quick, hard kiss. “Christ, I adore you, Eve.”

“Yeah, well. Good.” It continually left her hot and loose to hear it. To know it. “I
gotta go.”

“Would you like me to see what I can find out about organ research at Drake?”

“That’s my job, and I know how to do it. It’d be really nice if you didn’t get
mixed up in this one. Just . . . go buy the rest of Australia or something. I’ll see you at
home.”

“Lieutenant?” He turned to his desk, opened a drawer. Knowing how she worked, he tossed
her an energy bar. “Your lunch, I imagine.”

It made her grin as she tucked it in her pocket. “Thanks.”

When she closed the door behind her, he glanced at his wrist unit. Twenty minutes before his next meeting,
Roarke calculated. Time enough.

He took a seat at his computer, smiled a little as he thought of his wife, then called up data on the Drake
Center.

Eve discovered it was just as well she hadn’t gone after Mira first. The doctor was out. She shot off a
quick E-mail requesting a case consult the following day, then headed down to Drake.

It was one of those block-stretching buildings she’d seen hundreds of times and never paid attention
to. Before Roarke, that is. Since then, he had dragged, strong-armed, or carried her into their emergency treatment centers a number of
times. When, she thought now, she’d have been perfectly fine with a first aid kit and a nap.

She hated hospitals. The fact that she was going into this one as a cop and not a patient didn’t seem
to make a difference.

The original building was an old and distinguished brownstone that had been lovingly, and she imagined
expensively, preserved. Structures sheer and white speared up from it, out from it, joined together by the shimmering tubes of
breezeways, the circling ring of glides that glinted silver.

There were juts of white that formed what she supposed might be restaurants, gift shops, or other areas
where staff or visitors or patients might be allowed to gather and
enjoy the view. And delude themselves that
they weren’t in a structure full of the sick and suffering.

Because her vehicle’s computer was more reliable than her office unit, she was able to access some
general data. The Drake Center was more of a city within a city than a health center. It contained training facilities, teaching facilities,
labs, trauma units, surgeries, patient rooms and suites, a variety of staff lounges, and visitor waiting areas as one would expect from a
medical center.

But in addition, it held a dozen restaurants—two of which were rated five star—fifteen chapels,
an elegant little hotel for the family and friends of patients who wished to remain close by, a small, exclusive shopping arcade, three
theaters, and five full-service salons.

There were numerous roving maps and information centers to assist visitors in finding their way to their
sector of choice. Trams ran from key parking areas to various entryways, and the slick glass tubes sparkled in the thin winter sunlight
as they slid up and down the sides of the mammoth white structure like water.

Impatient, and because it was the section she knew best, Eve pulled her car into the ER lot, twisted it into a
street-level space, then snarled at the meter that demanded to know the extent of the injuries she suffered.

This is an emergency only parking area. Your injuries or illness must be verified in order for your vehicle to remain in this
parking area. Please state the nature and extent of your injuries or illness and step forward to be scanned.

“I’ve got terminal annoyance,” she shot back and shoved her badge into the view
screen. “Police business. Deal with it.”

While the meter squawked, she turned away to stride across the lot toward the hated glass double
doors.

The ER was full of wailing, sobbing, and complaining. Patients in different stages of distress huddled in
chairs,
filled out the forms on the porta-screens, or waited glassy-eyed for their turn.

An orderly was busy mopping up blood or God knew what, keeping the steel gray floor sanitized. Nurses
moved briskly in pale blue uniforms. Occasionally doctors zipped through with their long, flapping lab coats and were careful not to
make eye contact with the suffering.

Eve located the first map and asked for the surgical wing. The quickest route was the underground tram, so
she joined a moaning patient strapped to a gurney, two exhausted looking interns, and a couple who sat close together whispering
about someone named Joe and his chances with his new liver.

When she reached the right wing, she took the glide up a level.

The main floor here was quiet as a cathedral and nearly as ornate with its soaring mosaic ceilings and
sumptuous tableaus of flowers and blooming shrubbery. There were several seating areas, all with communications centers. Guide
droids stood by in pleasant pastel jumpsuits to lend assistance when necessary.

It cost dearly to be opened by a laser scalpel, to have internal organs repaired or replaced in a private
facility. The Drake Center had provided a proper welcome area for those who could afford its services.

