In Death 08 - Conspiracy in Death

contamination.
    They would have needed light. Something stronger and cleaner than the wavering glow from the candle stub or battery flash Snooks kept on one of his lopsided shelves.
    In the doctor's bag, she imagined. A high-powered minilamp. Microgoggles. Laser scalpel, and other tools of the trade.
    Did he wake up then? she wondered. Did he surface from sleep for just a moment when the light flashed? Did he have time to think, wonder, fear before the pressure syringe punched flesh and sent him under?
    Then it was all business. But that she couldn't imagine. She knew nothing about the routine of doctors opening bodies. But she thought it would be just that. More routine.
    Working quickly, competently, saying little.
    How did it feel to hold a man's heart in your hands?
    Was that routine as well, or did it shoot a thrill of power, of accomplishment, of glory through the mind? She thought it would. Even if it was only for an instant, he or she felt like a god.
    A god proud enough to take the time, to use his talents to do the job well.
    And that's what they had left behind, she thought. Pride, arrogance, and cool blood.
    Her eyes were still narrowed in concentration when her communicator sounded. Laying the paper flowers aside, she reached for it.
    "Dallas."
    Feeney's mournful face swam on the miniscreen. "I found another one, Dallas. You better come in and have a look."

CHAPTER SIX
    "Erin Spindler," Feeney began, nodding toward the image on the view screen in one of the smaller conference rooms at Cop Central. "Mixed race female, age seventy-eight, licensed companion, retired. Last few years, she ran a small stable of LCs. All street workers. Got slapped regularly with citations. Let some of her ponies' licenses lapse or didn't bother with the regulation health checks. She got roused for running scams on Johns a few times but slithered clear."
    Eve studied the image. A sharp, thin face, skin faded to yellow paste, eyes hard. Mouth flat with a downward, dissatisfied droop. "What section did she work?"
    "Lower East Side. Started out uptown. Looks like she had some class if you go back fifty years. Started using, started sliding." He moved his shoulders. "Had a taste for Jazz, and that doesn't come cheap uptown. She went from appointment book whore to pickup by the time she hit forty."
    "When was she murdered?"
    "Six weeks ago. One of the LCs found her in her flop down on Twelfth."
    "Was her heart taken?"
    "Nope. Kidneys." Feeney turned and brought straight data on-screen. "Her building didn't have any security, so there's no record of who went in and out. Investigator's report is inconclusive as to whether she let the killer in or he bypassed her locks. No sign of struggle, no sexual assault, no apparent robbery. Victim was found in bed, minus the kidneys. Postmortem puts her dead for twelve hours before discovery."
    "What's the status of the case?"
    "Open." Feeney paused. "And inactive."
    "What the hell do you mean, inactive?"
    "Thought that would get you." His mouth thinned as he brought up more data. "The primary -- some dickhead named Rosswell attached to the one sixty-second -- concluded the victim was killed by an irate John. It's his decision that the nature of the case is unclosable and not worth the department's time or efforts."
    "The one six-two? Same house as Bowers. Do they breed morons down there? Peabody," she snapped, but her aide already had her 'link out.
    "Yes sir, contacting Rosswell at the one six-two. I assume you'll want him here as soon as possible for a consult."
    "I want his sorry ass in my office within the hour. Good tag, Feeney, thanks. You get any others?"
    "This was the only local that fit like crimes. I figured you'd want to move on it right away. I've got McNab running the rest."
    "Let him know I want a call if anything pops. Can you feed this data into my office and home units?"
    "Already done." With the faintest of grins, Feeney tugged on his ear. "I haven't had much fun lately. Mind if I watch you ream Rosswell?"
    "Not a bit. In fact, why don't you help me?"
    He let out a sigh. "I was hoping you'd say that."
    "We'll do it in here. Peabody?"
    "Rosswell will report in one hour, Lieutenant." Struggling not to look smug, she pocketed her 'link. "I believe we could say he's terrified of you."
    Eve's smile was slow and grim. "He should be. I'll be in my office; tag me when he gets here."
    Her 'link was ringing when she walked in. She answered absently as she hunted through her drawers for