Portrait In Death

Chapter 22

Fear wanted to ice her gut, her brain, her throat. She shut it down.

"Baxter?"

"I copy. I'm going the wrong fucking way." She heard the clashing chorus of horns as he maneuvered. "Shit. Fuck. Heading back. I'm better than ten blocks away, Dallas. Goddamn it."

"Parking port," she snapped at Roarke. "Closest to the data club, on the south."

"Getting it." He already had his book out, keying in for the data.

"Feeney! He's got Trueheart. Let's move, let's move. Yancy, get that image out. Now!"

"E-Z Park, on Twelfth, between Third and Fourth," Roarke told her as cops bolted for the door en masse.

"All units, all units, officer in distress. Code Red." She relayed the location. "Suspect ID's as Gerald Stevenson aka Steve Audrey. Image forthcoming. Subject is believed to be responsible for multiple murders. May be armed."

Her communicator squawked with responses as units began to roll. She paused only to bore one long look at Jessie as the woman rushed into the hallway.

"He's got one of my men. Anything happens to my officer. Anything, I'm coming back for you."

Still snapping out orders and data, she dived into the elevator.

"Quiet." She tossed up a hand to stop the chatter, heard Gerry's voice, light and cheerful.

Nope, no problem. My friend here's been partying pretty hard. Just going to take him home.

Parking… facil… level…

She closed down another leap of fear as she heard Trueheart's weak, slurred voice.

That's right. Got a ride parked. Let's get you in. Maybe you should just lie down in the back. Don't worry about a thing, I'm going to take care of you. Just relax.

"He's got him in the vehicle. Baxter?"

"Six blocks from the port. Got some jams on Third, breaking through."

"Tell me what kind of vehicle, Trueheart. Tell me."

"Itza van," he muttered as if he'd heard the order.It's… dark. Tired.

"Stay with me." Eve raced out of the building. "You stay with me."

She jumped into the passenger seat. It never occurred to her to drive-not with Roarke there. He was better at it, faster and slicker. Without a word, Peabody leaped into the back while Feeney and McNab ran to another car.

"He's thinking, he's still thinking like a cop." She swiped at the sweat on her face as Roarke screamed away from the curb. "He's left his communicator open. Peabody, monitor his transmissions. That's all I want you to do? Understood?"

"Yes, sir. I'm on him. They're on the move, Lieutenant. I can hear the engine, some traffic sounds. He's got the radio on. Sirens. I hear sirens."

Come on, come on, come on, Eve chanted in her head while she continued to relay orders. "Subject is driving a van. Exiting parking facility."

Roarke punched into vertical, pushing the clunky police issue into a stomach pitching lift to skim over a clump of Rapid Cabs, and simultaneously wrenching to the left to take a corner at a speed that had Peabody bouncing in the back like dice in a cup.

The tires kissed the top of an umbrella on the corner glide-cart, then hit the street again.

"Holy God," Peabody managed as buildings whizzed by.

He was threading through traffic like a snake sliding around rocks. She didn't have the courage to check out the speed.

"Black van, Dallas. Trueheart said black van, no windows in the back. He's fading."

"He's not going to fade."

She wasn't going to lose him. She wasn't going to lose that young, fresh-faced, quietly dedicated cop who could still blush.

"He needs to switch the communicator to homing pattern. That's all he needs to do." Her hand balled into a fist, bumped on her thigh. "Baxter, goddamn it!"

"Block and a half. No van sighted."

Pizza and a vid, Trueheart thought as he rolled helplessly in the back of the van. Wished he could dance better. Woulda asked her to dance if he wasn't such a klutzo.

No, no, in a van. Black panel van. In trouble. Oh boy, in trouble. Steve. Bartender. Brown and brown, five-ten, a hundred and… what was it?

Tranq'd me. Gotta think. Do something. Something…

She was so pretty. Marley. Really pretty.

But it was Eve's face that blurred in his brain.Straighten up, Officer Trueheart. Report.

Report, report. Officer down. I'm really down. Supposed to do something. He tried to reach the weapon at the small of his back, but his arm wouldn't cooperate. Communicator, he thought. He was supposed to do something with the communicator.

The procedure floated in and out of his brain as the music played and the van drove smoothly through the night.

Eve leaped out of the car at the parking port, sprang at Baxter who already had the operator in a choke hold against the kiosk.

A half dozen cop cars and twice that many cops were blocking crosstown traffic. The air was full of sirens, shouts, threats, and the rolling boom of thunder.

"Don't know what you're talking about. Don't know." The operator gasped out the words as his eyes bulged from a face going a dangerous shade of puce.

"Stand down, Detective." Eve grabbed Baxter's arm.

"My ass. You're going to tell me, you flat-nose little shit-faced weasel, or I'm going to wring your neck like a Thanksgiving turkey."

"Stand down!" Eve boomed it out, knocked Baxter back two steps. