In Death 09 - Loyalty in Death

In Death 09 - Loyalty in Death, R

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Loyalty in Death
(The tenth book in the In Death series)
A novel by
PROLOGUE
Dear Comrade,
We are Cassandra.
It has begun.
All we have worked for, all we have trained for, all we have sacrificed for is in place. A dawn
after so long a twilight. The goals set over thirty years ago will be achieved. The promises made
will be kept. And the martyr's blood that was shed avenged at long last.
We know you are concerned. We know you are cautious. This is what makes you a wise
general. Believe that we have taken your counsel and your warnings to heart. We do not break
the moratorium on this righteous and bitter war with a battle we intend to lose. We are
well-equipped, our cause well-financed, and all steps and options have been considered.
We send this transmission to you, dear friend and Comrade, as we joyfully prepare to
continue our mission. Already, first blood has been spilled, and we rejoice. Circumstances have
put an opponent in our path you would find worthy. We have attached to this transmission a
dossier on Lieutenant Eve Dallas of the so-called New York City Police and Security
Department so that you might familiarize yourself with this adversary.
Through the defeat of this enemy, our victory will be all the sweeter. She is, after all,
another symbol of the corrupt and oppressive system we will destroy.
Your wise counsel directed us to this place. We have lived among these pitiful pawns of a
weak-kneed society, wearing our smiling mask as we scorn their city and their system of
repression and decay. We have to their blind eyes become one of them. No one questions us as
we move about these immoral and filthy streets. We are invisible, a shadow among shadows as
you, and the one we both loved, taught us the canniest soldier must be.
And when we have destroyed, one by one, the symbols of this overfed society,
demonstrating our power and our clean-minded plan for the new realm, they will tremble. They
will see us, and they will remember him. The first symbol of our glorious victory will be a
monument to him. In his image.
We are loyal, and our memory is long.
You will hear the first rumble of battle tomorrow.
Speak of us to all the patriots, to all the loyal.
We are Cassandra.
CHAPTER ONE
On this particular night, a beggar died unnoticed under a bench in Greenpeace Park. A
history professor fell bloodied, his throat slashed three feet from his front door for the twelve
credits in his pocket. A woman choked out one last scream as she crumpled under her lover's
pounding fists.
And not yet done, death circled its bony finger, then jabbed it gleefully between the eyes
of one J. Clarence Branson, the fifty-year-old co-president of Branson Tools and Toys.
He'd been rich, single, and successful, a jolly man with reason to be as co-owner of a
major interplanetary corporation. A second son and the third generation of Bransons to provide
the world and its satellites with implements and amusements, he'd lived lavishly.
And had died the same way.
J. Clarence's heart had been skewered with one of his own multi-power porta drills by his
steely-eyed mistress, who'd bolted him to the wall with it, reported the incident to the police,
then had calmly sat sipping claret until the first officers arrived on the scene.
She continued to sip her drink, settled cozily in a high-backed chair in front of a
computer-generated fire while Lieutenant Eve Dallas examined the body.
"He's absolutely dead," she coolly informed Eve. Her name was Lisbeth Cooke, and she
made her living as an advertising executive in her deceased lover's company. She was forty,
sleekly attractive, and very good at her job. "The Branson 8000 is an excellent product --
designed to satisfy both the professional and the hobbyist. It's very powerful and accurate."
"Uh-huh." Eve scanned the victim's face. Pampered and handsome, even though death
had etched a look of stunned and sorrowful surprise on his face. Blood soaked through the breast
of his blue velvet dressing gown and puddled glossily on the floor. "Sure did the job here. Read
Ms. Cooke her rights, Peabody."
While her aide attended to the matter, Eve verified time and cause of death for the record.
Even with the voluntary confession, the business of murder would follow routine. The weapon
would be taken into evidence, the body transported and autopsied, the scene secured.
Gesturing to the crime scene team to take over, Eve crossed the royal red carpet, sat
across from Lisbeth in front of the chirpy fire that blew out lush heat and light. She said nothing
for a moment, waiting several beats to see what reaction she might get from the fashionable
brunette with fresh blood splattered somehow gaily on her yellow silk jumpsuit.
She got nothing but a politely inquiring stare. "So ... you want to tell me about it?"
"He was cheating on me," Lisbeth said flatly. "I killed him."
