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"Peabody's a good cop."
"That she is."
"If I don't get back, ask Cartright to take her."
His throat closed, so he swallowed hard. "You'll be back, Dallas."
She turned, met his eyes again. "If I don't get back," she said evenly, "ask Cartright to take her. Peabody wants Homicide, she wants to make detective. Cartright can bring her along. Just do that for me."
"Yeah." His shoulders slumped. "Yeah, okay. Goddamn it," he muttered when she'd slipped out the door. "Goddamn it."
• • • •
Roarke gave her the silence he thought she needed on the drive home. He was certain, in her mind, she was riding with Feeney and Peabody, standing beside the door of Jan's apartment, issuing the standard police order and warning.
And because she'd need to, kicking in the door.
"You could use some sleep," he said when they were home and inside. "But I imagine you need to work."
"I've got to do this."
"I know." The hurt was back in her eyes, the weariness back in her face. "I've got to do this." He drew her into his arms, held her.
"I'm okay." But she wallowed in him, for just a moment. "I can deal with whatever happens as long as we close this one out. I couldn't accept whatever I'll have to accept if we don't put this one away."
"You will." He stroked a hand over her hair. "We will."
"And if I start to sulk again, just slap me around."
"I do so enjoy beating my wife." He closed his hand over hers and started upstairs. "Best to use the unregistered equipment. I've had a unit working on searching for buried records at the lab. We may have hit."
"I've got the disc Louise made. I didn't give it to Feeney." She waited while he uncoded the door. "He didn't ask for it."
"You've chosen your friends well. Ah, hard at work." He glanced at the console, smiling slowly as he scanned the readouts from his scan of the lab at the Drake. "And it appears we've found something. Some interesting megabites of unregistered, unaccounted for data. I'll need to work on this. He'll have covered this well, as he did his own log, but I know how his mind travels now."
"Can you run this on the side?" She handed him the disc. When he popped it into a secondary unit, then sat down at the main controls, she frowned. "Pop the Friend information on one of the screens. And I guess you want coffee?"
"Actually, I'd rather a brandy. Thanks."
She rolled her eyes and went to retrieve it. "You know, if you'd bring in some droids instead of leaving everything to that tight-assed snot Summerset—"
"You're moving perilously close to sulking."
She clamped her mouth shut, poured brandy, ordered coffee for herself, and sat down to work with her back to him.
She studied the data on Westley Friend's death first. There had been no suicide note. According to his family and closest friends, he had been depressed, distracted, edgy during
the days before his death. They had assumed it was due to the stress of his work, the lecture tours, the media and advertising schedule he kept to endorse NewLife products.
He'd been found dead in his office in the Nordick Clinic, at his desk, with the pressure syringe on the floor beside him.
Barbs, she mused, eyes narrowed. The same method as Wo.
There were no coincidences, she told herself. But there were patterns. There were routines.
At the time of his death, she read, he had been heading a team of prominent doctors and researchers involved in a classified project.
She noted with grim satisfaction that Cagney's, Wo's, and Vanderhaven's names were listed as top team members.
