In Death 08 - Conspiracy in Death

anything that might resemble food.
    "Hello, Lieutenant."
    She blinked at the screen, then dropped into her chair to continue the search when she saw it was Roarke. "Somebody's been stealing my candy again," she complained.
    "There's no trusting cops." When she only snorted, his eyes narrowed. "Come closer."
    "Hmm." Damn it, she wanted her candy bar. "What?"
    "Where did you get that?"
    "Get what? Aha! Didn't find this one, did you, you thieving bastard." In triumph she plucked a Gooybar from under a stack of yellow sheets.
    "Eve, how did you bruise your face?"
    "My what?" She was already ripping it open, taking a bite. "Oh, this?" It was the annoyance, barely audible under that musical voice, that made her smile. "Playing pool with the guys. Got a little rough for a minute. Now there are a couple of cues that won't ever be quite the same."
    Roarke ordered himself to relax the hands he'd fisted. He hated seeing marks on her. "You never mentioned you liked the game. We'll have to have a match."
    "Anytime, pal. Anywhere."
    "Not tonight, I'm afraid. I'll be late."
    "Oh." It still jolted her that he so routinely let her know his whereabouts. "Got an appointment?"
    "I'm already there. I'm in New L.A. -- a little problem that required immediate personal attention. But I will be home tonight."
    She said nothing, knowing he'd wanted to assure her she wouldn't be sleeping alone, where the nightmares would chase her. "Um, how's the weather?"
    "It's lovely. Sunny and seventy." He smiled at her. "I'll pretend not to enjoy it since you're not with me."
    "Do that. See you later."
    "Stay out of pool halls, Lieutenant."
    "Yeah." She watched the screen go blank and wished she didn't have this vague dissatisfaction that he wouldn't be there when she went home. In less than a year, she'd gotten much too used to him being there.
    Annoyed with herself, she engaged her computer. Her mood was distracted enough that she didn't bother to smack it when it buzzed at her.
    She called up the files from Snooks and Spindler, ordered both images on, split screen.
    Used up, she thought. Self-abuse, neglect. It was there on both faces. But Snooks, well, there was a kind of pitiful sweetness in his face. As for Spindler, there was nothing sweet about her. There was some twenty years between them in age. Different sex, different races, different backgrounds.
    "Display crime scene photos, Spindler," she ordered.
    The room was a flop, small, crowded, with a single window the width of a spread hand in one wall. But, Eve noted, it was clean. Tidy.
    Spindler lay on the bed, on faded sheets that were stained with blood. Her eyes were closed, her mouth lax. She was nude, and her body was no pretty picture. Eve could see that what appeared to be a nightgown was neatly folded and laid on the table beside the bed.
    She might have been sleeping if not for the blood that stained the sheets.
    They'd drugged her, Eve decided, then undressed her. Folded the gown. Tidy, organized, precise.
    How had they chosen this one? she wondered. And why?
    In the next shot, the crime scene team had turned the body. Dignity, modesty were cast aside as the camera zoomed in. Scrawny legs on a scrawny body. Sagging breasts, wrinkled skin. Spindler hadn't put her profits into body maintenance, which was probably wise, Eve mused, as her investment would have been cut short.
    "Close-up of injury," she ordered, and the picture shifted. They had opened her, the slices narrower than Eve had imagined. Nearly delicate. And though no one had bothered to close her back up, they had used what she now knew was surgical freeze-coat to stop the flow of blood.
    Routine again, she concluded. Pride. Didn't surgeons often allow an underling to close for them? The big, important work had already been done, so why not let someone less prominent do a little sewing?
    She would ask someone, but she thought she'd seen that on-screen in videos.
    "Computer, analyze surgical procedure on both subjects. Run probability scan thereafter. What probability percentage that both procedures were performed by the same person?"
    Working... analysis will require approximately ten minutes.
    "Fine." She rose, walked to her window to watch the air traffic sputter. The sky had gone the color of bruises. She could see one of the minicopters wavering as it tried to compensate for a gust of wind.
    It would snow or sleet before the end of shift, she thought. The drive home would be hideous.
    She thought of Roarke, three thousand