In Death 12 - Betrayal in Death

want to bid. Dallas, I'm a huge fan. How about finding me an extra ticket?"
    "That's it?" Eve shrugged. "Sure, I should be able to lay my hands on one."
    Tilting her head, putting a pretty plea in her eye, Nadine slowly held up two fingers.
    "Two?"
    "It would be more fun if I could bring a date. Be a pal."
    "Being a pal can be a real pain in the butt. I'll see what I can do."
    "Thanks." She hopped up. "I have to get over to the federal field office, stake out my turf. Tune in, and watch them bleed."
    "I just might."
    "Hey, Peabody." Distracted, Nadine flipped her a wave as she dashed out.
    "Peabody, I may not be able to catch the screen for the media conference. See that it's recorded."
    "Yes, sir. Then you won't be required to attend?"
    "No. The Feebs are on their own." She brought her report back on-screen. "I want a briefing with the team. Let's make it for sixteen hundred if that suits Feeney and McNab. Book a conference room."
    Inwardly, Peabody winced, but she simply nodded. "Yes, sir. I spoke with Charles Monroe."
    Though her mind was elsewhere, the crackle of ice in Peabody's voice had Eve glancing over. "Problem?"
    "No, sir. He tagged Yost, and confirms he's a regular patron at the opera. Prefers opening night of a new performance. A client pointed Yost out to Charles and stated he was an entrepreneur named Roles, Martin K."
    "That's a fresh alias. Good. I'll run it now. What's the client's name?"
    "Charles was hesitant to give me that information. He's agreed to contact the client and ask how she knows Roles. If..." She cleared her throat because something was burning inside it. "If that information isn't complete or satisfactory, I'll press."
    "That works for now." Eve's stomach began to clench and jitter. There were tears swimming in her aide's eyes. Peabody's lips were quivering. "What are you doing?" she demanded.
    "Nothing. Sir."
    "How come you're going to cry? You know how I feel about crying on the job."
    "I'm not crying." And it appalled her that she was on the edge of it. "I just don't feel very well, that's all. I wonder, sir, if I could be excused from the briefing at sixteen hundred."
    "Too many soy fries," Eve said, relieved. "If you're sick, go by the infirmary and get them to fix you up. Get horizontal for thirty." She glanced at her wrist unit to check the time, and heard a soft and muffled sob.
    Her head snapped up. Relief vanished and comprehension hammered through. "Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. You went a round with McNab, didn't you?"
    "I'd appreciate if you wouldn't mention that name in my presence," Peabody said with watery dignity.
    "I knew this was going to happen. Knew it. Knew it." She sprang to her feet and kicked her desk.
    "He said I was -- "
    "No!" Eve threw up her arms as if warding off an incoming meteorite. "No, uh-uh, forget it. You are not dumping it on me. I don't want to hear about it, don't want to know about it, don't want to think about it. This is a cop shop! A cop shop and you are a cop." She said it fast, and she said it clear, terrified as those tears shimmered in Peabody's dark eyes.
    "Yes, sir."
    "Oh, man." Eve pressed the heels of her hands to the sides of her head so her brain would stay in place. "Okay, here's what I want you to do. Go to the infirmary and take something. Lie down. Then you pull yourself together and get your butt to that briefing. I'll set it up and you behave like a cop. You save personal business for after shift."
    "Yes, sir." With another sniffle, Peabody turned.
    "Officer? Do you want him to see you all blubbery?"
    That stopped her. Peabody's shoulders stiffened, straightened. "No." She swiped a hand under her nose. "No," she said again and marched out.
    "Wasn't that just perfect?" Eve muttered, then sat down to do her aide's job.
    In another section of Cop Central, the corridors were wide and the floors scrupulously clean. Cubicles were jammed with the best equipment the budget could bear and manned by cops in snazzy suits or in casual chic.
    The hums and buzzes and beeps were constant, like music. Wall screens flashed with images and data in never-ending reels.
    There were three holo-rooms designed for simulations and re-enactments. They were used for these purposes and, nearly as often, for personal fantasies, romantic interludes, and naps.
    The Electronic Detectives Division was never quiet, always crowded and painted a brain-stimulating red.
    When Roarke stepped in, he scanned the room. The equipment, he noted with an expert's eye,