In Death 08 - Conspiracy in Death

going to say in my report. Meanwhile, you're relieved as primary on the Spindler case. You'll turn over all data and reports to my aide."
    "I don't do that unless I get it straight from my boss." Saving face was paramount now, but even his valiant attempt to sound disdainful fell far short. "I don't work for you, Dallas, and your rank, your rep, and all your husband's money don't mean squat to me."
    "So noted," Eve said levelly. "Peabody, contact Captain Desevres at the one six-two."
    "Yes, sir."
    She held her temper, but it cost her. The headache turned up from simmer to boil, and the knots in her stomach grew teeth. It helped a little to watch Rosswell sweat while she meticulously outlined the details, tore his investigation into tattered shreds, and requested the transfer of the case, with all data and reports, to her.
    Desevres asked for an hour to review the matter, but everyone knew that was for form's sake. Rosswell was out, and very likely soon to receive a much pithier dressing down from his own division head.
    When she ended transmission, Eve gathered up files and discs. "You're dismissed, Detective."
    His face bone white with fury and frustration, he got to his feet. "Bowers had it right. I hope she buries you."
    Eve glanced in his direction. "Detective Rosswell, you are dismissed. Peabody, contact Morris at the ME's office. He needs to be made aware of this connecting homicide. Feeney, can we light a fire under McNab? See what he's come up with?"
    The embarrassment of being ignored washed color, ugly and red, back into Rosswell's face. When the door slammed behind him, Feeney flashed Eve a grin.
    "You sure are making lots of new friends these days."
    "It's my sparkling personality and wit. They can't resist it. God, what an ass." But she sat, struggling to shrug off annoyance. "I'm going to check out the Canal Street Clinic. Spindler used it for her health checks over the last twelve years. Maybe Snooks hit it a couple times. It's a place to start. Peabody, you're with me."
    She took the elevator straight down to the garage level and had just stepped through the doors when Feeney tagged her by communicator. "What have you got?"
    "McNab hit on a chemi-head named Jasper Mott. Another heart theft, three months back."
    "Three months? Who's the primary? What are the leads?"
    "It wasn't NYPSD's deal, Dallas. It was Chicago."
    "What?" The cold came shimmering back to her skin, the image of the long spider crack in window glass.
    "Chicago," he repeated, eyes narrowing. "You okay?"
    "Yeah, yeah." But she stared down the long tube of the garage to where Peabody waited patiently at their vehicle. "Can you get Peabody the name of the primary on it, the necessary data? I'll have her contact CPSD for the files and status."
    "Sure, no problem. Maybe you should eat something, kid. You look sick."
    "I'm fine. Tell McNab I said good work, and keep at it."
    "Trouble, sir?"
    "No." Eve crossed to her car, uncoded, and climbed in. "We got another one in Chicago. Feeney's going to send you the details. Put out a request to the primary and his division head for a copy of appropriate data. Copy to the commander. Do it by the book, but do it fast."
    "Unlike some," Peabody said primly, "I know all the pages. How come a jerk like Rosswell makes detective?"
    "Because life," Eve said with feeling, "often sucks."
    Life definitely sucked for the patients at the Canal Street Clinic. The place was jammed with the suffering, the hopeless, and the dying.
    A woman with a battered face breast-fed an infant while a toddler sat at her feet and wailed. Someone hacked wetly, monotonously. A half dozen street LCs sat glassy-eyed and bored, waiting for their regulation checkup to clear them for the night's work.
    Eve waded her way through to the window where the nurse on duty manned a desk. "Enter your data on the proper form," she began, the edge of tedium flattening her voice. "Don't forget your medical card number, personal ID, and current address."
    For an answer, Eve took out her badge and held it up to the reinforced glass. "Who's in charge?"
    The nurse's eyes, gray and bored, flicked over the badge. "That would be Dr. Dimatto today. She's with a patient."
    "Is there an office back there, a private room?"
    "If you want to call it that." When Eve simply angled her head, the nurse, annoyed, released the coded lock on the door.
    With obvious reluctance, she shuffled in the lead down a short hallway. As they slipped through the door, Peabody