Eve chose one of a half-dozen reception consoles at random and flashed her badge at the clerk to insure no
evasions. “I need to speak with Dr. Colin Cagney.”

“One moment, please, while I locate the doctor.” The clerk wore a stone gray suit and
precisely knotted tie. Efficiently, he ran a location search on his board, then offered Eve a polite smile. “Dr. Cagney is on the
tenth floor. That’s the Consultation Level. He is currently with a patient.”

“Is there a private waiting area on that level?”

“There are six private waiting areas on ten. Let me see if one is available for you.” He called
up another board, sent lights blinking red or green. “Waiting Area Three is available. I’ll be happy to reserve it for you
here.”

“Fine. Tell Dr. Cagney I’m waiting to speak with him, and I’m pressed for
time.”

“Of course. Take any elevator in bank six, Lieutenant. Good health.”

“Right,” she muttered. Anyone that incessantly polite made her shudder. Whatever training
they gave their nonmedical staff must have included personality draining, she decided. Edgy, she rode the car up and searched out the
right waiting room.

It was a small, tastefully decorated room with a mood screen set to soft, shifting colors. The first thing she
did was turn it off. Ignoring the low sofa and two deep chairs, she roamed the room.

She wanted out. The best substitute was a window overlooking Second Avenue.

There, at least, both street and traffic were predictably snarled and nasty. She watched a medi-copter zoom
in and circle on its trajectory to one of the pads. She counted two more, an ambu-jet, and five street ambulances before the door
opened behind her.

“Lieutenant.” The doctor had a dazzling smile, his teeth as white and straight as a Navy band.
He flashed it as he crossed the room.

It suited, Eve thought, the smooth, pampered face, the patient, intelligent gray eyes under dramatically black
brows. His hair was a gleaming white blazed on the left side with a sweeping strip of black.

He didn’t wear a lab coat but a beautifully cut suit the same slate gray as his eyes. His hand, when he
took hers, was soft as a child’s and firm as a rock.

“Dr. Cagney.”

“I hoped you’d remember to call me Colin.” The smile spread again as he squeezed
and released her hand. “We’ve met a few times at various functions. But I imagine between your business and
Roarke’s, you meet seas of people.”

“True enough, but I remember you.” She had, as soon as she’d seen him. His
wasn’t a face that slipped the mind. Sharp cheekbones, square jaw, high forehead. And the
coloring left
an impression. Pale gold skin against black and white. “I appreciate you agreeing to speak with me.”

“Happy to do so.” He gestured toward the chair. “But I hope you haven’t
come seeking my professional services. You’re not ill?”

“No, I’m fine. It’s my profession that brings me to you.” Though
she’d rather have remained on her feet, she sat. “I’m working on a case. A sidewalk sleeper was murdered
early this morning. By someone with excellent surgical skills.”

His eyebrows drew together as he shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“His heart was removed and taken from the scene. A witness described one of the suspects carrying
what you call an organ sack.”

“My God.” He folded his hands on his knee. Concern flitted along with confusion in his
eyes. “I’m appalled to hear it, but I still don’t understand. You’re telling me his heart was surgically
removed and transported?”

“Exactly. He was anesthetized and murdered in his own crib. Two people were seen entering, one
carried what sounds very much like a doctor’s bag, the other the transfer sack. The operation was performed by someone
very skilled. The bleeders, I think you call them, were clamped off and sealed, the incision was precise. It was not done by an
amateur.”

“For what purpose?” Cagney murmured. “I haven’t heard about organ theft,
not of this nature, for years. A sidewalk sleeper? Have you determined his state of health before this was done?”

“The ME says he’d have died in his sleep in a matter of months. We don’t believe
they took a prime heart out of him.”

With a heavy sigh, he sat back. “I imagine you see all manner of what men do to men in your line of
work, Lieutenant. I’ve pieced back bodies that have been torn, broken, hacked. On one level, we get used to it. We must. But
on another, it never fails to shock and to disappoint. Men continually find new ways to kill men.”

“And always will,” Eve agreed. “But instinct tells me this man’s death was
incidental. They got what they wanted from him. I have to ask, Dr. Cagney, where you were this morning between one and three
A
.
M
.?”

