In Death 18 - Divided in Death

I’m going to take just a minute, Dallas, to pull myself together so I can do him, and you, some good.”
    She waited until he left the room. “Peabody, I need you to work this. Do the on-scene, call the sweepers, start the knock-on-doors. I have to get to the Tower.”
    “I need to be there.”
    “They ordered me, not you.”
    Peabody’s jaw tightened. “I’m your partner, and if your ass is getting fitted for a sling, mine is, too.”
    “I appreciate the sentiment, however strange the visual, but I need my partner to pull the weight here. He needs you,” she said, looking down at Powell. “You have to start the process for him, and you need to help Morris. And if they’re fitting my ass for a sling, Peabody, I need you to keep pushing this investigation through, to keep the team solid. I’m not protecting you. I’m counting on you.”
    “Okay. I’ll handle it.” She stepped up, stood with Eve over Joseph Powell. “I’ll take care of him.”
    She nodded. “Do you see what happened here? Tell me.”
    “He let himself in the door. He knows how to bypass security, and there’s not much here to bypass. No cams, no doorman. He picked Powell instead of Sibresky because Powell lived alone, and as orderly, probably handled more of the paperwork. It was business here, and he went straight for it. Powell’s in bed, zoned or asleep, probably both. He just leaned down, pressed the weapon to his throat, zapped him. Um . . .”
    She took a quick scan of the room. “There’s no pass or ID sitting around. He might’ve taken it, altered it for his own use. We’ll check on that. Then he just walked out again. We’ll get time of death, but it was probably middle of the day yesterday.”
    “Start with that. I’ll head back to the house as soon as I can. Morris may want to notify next of kin himself. If not—”
    “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about this end, Dallas.”
    “Then I won’t.”
    She started out, paused in front of the poster of Mavis. “Don’t ever tell her,” she said, and left the scene.
    ———«»———«»———«»———
    Inside the lab, Reva worked side by side with Tokimoto. They rarely spoke, and when they did it was in an abbreviated computerese only the true data jock could translate. But for the most part, there were no words between them. One thought, the other anticipated.
    But Reva couldn’t anticipate how badly he wanted to speak, how the part of his mind not focused on the work formed and re-formed the words and phrases.
    She was in trouble, he reminded himself. She was just widowed, and widowed by a man she’d learned was using her. She was vulnerable, and emotionally fragile. It was . . . ghoulish—wasn’t it?—to even consider approaching her on any personal level at such a time.
    But when she leaned back on a quiet sound of exhaustion, the words simply popped out.
    “You’re pushing too hard. You need to take a break. Twenty minutes. A walk in the fresh air.”
    “We’re close. I know it.”
    “Then twenty minutes will make little difference. Your eyes are bloodshot.”
    She worked up a twisted smile. “Thanks for pointing that out.”
    “You have lovely eyes. You’re abusing them.”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She shut them on a sigh. “You don’t even know what color they are other than red.”
    “They’re gray. Like smoke. Or fog on a moonless night.”
    She opened one eye, peered at him. “Where’d that come from?”
    “I have no idea.” Though he was flustered, he decided to push on. “Perhaps my brain is as bloodshot as your eyes. I think we should take a walk.”
    “Why not?” She studied him as she got to her feet. “Sure. Why not?”
    Across the room, Roarke watched them step out. “About damn time,” he muttered.
    “You got something?” Feeney asked, and nearly pounced on him.
    “No. Sorry. I was thinking of something else.”
    “You’re a little off today, aren’t you, boy?”
    “I’m on right enough.” He reached for his coffee mug, found it empty, and had to struggle against the urge to just heave it against the glass wall.
    “Why don’t I fill that up for you.” Feeney nipped it handily out of Roarke’s hand. “I was about to do my own.”
    “Appreciate it.”
    When he’d done so, Feeney came back, swiveled his chair beside Roarke’s. “She can handle herself. You know that.”
    “Who would know it better?” Roarke took a tool as thin as a dentist’s probe and scraped delicately at