Imitation in Death (In Death 17)

It was dark when she got home. Whether it was bullheadedness or not, she hadn’t tagged Roarke for transpo even after realizing she didn’t have cab fare on her. But she had dug up subway tokens, and found the underground ride jammed with people going home after a Sunday out on the town.

She opted to stand, swaying with the rhythm of the train as it headed uptown.

She didn’t ride the subway enough anymore, Eve thought. Not that she missed it. Half the ads were in languages not her own, half the passengers were zoned or irritated. And there would always be one or two who smelled as if they had a religious objection to soap and water.

Such as the wizened, toothless beggar with his license around his grubby neck who gave her a gummy grin. Still, it only took one steely stare to have him looking elsewhere.

She supposed she’d missed that, just a little.

She shifted, whiling away the trip by studying the other passengers. Students, buried in their disc books. Kids heading out to the vids. An old man snoring loud enough to make her wonder if he’d slept through his stop already. Some tired-looking women with children, a couple of tough guys looking bored.

And the skinny, geeky guy in the unseasonable trench coat currently masturbating at the far end of the car.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” She started over, but one of the tough guys spotted the geek, and obviously taking exception to the activity smashed a fist into the whacker’s face.

Blood spurted. Several people screamed. Though his nose was now a fountain, the geek kept himself in hand.

“Break it up.” Eve surged, reached down to grab tough guy number one when a fellow passenger panicked, sprang to his feet, and knocked Eve into the fist of tough guy number two.

“Goddamn it to hell!” She saw a couple of shooting stars, shook her head clear. “I’m the frigging police.” With her cheek throbbing, she smashed her elbow into tough guy number one to stop him from pounding on the giggling pervert still whacking off on the floor of the car, then stomped her foot on the instep of tough guy two.

When she hauled up the geek, snarled, everyone else stepped back. Something about the glint in her eye did what the tough guy’s fist hadn’t. The geek went limp.

She glanced down as he deflated, and let out a sigh. “Put that thing away,” s

he ordered.

Screw the subway, she grumbled as she strode up the long drive toward home. The ride had given her a sore jaw and a headache, and cost her the time it had taken to get off the damn car and turn the idiot over to the transit authority.

She didn’t much care that there was a nice breeze stirring up, an almost balmy one. Or that it carried hints of something sweet and floral into the air. She didn’t care that the sky was so clear she could see a three-quarter moon hanging in it like a lamp.

Okay, it looked nice, but hell.

She stomped inside, and after a terse inquiry, was told by the house system that Roarke was in the family media room.

Which was opposed to the main media room, she thought. Where the hell was it again? Because she wasn’t entirely sure and the hike from the subway stop to the front door had been considerable, she went into the elevator.

“Family media room,” she ordered, and was whisked up, and east.

The main media room was for parties and events, she remembered. It could fit more than a hundred people in plush chairs, and offered a wall screen as wide as a theater’s.

But the family media room was—she supposed he’d say—more intimate. Deep colors, she recalled, cushy seats. Two screens—one for vids, one for games. And the complex and complicated sound system that could play anything from the old-fashioned clunky vinyl records Roarke liked to fiddle with on occasion to the minute sound sticks.

She stepped into the room to a blast of sound that seemed to come from everywhere. Her eyes widened in reaction to the fast-moving space battle being waged over the wall screen.

Roarke was kicked back in a lounge chair, the cat in his lap, a glass of wine in his hand.

She should go to work, she told herself. Do more research on the Boston Strangler, keep digging for a connection between Wooton and Gregg. Though she was dead sure there would be no connection.

She should hound the sweepers, the ME, the lab. None of whom, she knew, would pay much attention to her at nearly ten on a Sunday night. But she could harass them anyway.

She could run probabilities, go over her notes, her suspect lists, stare at her murder board.

Instead, she walked over, plucked the cat off Roarke’s lap. “You’re in my seat,” she told him, and set him on another chair.

She slid into Roarke’s lap, took his wine. “What’s this one about?”

“It seems water is the commodity in fashion. This particular planet in the Zero quadrant—”