In Death 08 - Conspiracy in Death

not considered viable. We can manufacture a heart at somewhere around fifty dollars. Even adding overhead and profit, it can be sold for about twice that. You add the doctor's take, the health center's cut of the operation, and still you have yourself a new heart, one guaranteed for a century, for less than a thousand. It's an excellent deal."
    "Cut out the manufacturer, deal with the subject's damaged organ, or a donor's, repair, reconstruct, and the medical end takes all the profit."
    Roarke smiled a little. "Very good, Lieutenant. That's a clear view of business at work. And with that in mind, I believe you can feel safe that none of the major stockholders of NewLife would care for that scenario."
    "Unless it's not about money," she said. "But we'll start there. I need everything you can give me on the deal you made, who was involved on both sides. I want a list of personnel, concentrating on research and development. And any and all medical consultants."
    "I can get you that within the hour."
    She opened her mouth, waged a small personal war, and lost it. "I could use any underground data you can get me on Friend. His suicide seems very timely and convenient."
    "I'll take care of it."
    "Yeah, thanks. In at least two of the cases, he went after flawed organs specifically. Snooks had a messed-up heart, Spindler dinky kidneys. I'm betting we'll find it's the same deal with the other two. There has to be a reason."
    Thoughtfully, Roarke sipped his coffee. "If he's a doctor, practicing, why not confiscate damaged organs that are removed during a legitimate procedure?"
    "I don't know." And it irritated her that her brain had been too mushy the night before to see that chink in her theory. "I don't know how it works, but there'd have to be records, donor or next of kin permission, and the medical facility would have to endorse his experiments or research or whatever."
    She drummed her fingers on her knee a moment. "You're on the board, right? What's Drake's policy on -- what would you call it? High-risk or maybe radical experimentation?"
    "It has a first-class research department and a very conservative policy. It would take a great deal of paperwork, debate, theorizing, justification -- and that's before the lawyers come in to wrangle around, and the public relations people get into how to spin the program to the media."
    "So it's complicated."
    "Oh." He smiled at her over the rim of his cup. "What isn't when it's run by committee? Politics, Eve, slows down even the slickest wheel."
    "Maybe he got turned down at some point -- or knows he would -- so he's doing it on his own first." She pushed her plate away and rose. "I've got to get going."
    "We have the Drake fundraiser tonight."
    Her eyes went grim. "I didn't forget."
    "No, I see that." He took her hand, tugging her down for a kiss. "I'll be in touch."
    He sipped his coffee as she left and knew this was one time she would be on time for a social event. For her, for both of them now, it was business.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    As her plans had been to dive straight into work, Eve wasn't pleased to see IAB waiting in her office. She wouldn't have been pleased in any case.
    "Get out of my chair, Webster."
    He kept his seat, turned his head, and flashed her a smile. She'd known Don Webster since her early days at the academy. He'd been a full year ahead of her, but they'd bumped into each other from time to time.
    It had taken her weeks to clue in to the fact that he'd gone out of his way to make certain they'd bumped into each other. She remembered now that she'd been a little flattered, a little annoyed, and then had dismissed him.
    Her reasons for joining the academy hadn't been for socializing and sex but for training.
    When they'd both been assigned to Cop Central, they'd bumped into each other some more.
    And one night during her rookie year, after her first homicide, they'd had a drink and sex. She'd concluded that it had been no more than a distraction for both of them, and they'd remained marginally friendly.
    Then Webster had shifted into Internal Affairs and their paths had rarely crossed.
    "Hey, Dallas, looking good."
    "Get out of my chair," she repeated and walked straight to the AutoChef for coffee.
    He sighed, rose. "I was hoping we could keep this friendly."
    "I never feel friendly when the rat squad's in my office."
    He hadn't changed much, she noted. His face was keen and narrow, his eyes a cool and pleasant blue. He had a quick smile and plenty of charm that