In Death 06 - Vengeance in Death

man who thinks Irish. Pray to God and hope for luck."
    Eve slipped the token back in her pocket. "How much luck will you have pulling these twelve in on something for questioning?"
    Farrell laughed shortly. "With this lot, if they're not brought in once a month or so they feel neglected. If you like, you can go have a bit of lunch, and we'll start a gathering."
    "I'd appreciate it. You'll let me observe the interviews?"
    "Observe, Lieutenant, but not participate in."
    "Fair enough."
    "I can't stretch that to include civilians," she said to Roarke. "You might find the afternoon more profitable by looking up some of your old friends and standing them to a pint."
    "Understood. Thank you for your time."
    She took the hand Roarke offered, held it a moment while she looked into his eyes. "I pinched your father once when I was a rookie. He took great exception to being arrested by a female -- which was the mildest term he used for me. I was green, and he managed to split my lip before I restrained him."
    Roarke's eyes went cool and blank. He drew his hand free. "I'm sorry for that."
    "You weren't there as I recall," Farrell said mildly. "Rookies rarely forget their first mistakes, so I remember him quite well. I expected to see some of him in you. But I don't. Not a bit. Good day to you, Roarke."
    "Good day to you, Inspector."
    By the time Eve got back to the hotel, lunch had worn off and jet lag was fuzzing her mind. She found the suite empty, but there were a half dozen coded faxes waiting on the machine. She added more coffee to her overburdened system while she scanned them.
    She yawned until her jaw cracked, then put through a call to Peabody's palm 'link.
    "Peabody."
    "Dallas. I just got in. Have the sweepers finished with the white van found abandoned downtown?"
    "Yes, sir. Wrong trail. That van was used in a robbery in Jersey and dumped down on Canal. I'm still pursuing that lead, but it's going to take more time to eliminate vehicles. The cabdriver was a wash. He didn't even know his tags had been lifted."
    "McNab make any progress on the jammer?"
    Peabody snorted, then sobered. "He claims to be making some headway, though he phrases all of it in electro-ese and I can't make it out. He had a great time with some e-jockey of Roarke's. I think they're in love."
    "Your snotty side's showing, Peabody."
    "Not nearly as much as it could be. No transmissions have come through, so our boy's taking a break from mayhem. McNab is staying here at your home office tonight in case there's a send. I'm staying, too."
    "You and McNab are staying in my office tonight?"
    Her mouth moved perilously close to a pout. "If he's staying, I'm staying. Besides, the food's superior."
    "Try not to kill each other."
    "I'm showing admirable restraint in that particular area, sir."
    "Right. Is Summerset behaving himself?"
    "He went to some art class, then out for coffee and brandy with his lady friend. I had him shadowed. It was all very dignified according to the report. He got back about twenty minutes ago."
    "See that he stays in."
    "I've got it covered. Any progress there?"
    "That's debatable. We have a list of potentials, which was shorted by half during interviews. I'm going to take a closer look at six," she said, rubbing her tired eyes. "One's in New York, and one's supposed to be in Boston. I'll run them when I get in tomorrow. We should be back by noon."
    "We'll keep the home fires burning, Lieutenant."
    "Find that damn van, Peabody." She disengaged the 'link and ordered herself not to wonder, or worry, about where Roarke could be.
    He knew better than to go home. It was foolish and fruitless and irresistible. The shanties had changed little since he'd been a boy trying to crawl his way out of them. The buildings were cheaply constructed, with roofs sagging, windows broken. It was rare to see a flower bloom here, but a few hopeful souls had scratched out a stamp-sized garden at the doorstep of the six-flat building where he'd lived once.
    But the flowers, however bright, couldn't overcome the odor of piss and vomit. And they couldn't lighten the air that lay thick with despair.
    He didn't know why he went in, but he found himself standing inside the dim lobby with its sticky floors and peeling paint. And there were the stairs his father had once kicked him down because he hadn't made his quota lifting wallets.
    Oh, but I had, Roarke thought now. What was a kick and tumble compared to the pounds he'd secreted away? The old man had been