Eve studied the steady green eyes, saw anger but no shock or remorse. "Did you argue?"
"We had a few words." Lisbeth lifted her claret to full lips painted the same rich tone as
the wine. "Most of them mine. J. C. was weak-minded." She shrugged her shoulders and silk
rustled. "I accepted that, even found it endearing in many ways. But we had an arrangement. I
gave him three years of my life."
Now she leaned forward, eyes snapping with the temper behind the chill. "Three years,
during which time I could have pursued other interests, other arrangements, other relationships.
But I was faithful. He was not."
She drew in a breath, leaned back again, very nearly smiled. "Now he's dead."
"Yeah, we got that part." Eve heard the ugly suck and scrape as the team struggled to
remove the long steel spike from flesh and bone. "Did you bring the drill with you, Ms. Cooke,
with the intention of using it as a weapon?"
"No, it's J. C.'s. He putters occasionally. He must have been puttering," she mused with a
casual glance toward the body the crime scene team was now removing from the wall in a
ghastly ballet of movements. "I saw it there, on the table, and thought, well, that's just perfect,
isn't it? So I picked it up, flicked it on. And used it."
It didn't get much simpler, Eve mused, and rose. "Ms. Cooke, these officers will take you
down to Cop Central. I'll have some more questions for you."
Obligingly, Lisbeth swallowed the last of the claret, then set the glass aside. "I'll just get
my coat."
Peabody shook her head as Lisbeth tossed a full-length black mink over her bloody silks
and swept out between two uniforms with all the panache of a woman heading out to the next
heady social engagement.
"Man, it takes all kinds. She drills the guy, then hands us the case on a platter."
Eve shrugged into her leather jacket, picked up her field kit. Thoughtfully, she used
solvent to clean the blood and Seal-It from her hands. The sweepers would finish up, then secure
the scene. "We'll never get her on murder one. That's just what it was, but I'll lay odds it's
pleaded down to manslaughter within forty-eight hours."
"Manslaughter?" Genuinely shocked, Peabody gaped at Eve as they stepped into the tiled
elevator for the trip down to the lobby level. "Come on, Dallas. No way."
"Here's the way." Eve looked into Peabody's dark, earnest eyes, studied her square,
no-nonsense face under its bowl-cut hair and police-issue hat. And was nearly sorry to cut into
that unswerving belief in the system. "If the drill proves to be the victim's, she didn't bring a
weapon with her. That cuts down on premeditation. Pride's got her now, and a good dose of mad,
but after a few hours in a cell, if not before, survival instinct will kick in, and she'll lawyer up.
She's smart, so she'll lawyer smart."
"Yeah, but we've got intent. We've got malice. She just made a statement for the record."
That was the book. As much as Eve believed in the book, she knew the pages often
became blurred. "And she doesn't have to renege on it, just embellish it. They argued. She was
devastated, upset. Maybe he threatened her. In a moment of passion -- or possibly fear -- she
grabbed the drill."
Eve stepped off the elevator, crossed the wide lobby with its pink marble columns and
glossy ornamental trees. "Temporary diminished capacity," she continued. "Possibly an
argument for self-defense, though it's bullshit. But Branson was about six-two, two-twenty, and
she's five-four, maybe one-fifteen. They could make that work. Then, in shock, she contacts the
police immediately. She doesn't attempt to run or to deny what she did. She takes responsibility,
which would earn points with a jury if it comes down to it. The PA knows that, so he'll plead it
down."
"That really bites."
"She'll do time," Eve said as they stepped outside into a cold as bitter as the scorned lover
now in custody. "She'll lose her job, spend a hefty chunk of credits on her lawyer. You take what
you can get."
Peabody glanced over at the morgue wagon. "This one should be so easy."
"Lots of times the easy ones have the most angles." Eve smiled a little as she opened the
door of her vehicle. "Cheer up, Peabody. We'll close the case, and she won't walk. Sometimes
that's as good as it gets."
"It wasn't like she loved him." At Eve's arched brow, Peabody shrugged. "You could tell.
She was just pissed because he'd screwed around on her."
"Yeah, so she screwed him -- literally. So remember, loyalty counts." The car 'link
beeped just as she started the engine. "Dallas."
"Hey, Dallas, hey. It's Ratso."
