In Death 08 - Conspiracy in Death

Thanks."
    "Just let me know if I can do anything for you." Discreetly, she closed the doors and left Eve alone.
    The office was huge, of course. Roarke liked his space. The sea of windows were tinted to cut the glare and offer a staggering view of the city. He also liked height -- a fondness that Eve didn't share. So she didn't wander over to the window but paced the ocean of plush carpet instead.
    The trinkets in the room were clever and unique. The furnishings sleek and comfortable, in rich shades of topaz and emerald. She knew the ebony slab of desk was just one more power center for a man who exuded power like breath.
    Efficiency, elegance, power. He never lacked for any of them.
    And when, ten minutes later, he came in through a side door, it was so easy to see why.
    He could still stop her heart. Just the look of him: that glorious face, as perfectly sculpted as a Renaissance statue, was highlighted by eyes impossibly blue and a mouth designed to make a woman crave it on hers; his black hair fell nearly to his shoulders, adding just a touch of the rogue; and she knew just how strong and sleek that body was, now elegantly clad in a tailored black suit.
    "Lieutenant." Ireland whispered, silky and romantic, in his voice. "An unexpected pleasure."
    She wasn't aware she was frowning or that she often did when swamped with the heady combination of love and lust he caused in her. "I need to talk to you."
    His brow lifted as he crossed to her. "About?"
    "Murder."
    "Ah." He had already taken her hands in his, was already leaning down for a long, slow kiss of greeting. "Am I under arrest?"
    "Your name popped up during a data search. What are you doing on the board of the Drake Center's R and D unit?"
    "Being an upstanding citizen. Being married to a cop does that to a man." He ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders, felt the tension there, and sighed. "Eve, I'm on all sorts of tedious boards and committees. Who's dead?"
    "A sidewalk sleeper named Snooks."
    "I don't believe we were acquainted. Sit down; tell me what this has to do with me being on the board of the Drake Center."
    "Possibly nothing, but I have to start somewhere." Still, she didn't sit but roamed the room.
    Roarke watched her, the restless, nervous energy that seemed to spark visibly around her. And knowing her, he understood all that energy was already focused on finding justice for the dead.
    It was only one of the reasons she fascinated him.
    "The victim's heart had been surgically removed while he was in his crib down in the Bowery," she told him. "The ME claims the procedure required a top-flight surgeon, and the Drake was my first pass."
    "Good choice. It's the best in the city, and likely the best on the East Coast." Considering, Roarke leaned back against his desk. "They took his heart?"
    "That's right. He was a brewhead, an addict. His body was worn down. Morris says the heart was no good anyway. The guy Would've been dead in six months." She stopped pacing and faced him, tucking her thumbs in his front pockets. "What do you know about organ trading on the black market?"
    "It wasn't something I dabbled in, even in my more... flexible days," he added with a faint smile. "But the advances in man-made organs, the supply still available from accidental deaths, the strides in health care and organ building all have cut the market for street organs down to nothing. That area peaked about thirty years ago."
    "How much for a heart off the street?" she demanded.
    "I really don't know." His brow winged up, and a smile ghosted around that sexy poet's mouth. "Do you want me to find out?"
    "I can find out myself." She began to pace again. "What do you do on that board?"
    "I'm an adviser. My own R and D department has a medical arm that cooperates and assists Drake's. We have a contract with the center. We supply medical equipment, machines, computers." He smiled again. "Artificial organs. Drake's R and D deals primarily with pharmaceuticals, prostheses, chemicals. We both manufacture replacement organs."
    "You make hearts?"
    "Among other things. We don't deal in live tissue."
    "Who's the best surgeon on staff?"
    "Colin Cagney is the chief of staff. You've met him," Roarke added.
    She only grunted. How could she remember all the people she'd met in some social arena since Roarke came into her life? "Wonder if he makes -- what did they call them -- home calls?"
    "House calls," Roarke corrected with a hint of a smile. "I can't quite see the distinguished Dr.