The In Death Collection Books 26-29 - J.D. Robb [67]
“Yeah, absolutely logical, absolutely reasonable. Good plan.”
“You really think plan? Like, okay, sleazy ex-husband dispatched. Check. Now hook nice guy with deep pockets?”
“She introduced the ex to the woman he cheated with. Read between the lines, Peabody. If you know a kid’s addicted to ice cream, do you put a big chocolate sundae in front of him and walk away? If you want out of a marriage with a tidy sum, sympathy, and no fault on you, what better way than to set up your weak-willed, roving-eyed husband? It’s something she’d do. It’s exactly something she’d do.
“I want to talk to Greta again. You go back, pick up the files. If you need help transporting, order it up. When you get back to Central, do a search for repeating names. Any that show multiple times in any program. Run those first.”
She pulled over, spoke over the ensuing storm of horns. “Take the wheel. I’ll catch a cab, then tap Roarke for a ride to the memorial.”
She checked the address in her book, then decided to walk a few blocks to clear her head before engaging in the war for a cab. Since she was on foot, she pulled out her ’link to check on Feeney.
He answered, honking like a dying goose. “Man, you sound sick.”
“I am sick. Goddamn it. You think I’m lying here in bed drinking this disgusting boiled tree bark they gave me for my health?”
She waited a beat. “Well. Yeah.”
“I’m burning up. I’ve got hot shards of glass in my throat and ten pounds of snot in my head. And what do they do? What do they do?” His eyes bugged out like glass marbles. “They give me fucking liquid tree bark and the wife’s poured so much chicken soup down me, I’m starting to cluck. I don’t want to die here in this damn bed. If this is the end, I want to buy it at my desk, like a man. You gotta get me out of here, Dallas. You gotta bust me out. You can take Sheila.”
His face was wildly flushed, but Eve thought that was as much from sick panic as sickness. And she wasn’t altogether sure she could take Feeney’s wife. “Ah, what? I can’t hear you. It must be a bad ’link.”
“Don’t you pull that crap on me.”
“Okay, okay. How about this? I’ve got Peabody picking up files, hundreds of them from Anders Worldwide. It’s the wife, Feeney, I know it in my guts. But I’ve got nothing to take to the commander, much less the PA. The search and runs on these files are going to take hours. Maybe days. Peabody could fill you in, toss some to you. You could work from there.”
“Best you can do is throw me a bone?” He honked again. “I’ll take it.”
“It’s a big bone, Feeney, and I need somebody to dig out the meat.”
“All right. You tell the wife.”
“What? Wait!”
“You convince her you need me on this. Make it life and death.”
“No! Feeney, don’t—”
“Sheila!” He honked the name out, and in the lingering chill of March, Eve’s hands went damp with sweat.
What people did for friendship, Eve thought, as she paid off the cab. Now she was responsible, according to Mrs. Feeney, if the work set back his recovery. Should’ve left him hacking up a lung at his desk in the first place, she told herself as she buzzed Greta Horowitz’s apartment from street level.
She angled toward the view screen.
“Lieutenant Dallas?”
“Yes. Can I come up?”
“I’ll open the locks.”
The doors beeped clear, opened smoothly. Inside, the entryway was small, and absolutely pristine. Eve imagined Greta would tolerate no less. The elevator hummed cooperatively to the fourth floor where Greta stood in the doorway of her unit.
“Has something happened?”
“Just some follow-up questions.”
“Oh. I was hoping you’d found who killed Mr. Anders. Please come in.”
The apartment was as unpretentious and efficient as its occupant. Sturdy furniture, no frills, a scent of…clean, was the only way Eve could describe it.
“Can I get you something hot to drink?”
“No, thanks. If we could sit down for a few minutes.”
“Please.” Greta sat, planted her shoes on the floor and her knees together. Smoothed down the skirt of her dignified black suit.
“You’re attending the memorial,