Eve looked at the ferret face and beady blue eyes onscreen. "I'd never have guessed."
He gave the wheezy inhale that passed for a laugh. "Yeah, right. Yeah. So listen, Dallas, I
got something for you. How 'bout you meet me and we'll deal. Okay? Right?"
"I'm heading into Central. I've got business. And my shift's over ten minutes ago, so -- "
"I got something for you. Good data. Worth something."
"Yeah, that's what you always say. Don't waste my time, Ratso."
"It's good shit." The blue eyes skittered like marbles in his skinny face. "I can be at The
Brew in ten."
"I'll give you five minutes, Ratso. Practice being coherent."
She broke the connection, swung away from the curb, and headed downtown.
"I remember him from your files," Peabody commented. "One of your weasels."
"Yeah, and he just did ninety days on a D and D. I got the indecent exposure tossed.
Ratso likes to flaunt his personality when he's piss-faced. He's harmless," Eve added. "Mostly
full of wind, but every now and again, he comes up with some solid data. The Brew's on the way,
and Cooke can hold for a bit. Run the serial number on the murder weapon. Let's verify if it
belonged to the victim. Then find the next of kin. I'll notify them once Cooke's booked."
The night was clear and cold with a stiff wind snapping down the urban canyons and
chasing most of the foot traffic indoors. The glide-cart vendors held out, shivering in the steam
and stink of grilling soy dogs, hoping for a few hungry souls hearty enough to brave February's
teeth.
The winter of 2059 had been brutally cold, and profits were down.
They left the swank Upper East Side neighborhood with its clear, unbroken sidewalks
and uniformed doormen and headed south and west where the streets went narrow and noisy and
the natives moved fast, their eyes on the ground and their fists over their wallets.
Smashed against curbs, the remnants of the last snowfall was soot gray and ugly. Nasty
patches of ice still slicked sidewalks and lay in wait for the unwary. Overhead, a billboard swam
with a warm blue sea hemmed by sugar-white sand. The busty blonde frolicking in the waves
wore little more than a tan and invited New York to come to the islands and play.
Eve entertained herself with thoughts of a couple of days in Roarke's island getaway.
Sun, sand, and sex, she mused as she negotiated bad-tempered evening traffic. Her husband
would be happy to provide all three, and she was nearly ready to suggest it. Another week or two
maybe, she decided. After she cleared up some paperwork, finished some court appearances, tied
a couple of dangling loose ends.
And, she admitted, felt a little more secure about being away from the job.
She'd lost her badge and had nearly lost her way too recently for the sting to have faded.
Now that she had both back, she wasn't quite ready to set duty aside for a quick bout of
indulgence.
By the time she found a parking space on the second-level street ramp near The Brew,
Peabody had the requested data. "According to the serial numbers, the murder weapon belonged
to the victim."
"Then we start off with murder in the second," Eve said as they trooped down to the
street. "The PA won't waste time trying to prove premeditation."
"But you think she went there to kill him."
"Oh yeah." Eve crossed the sidewalk toward the murky lights of an animated beer mug
with dingy foam sliding down the sides.
The Brew specialized in cheap drinks and stale beer nuts. Its clientele ran to grifters down
on their luck, low-level office drones and the cut-rate licensed companions who hunted them,
and a smaller of hustlers with nothing left to hustle.
The air was stale and overheated, conversation scattered and secret. Through the smeared
light, several gazes slid to Eve, then quickly away.
Even without Peabody's uniform beside her, she whispered cop. They would have
recognized it in the way she stood -- the long, rangy body alert, the clear brown eyes steady,
focused, and flat as they took in faces and details.
Only the uninitiated would have seen just a woman with short, somewhat choppily cut
brown hair, a lean face with sharp angles and a shallow dent in the chin. Most who patronized
The Brew had been around and could smell cop at a dead run in the opposite direction.
She spotted Ratso, his pointy rodent face nearly inside the mug as he sucked back beer.
As she walked toward his table, she heard a few chairs scrape shyly away, saw more than one
pair of shoulders hunch defensively.
Everyone's guilty of something, she thought, and sent Ratso a fierce, bare-toothed smile.
"This joint doesn't change, Ratso, and neither do you."
He offered her his wheezy laugh, but his gaze had danced nervously over Peabody's
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