In Death 16 - Portrait in Death

we're, you know, full of shit."
     
     
"Are you confident she's not stringing you?"
     
     
"Oh yeah. I explained, really politely and apologetically, that she could be charged with obstruction and so forth if she knowingly gave me a false image. Her lawyer made lots of lawyer noises, then verified-that's another thing that delayed the result."
     
     
"Let's see what we've got."
     
     
He pulled out his Identi-pad, turned it so she could view the finished image.
     
     
"Jesus Christ." Her heart did a quick leap into her throat. "Transmit that image to Central. I want every black-and-white, every on-duty officer to have that image ASAP. Suspect is identified as Gerald Stevenson, aka Steve Audrey, employed as bartender at Make The Scene. Get it out, Yancy, now!"
     
     
She yanked her communicator out of her pocket and tried to raise Baxter.
     
     
***
     
     
He'd given it the hour, and saw nothing more than the usual scene. A crowd of mostly kids, preening and parading, sipping ridiculously named drinks and heating up the keyboards when they weren't jamming onto the dance floor.
     
     
Not that he didn't enjoy watching young, agile female bodies gyrate in skimpy summer clothes, but the music was too loud, too brash.
     
     
It gave him a mild headache, and worse-much worse-made him feel old.
     
     
He wanted to go home, prop up his feet, suck down a beer, and watch some screen.
     
     
Christ, when had he become his father?
     
     
What he needed was to get cozy with a woman again. A noncop type female with long lines and soft curves. The job had been eating up too much of his recreational time-which went to show what happened when you transferred to Homicide from Anti-Crime, ended up under Dallas-and not in a sexual way-and took on a green rookie.
     
     
Nothing wrong with Trueheart, though, he had to admit it as he tracked his gaze across the room and saw his boy sipping a soda water and chatting up some fresh-faced young thing.
     
     
Kid was bright as a polished star, eager as a puppy, and would work until he dropped. He'd never figured on taking on the responsibility of trainer, but by damn, he was enjoying it.
     
     
Made him feel good the way the kid looked to him for advice, listened to his stories, believed his bullshit.
     
     
Oh yeah, he was turning into his old man right in front of his own eyes.
     
     
Time to clock out and go home.
     
     
He paid his tab, noting the change of shift at the bar. He wasn't the only one calling it a night.
     
     
Casually, he made a circle, around the tables, scanning faces one last time, watching the data hounds, eyeballing the staff. He waited until Trueheart shifted his gaze, then Baxter tapped his wrist unit in the signal they were packing it in.
     
     
Trueheart nodded, turned his glass on the bar to indicate he'd just finish up, then head on home himself.
     
     
Working well together, Baxter decided as he walked out into the heavy air. Kid's coming along fine. He glanced up once at the storm-tossed sky, and hoped to hell he made it home before it broke.
     
     
He was in his car, and ten full blocks uptown, when his communicator signalled.
     
     
"Ah, shit, Dallas. Can't a guy go home once in a damn while?" Grumbling to himself, he pulled out his communicator. "Baxter. What the hell do you want now?"
     
     
"Suspect's ID'd. Gerald Stevenson is Steve Audrey, your friendly, fucking bartender."
     
     
He shot a look at his rearview, his sideview mirrors, then cut across a lane of traffic before he was pinned in by a maxibus and a streamline of Rapid Cabs. "I'm ten blocks away, heading north. I'll double back. Suspect clocked off shift at twenty-one hundred. Trueheart's still in there."
     
     
"Contacting him now. Keep your communicator open and active. Get back there, Baxter. I don't want the kid handling this alone. I'm already on my way."
     
     
Baxter tried to squeeze between cabs, listening as Eve called for Trueheart.
     
     
***
     
     
He'd finished his drink, and was feeling a little flattered, a little nervous as the girl who'd come over to talk to him had asked for his number.
     
     
She'd wanted to dance, too, but he was a terrible dancer. And he really had to get home, get a good night's sleep. You never knew when the case was going to break.
     
     
He knew he was blushing when he gave the girl, Marley, his private 'link number. He hated that color so easily washed into his face, and prayed he'd grow out of it. Soon.
     
     
Cops didn't