In Death 03 - Immortal in Death

can't say for certain sure. These others aren't on our guest list, so to speak. Least I can't make 'em."
    "Did you ever see the redhead with Boomer?"
    "He wasn't her pick. She liked them big, stupid, and young. Boomer was just stupid."
    "What do you hear about a new blend on the streets, Crack?"
    His big face went blank, closed off. "Don't hear nothing."
    Friendly only went so far, she knew. Silently, Eve took out credits, laid them on the bar. "Hearing improved?"
    He studied the credits, then looked back at her face. Recognizing the tactic as negotiations, she added to them. The credits slid across the bar and disappeared.
    "Some rumblings recent, maybe, about some new shit. High powered, good long buzz, tough on the credit balance. Heard it called Immortality. None's come passing this way, not yet. Most people 'round here can't afford designer. They'll have to wait for the knockoff, and that takes a few months more."
    "Did Boomer talk about it?"
    "Is that what he was into?" Speculation shifted into Crack's eyes. "He never flapped to me about it. Like I said, I heard some rumblings pass through. It's getting good advance hype, chemi-heads are jazzed over it, but I ain't heard anybody had a taste. It's good business," he said with a smile. "You got a product, a new one, you get the clientele wired up, hungry. Then when it hits, they'll pay. They'll pay big."
    "Yeah, good business," She leaned forward. "Don't try a sample, Crack. It's fatal." When he started to blow that off, she put a hand on his beefy arm. "I mean literally. It's poison, slow-acting poison. If there's anyone you care about who uses, you warn them off this shit, or you won't have them very long."
    He studied her face. "No jive here, white girl? This ain't cop talk?"
    "No jive, no cop talk. A regular user's got about five years before it overloads the nervous system and takes him out. That's straight, Crack. And whoever's manufacturing it knows it."
    "Hell of a way to make a profit."
    "Isn't it just. Now, where can I find Hetta?"
    Crack blew out a breath, shook his head. "Nobody gonna believe it if I tell 'em, anyhow. Not the ones already hungry." He looked back at Eve, focused. "Hetta? Shit, I don't know. Ain't seen her in weeks. These girls come and go, work one joint, go on to the next."
    "Last name?"
    "Moppett. Hetta Moppett, rented a room over on Ninth last I heard, around a hundred and twentieth. Anytime you want to take up where she left off, sugarpuss, just let me know."
    Hetta Moppett hadn't paid her rent in three weeks, nor had she shown her skinny little ass. This, according to the building super, who also informed Eve that Ms. Moppett had forty-eight hours to come up with back rent or her property was forfeit.
    Eve listened to his angry yammering as she hoofed it up the stairs in the miserable three-floor walk-up. She had his master code in hand, and was certain he'd already used it as she unlocked Hetta's door.
    It was a single room, narrow bed, dingy window, with a few attempts at homey with the frilly pink curtain and cheap shiny pink pillows. Eve did a quick toss, turned up an address log, a credit book with over three thousand in deposit, some framed photographs, and an expired driver's license that listed Hetta's last address in Jersey.
    The closet was half full, and from the scarred suitcase on the top shelf, Eve judged it to be all Hetta had. She ran the 'link, made a dupe of all the calls on disc, then copied the license.
    If Hetta had gone on a trip, she'd taken no more with her than walking-around credits, the clothes on her back, and her club companion's license.
    Eve wasn't betting on it.
    She called the morgue from her car 'link. "Run the Jane Does," she ordered. "White, blond, twenty-eight, about a hundred and thirty pounds, five foot four. Transmitting copy of driver's license holo."
    She was barely three blocks away, heading to Cop Central, when the answer came in.
    "Lieutenant, we got a possible match. Need dental, DNA, or prints to verify. Our possible can't be identified by hologram."
    "Because?" Eve asked, but she already knew.
    "She doesn't have enough face left."
    The prints matched. The primary assigned to the Jane Doe handed Hetta over to Eve without a backward glance. In her office, Eve stared down at the three files.
    "Sloppy work," she muttered. "Moppett's prints were on file from her companion's license. Carmichael could have ID'd her weeks ago."
    "I'd say Carmichael wasn't much interested in a Jane Doe,"