In Death 03 - Immortal in Death

her to worry, Leonardo. Everything's going to be fine, isn't it? It's going to be fine."
    "Just fine." Leonardo sent Eve one last uneasy look before he carried Mavis off.
    Eve watched them go, sighed. "Fuck."
    "Like that sweet little thing could bash anybody's face in." Trina scowled as she gathered up her tools. "I hope Pandora's burning in hell."
    "You knew her?"
    "Everybody in the business knew her. Loathed her ever fucking guts. Right, Biff?"
    "She was born a bitch, died a bitch."
    "Did she just use, or did she deal?"
    Biff slanted a look at Trina, then shrugged. "She never dealt in the open, but you'd hear talk now and again that she was always well supplied. The buzz was she was an Erotica junkie. She liked sex, and she might deal to her partner of choice."
    "Were you ever her partner of choice?"
    He smiled. "Romantically, I prefer men. They're less complicated."
    "How about you?"
    "I prefer men, too -- same reason. So did she." Trina picked up her kit. "Last runway gig I had, the gossip was she was mixing business and pleasure. Had some guy she was bleeding. She was flashing a lot of new glitters. Pandora liked to decorate her body with real rock, but she didn't like to pay for it. People figured she'd made some deal with a source."
    "Got a name on the source?"
    "Nope, but she was on her palm 'link between changes all day. That was about three months ago. I don't know who she was talking to, but at least one of the calls was intergalactic, because she got royally pissed at the delay."
    "Did she always carry a palm 'link?"
    "Everybody in fashion and beauty does, honey. We're just like doctors."
    It was close to midnight when Eve settled down at her desk. She couldn't face the bedroom, preferred the suite she used for privacy and work. She programmed coffee, then forgot to drink it. Without Feeney, she had no choice but to go a roundabout route to try to trace a three-month-old intergalactic call from a palm 'link she didn't have.
    After an hour, she gave up and crawled onto the sleep chair. She'd take a nap, she told herself. Set her mental alarm for five A. M.
    Illegals, murder, and money, she thought. They went together. Pin down the source, she thought groggily. Identify the unknown.
    Who were you hiding from, Boomer? How did you get your hands on a sample and the formula? Who broke your bones to get them back?
    The image of his battered body flashed into her mind and was ruthlessly shut off. She didn't need to drift into sleep with that loop playing.
    It might have been a better choice than the show she ended with.
    The dirty red light was flashing. Over and over through the window. SEX! LIVE! SEX! LIVE!
    She was only eight, but her mind was quick. She wondered if people would pay to see dead sex. Lying on her bed, she watched the light blink. She knew what sex was. It was ugly, it was painful, it was frightening. It was inescapable.
    Maybe he wouldn't come home tonight. She'd stopped praying that he would forget where he'd left her or fall down dead in some handy ditch. He always came back.
    But sometimes, if she was very, very lucky, he would be too drunk, too buzzed to do more than stumble to the bed and snore. Those nights, she would shiver with relief and huddle in the corner to sleep.
    She still thought about escape. Of finding a way out of the locked door, or down the five stories. If the night was very bad, she imagined just jumping from the window. The flight down would be quick, and then it would be over.
    He wouldn't be able to hurt her then. But she was too much a coward to jump.
    She was only a child, after all, and tonight she was hungry. And she was cold because he had broken the temperature control in one of his rages and it was stuck on full air.
    She padded toward the corner of the room, the excuse for a kitchenette. Experienced, she pounded the drawer first, to send any roaches scattering. She found a chocolate roll inside. The last one. He would probably beat her for eating the last one. Then again, he would beat her anyway, so she might as well enjoy it.
    She bolted it like an animal, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Hunger churned still. A further search turned up a hunk of moldy cheese. She didn't want to think what had been nibbling on it. Carefully, she took a knife, began to shear off the nasty edges.
    Then she heard him at the door. In her panic, she dropped the knife. It clattered to the floor as he came in.
    "What are you doing, little girl?"
    "Nothing. I woke up. I