He blinked, and his well-formed mouth fell open before he recovered. “I see.” He spoke
slowly, sitting up again. “I would have been at home, sleeping with my wife. I’ve no way to prove that,
however.” His voice had cooled, his eyes chilled. “Do I require a lawyer, Lieutenant?”

“That’s up to you,” she said evenly. “But I see no reason for one at this
time. I will need to speak with your wife at some point.”

Mouth grim now, he nodded. “Understood.”

“Each of our professions runs on routines that are often unpleasant. This is mine. I need a list of the
top surgeons in the city, starting with those who specialize in organ transplants.”

He rose at that, paced to the window. “Doctors stand for each other, Lieutenant. There’s
pride and loyalty involved here.”

“Cops stand for each other. And when one of them is found to be dirty, it smears us all. I can go
through other channels to get the list I need,” she added, rising, “but I’d appreciate your cooperation. A
man’s been murdered. Someone decided he shouldn’t be allowed to finish out his time. That pisses me off, Dr.
Cagney.”

His shoulders moved as he sighed. “I’ll send you a list, Lieutenant,” he said without
turning around. “You’ll have it by the end of the day.”

“Thanks.”

She drove back to Cop Central, remembering her energy bar as she swung into the garage. She ate it on the
way up to her office, chewing nutrients and chewing over her impressions of Cagney.

He had a face a patient would trust, even fear a bit, she imagined. You would tend to believe his
word—medically—was law. She intended to do a run on him, but calculated him in his mid to late sixties. That meant
he’d
been a doctor for more than half of his life so far.

He could kill. She learned that anyone could under the right circumstances. But could he kill so
cold-bloodedly? Would he protect, under the guise of professional loyalty, someone else who had?

She wasn’t sure of the answers.

The light on her computer was blinking green, indicating a new input of data. Peabody, she thought, had
been hard at work. After stripping off her jacket, she called it up. It only took five frustrating minutes of grinding noises before the data
popped.

Victim identified as Samuel Michael Petrinsky, born 5-6-1961, Madison, Wisconsin. ID number 12176-VSE-12. Parents
deceased. No known siblings. Marital status: divorced June 2023. Former spouse Cheryl Petrinsky Sylva, age 92. Three children from
marriage: Samuel, James, Lucy. Data available on request in cross file.

No known employment in last thirty years.

What happened to you, Sam? she wondered. Why’d you leave the wife and kids and come to New
York to fry your mind and wreck your body on brew and smoke?

“Hell of a way to end up,” she muttered, then asked for the cross-reference on his children.
She would have to notify next of kin.

You have performed an illegal function. Please delete request and enter your ID number immediately or all unsaved data will be
destroyed.

“You son of a bitch.” Furious, Eve leaped to her feet and punched the side of her computer
with a bunched fist. Even as the pain sang in her knuckles, she prepared to punch it again.

“A problem with your equipment, Lieutenant?”

She hissed, set her teeth, and straightened. It was rare for Commander Whitney to visit her office. And not
too
happy a moment to have him do so when she was beating up departmental property.

“Respectfully, sir, this unit sucks.”

It might have been a smile that flitted into his dark eyes, but she couldn’t be sure.

“I suggest you contact maintenance, Dallas.”

“Maintenance, Commander, is full of morons.”

“And the budget is full of holes.” He stepped in, shut the door at his back, which made
Eve’s stomach jitter uneasily. He glanced around, then shook his head. “Your rank entitles you to an office, Dallas.
Not a dungeon.”

“This suits me, sir.”

“So you always say. Is that AutoChef stocked with your coffee or the
department’s?”

“Mine, sir. Would you like some?”

“I certainly would.”

She turned to order him a cup. The closed door meant he wanted privacy. The request for coffee indicated
he wanted to put her at ease.

The combination made Eve nervous. But her hand was steady as she offered him the cup, and her eyes
stayed level on his.

His face was wide, tended to be hard. He was a big man with wide shoulders, wide hands, and very often,
fatigue darkening his eyes. “You caught a homicide early this morning,” he began, pausing long enough to sip and
appreciate the genuine coffee from genuine beans Roarke’s money could buy.

“Yes, sir. The victim has just been identified. I’ll be notifying next of kin.” She shot
her computer a vicious look. “When I can drag the data out of that heap. I’ll have an updated report for you by end of
day.”

“I have a report from the first officer on-scene on my desk now. Along with a complaint. You and
Bowers appear to have bumped heads.”