In Death 06 - Vengeance in Death

to admit she didn't have much tolerance for a man who liked his liquor by the quart.
    She was what some would call the giant economy size. At five-ten and two hundred fiery pounds, she made nearly two of Patrick Murray. He was a compact man who'd once had dreams of jockeying thoroughbreds on the flat, but he'd tended to miss too many morning exercise rounds due to the inconvenience of a splitting head. He was barely five-five, no more than a hundred and twenty pounds even after a dip in the aquatic show floor tank.
    His hair was orange as a fresh carrot, his face splattered with a sandblast of freckles of the same hue. And Loretta had often told him it was his sad and boyish blue eyes that had won over her heart.
    He'd paid her for sex the first time, naturally. After all, it was her living. The second time he'd paid her fee he'd asked if perhaps she might enjoy a piece of pie and a bit of conversation.
    She'd charged him for that as well, for the two hours spent, but he hadn't minded. And the third time he'd brought her a two-pound box of near-chocolates and she'd given him the sex for nothing.
    A few weeks later they'd been married. He'd stayed almost sober for three months. Then the wagon had tipped, he'd fallen off, and Loretta had lowered the boom.
    So it had been, on and off that wagon, for five years. He'd promised her he'd take the cure -- the sweat box and shots down at the East Side Substance Abuse Clinic. And he'd meant to. But he'd gotten a little drunk and gone off to the track instead.
    He still loved the horses.
    Now she was talking divorce, and his heart was broken. Pat leaned on his string mop and sighed at the glinting waters of the empty tank.
    Loretta had done two shows tonight. She was a career woman, and he respected that. He'd gotten over his initial discomfort when she'd insisted on keeping her sex license up to date. Sex paid better than sweeping, even better than entertainment, and they sometimes talked of buying a place in the suburbs.
    She hadn't spoken to him that evening, no matter how he'd tried to draw her out. When the show ended, she'd climbed down the ladder, wrapped herself in the striped robe he'd given her for her last birthday, and swished off with the other water beauties.
    She'd locked him out of their apartment, out of her life, and, he was afraid, out of her heart.
    When the buzzer sounded from the delivery entrance, he shook his head sadly. "Where'd the time go?" he wondered. "Morning already."
    He made his bleary way into the back, fumbled twice with the code before getting it right, and hauled open the steel-enforced door. He puzzled a moment, standing framed there, with the security light beeping and the black-coated figure smiling in at him.
    "It's still dark, isn't it?" Pat said.
    "It's always darkest before the dawn, so they say." He stepped forward, offering a gloved hand. "Do you remember me, Paddy?"
    "Do I know you? Are you from home?" Pat took the offered hand and never even felt the slight pinch as he pitched forward.
    "Oh, I'm from home, Paddy, and I'll be sending you there." He let the unconscious man slide to the floor before turning and carefully resetting the locks.
    It was easy enough to drag a man of Pat's size from the back room into the main lounge. Once there, he set his valise on a table, carefully unpacked what he would need.
    He tested the laser -- one quick shot to the ceiling -- and smiled in approval. The shackles were lightweight and fashioned from a material approved by NASA II. The 'link was heavier, loaded as it was with its maxi-battery and interfaced jammer. He found a handy outlet behind the bar and quickly set up his communications.
    Humming a little, he turned the tank system to drain. It sounded like one huge and slightly clogged toilet flushing, he thought, amused, then walked back to kick Pat sharply in the ribs.
    Not a stir, not a whimper.
    With a sigh he bent down, efficiently checking vital signs. The man was stinking drunk, he realized. And he'd used too much of the tranq. Vaguely irritated by the miscalculation, he took a pressure syringe filled with amphetamine and jabbed it against Pat's limp arm.
    There was barely a stir, hardly a whimper.
    The anger built quickly, until he shook with it. "Wake up, you bastard." Rearing back, he slapped Pat's face, front handed, then back, over and over. He wanted him awake and aware for all of it. When the slaps didn't work, he used his fists, pummeling until blood spurted and soaked his