In Death 19 - Visions in Death

Polinski's and Silk's station on the way to see this Royce Cabel." "How about the gyms with sweaty guys with thick necks?" "We'll move on it." Because it was faster, they squeezed on an elevator to ride down to garage level. Eve did her best to ignore the elbow wedged in her ribs. "I want us to give Nadine an interview." "Because of the 75 connection?" "Not just. I'm thinking it might grate our big, strong man to see three women dissing him on-screen. To know two women are heading the investigation." There's a thought." Several people pushed their way off when the doors opened. Eve glanced up, noted she had three levels to go.
    "Why don't we see if we can set up the interview later today?" "At Central?" "Yeah. Central Park. At last." Eve all but leaped out of the doors when they hit the garage.
    "Dallas, wait!" Peabody grabbed her arm, dug in her heels.
    "I have something to tell you." "Make it snappy." "I want to say first, that in just a few moments, you're going to be overcome with a powerful urge to kiss me on the lips. I won't think less of you for it." "Peabody, why, even in your wild, perverted dreams reams I want no part in or of would I ever have the least compunction to kiss you on the lips?" "Close your eyes."
    Eve spoke quietly, almost casually. "Have you lost your fucking mind?" "Okay, okay." Peabody pouted a little. "You're no fun." She crossed over to Eve's parking slot, spread her arms with a flourish and said: "Voila!" "What the hell is that?" "That, Lieutenant, is your replacement vehicle. Pucker up." Eve goggled. It was a rare thing to see the lieutenant goggle, and Peabody celebrated the moment with a snappy little tap dance.
    Slowly, Eve walked around the sleek, navy blue sedan. It shone under the hard garage lights like a dignified jewel.
    The tires were big, black, and clean. The glass and chrome sparkled.
    "This is not my vehicle." "Is too." "This is my vehicle?" "Uh-huh." Peabody bobbed her head like a puppet on a happy string.
    "Get out." Eve smacked her in the shoulder. "How'd you pull this off?" "A little fast talk, some slight exaggeration, a lot of prevarication, and a little assistance from an e-fairy who knows how to hack." "You got it through unethical and possibly illegal means." "Damn straight." Eve set her hands on her hips, looked Peabody square in the eyes. "This is such a proud moment for me. A proud, proud moment." "Are you going to kiss me on the lips?" "Not that proud." "How about a peck on the cheek?" "Get in the car." "Your codes, Lieutenant." She handed them over, strolled around to the passenger side. "And you know what, Dallas? This bitch is loaded." "Oh yeah?" Eve slid into a seat, grinned when she didn't get the sensation of sitting on bumpy rock. "Well, let's see what she can do."

CHAPTER 8
    It rocked, not only was everything operational, but it moved. She could zip into vertical and down again, stream instead of muscle her way through traffic.
    All comp systems were go, as she was told, politely, by a computerized voice before she even thought to ask. The voice addressed her as Lieutenant Dallas, informed her the outside temp was a pleasant seventy-eight degrees with winds from the south, southwest at a mild twelve per hour.
    It offered to calculate the most convenient route to her destination, or destinations, with projected traffic patterns and ETAs.
    It was a fricking miracle.
    "You love this car," Peabody said with a smug little smile on her face.
    "I do not love a vehicle. I appreciate and expect efficient machines and tools, machines and tools that assist me in doing my job rather than inconveniencing and hampering me." She whipped around a trudging maxibus, threaded through a mired mass of Rapid Cabs, and for the hell of it, executed a quick vertical maneuver that shot them east.
    "Okay. I love this car!" "Knew you would." Peabody all but sang it.
    "If they try to take it from me, I'll fight them. To the death.
    To the bloody death."
    She smiled all the way to her destination.
    Since Polinski was out on personal time, she dealt with Silk, a stubby fireplug of a man who sat at his desk munching on no-fat soy chips while he gave her background on the Missing Person's investigation.
    Breen Merriweather had been reported missing by her neighbor and childcare provider on June tenth. She'd left the studio between midnight and twelve-fifteen. And vanished without a trace.
    No serious romantic relationships, no known enemies.
    She'd been in good health and good