In Death 03 - Immortal in Death

Unconsciously she began to toy with the weighty diamond she wore around her neck.
    "A formula?"
    "I can figure that out, Peabody."
    "Yes, sir." Chastised, Peabody eased back.
    "Shit, I hate science." With hope, Eve glanced over her shoulder. "You any good at it?"
    "No, sir. I'm not even competent."
    Eve studied the mix of numbers, figures, and symbols and crossed her eyes. "My unit's not programmed for this crap. It'll have to go to the lab for analysis." Impatient, she drummed her fingers on the desk. "My hunch would be it's the formula for that powder we found, but how the hell would a second rater like Boomer get his hands on it? And who was his other trainer? You knew he was one of mine, Peabody. How?"
    Struggling with embarrassment, Peabody stared over Eve's shoulder at the figures on the screen. "You listed him in several intradepartmental reports on closed cases, Lieutenant."
    "You make a habit of reading intradepartmental reports, Officer?"
    "Yours, sir."
    "Why?"
    "Because, sir, you're the best."
    "Are you sucking up, Peabody, or bucking for my job?"
    "There'll be room when you're promoted to captain, sir."
    "What makes you think I want a captaincy?"
    "You'd be stupid if you didn't, and you're not. Stupid, sir."
    "Okay, we'll let that rest. Do you scan any other reports?"
    "Now and then."
    "Do you have any clue as to who Boomer's trainer would be in Illegals?"
    "No, sir. I've never seen his name attached to any other cop. Most weasels only have one trainer."
    "Boomer liked to diversify. Let's hit the streets. We'll scope a few of his usual joints, see what we turn up. We've only got a couple of days on this, Peabody. If you've got anyone warming the home fires for you, let him know you'll be busy."
    "I'm unattached, sir. I don't have a problem with putting in extra time."
    "Good." Eve rose. "Then saddle up. And Peabody, we've been naked together. Drop all the 'sirs,' will you? Make it Dallas."
    "Yes, sir, Lieutenant."
    It was after three A. M. when she stumbled through the front door, tripped over the cat who had decided to guard the entrance hall, swore, and turned blindly for the stairs.
    In her mind were dozens of impressions: dim bars, strip clubs, the steamy streets where low-level licensed companions plied their trade. All of them ebbed and flowed together in the unappetizing stew that had been Boomer Johannsen's life.
    No one knew anything, of course. No one had seen anything. The single corroborative statement she'd gleaned from her crawl through the seamier side of the city was that no one had heard from or laid eyes on Boomer in over a week, possibly longer.
    But someone had laid a great deal more than eyes on him. Her time was running low to find out who and why.
    The bedroom lights were on dim. She'd already stripped off her shirt and tossed it aside when she noted the bed was empty. There was an instant flare of disappointment, a faint uncomfortable tug of panic.
    He'd had to leave, she thought. He was right now heading toward any possible spot in the colonized universe. He could be gone for days.
    Staring miserably at the bed, she toed off her shoes and tugged off her slacks. Groping in a drawer, she pulled out a cotton undershirt and yanked it over her head.
    God, she was pitiful, mooning because Roarke had to take care of business. Because he wasn't mere for her to snuggle up against. Because he wasn't there to ward off the nightmares that seemed to plague her with more intensity and frequency as her memories of the past grew to crowd her.
    She was too tired to dream, she told herself. Too busy to brood. And strong enough not to remember anything she didn't care to remember.
    She turned, intending to go to her upstairs office to sleep when the door slid open. Relief flushed through her like shame.
    "I thought you'd had to leave."
    "I was working." Roarke crossed to her. In the dim light his black shirt was a stark contrast to the white of hers. He tipped up her chin and looked into her eyes. "Lieutenant, why do you always run until you fall down?"
    "I have a deadline on this one." Perhaps she was overtired, or perhaps love was beginning to be easier, but she lifted both hands to his face. "I'm awfully glad you're here." When he lifted her up and carried her toward the bed, she smiled. "That's not what I meant."
    "I'm tucking you in, and you're going to sleep."
    It was hard to argue when her eyes were already closing. "Did you get my message?"
    "The elaborate one that said, 'I'll be late'?