In Death 18 - Divided in Death

.” He gasped against the pain, and the fear. Eve read them both in his eyes. “You walk out of here with that recording, and I’ll have your records all over the media within the hour. Everything that happened in Dallas. Everything in that file, including the speculation that you committed patricide. You’re finished as a cop when I get finished spinning those records out to the media.”
    Eve tilted her head, and smiled. “What records?”
    She let her smile widen as she pushed open the door. “Nailed, to the wall,” she said to Peabody.
    And she could hear Sparrow screaming for a doctor as she strode away.
    “I need you to take the recording, copy it, write the report. I want him charged fast. Go through Whitney, push the grease.”
    “What are the charges?”
    “It’s all on the record. He’s not going anywhere,” Eve added as they started down in the overcrowded elevator. “And I don’t think Bissel will try for him again, but I want a man on the door.”
    “Okay. Are you going somewhere?”
    “I want to play some of this off of Mira, see if any of this new data gives her an idea how and where Bissel might move next. He’s seriously screwed with Sparrow alive and wrapped, and that might make him more dangerous. Nobody’s left for him to go for.”
    “There’s you.”
    “Yeah. That’d be a nice plus.”
    “You sure have a twisted sense of optimism.”
    “Yeah, I’m Polly-freaking-anna. Take the ride. I’ll track Mira down and grab public transpo.”
    “I get to drive the mag civilian vehicle. Again?” Peabody did a quick tap and shuffle. “Man, I love being a detective.”
    “Get Sparrow secured, write the report, get Whitney to push through the arrest warrant, then get back over here and serve it. Then see how much you love it.”
    She pulled out her pocket ‘link. “Oh, and requisition us a new ride.”
    “You’re the superior officer,” Peabody reminded her. “The request should come from you.”
    “And my name is kick-her-ass in Requisitions. I put in, they’ll dig up some piece of shit heap with an attitude. They save them for me.”
    “That’s a factor. You know, we could bog down the request, and keep using one of Roarke’s. I mean, he’s got plenty of vehicles.”
    “We’re cops. We use a cop car.”
    “Spoilsport,” Peabody grumbled when Eve hiked away.
    ———«»———«»———«»———
    She took a cab to Mira’s residence because her body was one massive ache, and the idea of the subway with its crowds and smells seemed like more punishment than she deserved.
    Mira answered the door herself, and had already changed out of her work gear into rust-colored pants and a roomy white shirt.
    “Thanks for making the time.”
    “It’s absolutely no problem. Look at you,” Mira said with concern as she lifted a hand to Eve’s face. “The incident’s all over the news. With speculation it was a botched terrorist attack on Central.”
    “It goes back to Bissel, and it’s a lot more personal. I’ll explain.”
    “You should sit down, and we’ll . . .” She turned, beamed as her husband came toward her with a loaded tray. “Dennis, you remembered.”
    “Eve likes coffee.” He winked at Eve with his dreamy eyes. He was wearing a baggy cardigan with a hole in the sleeve and worn brown trousers. He smelled, Eve thought, a little like cherries.
    His expression sobered as he scanned the bruises. “Was there an accident?”
    “It was pretty much deliberate. It’s nice to see you, Mr. Mira.”
    “Charlie, you should take care of this girl.”
    “Yes, I will. Why don’t we go upstairs, and I’ll take a look at you?”
    “Thanks, but I really don’t have time—”
    Dennis was already starting up with the tray. “We can discuss the case while I treat you,” Mira said, and took a firm hold of Eve’s arm. “Otherwise, I’ll be distracted.”
    “It looks worse than it is,” Eve began.
    “Yes, so they always say.”
    There was a lot of color. It was one of the things Eve always noted about Mira’s home. All the color and pretty little whatnots sitting around. Flowers and photographs.
    Mira took her into a cozy sitting room done in quiet blues and misty greens. Over a small fireplace was a family portrait of the Miras, their children and spouses, their grandchildren. It wasn’t a formal pose, but a casual kind of grouping, as if a conversation was taking place.
    “Nice,” Eve said.
    “Yes, isn’t it? My daughter had it done from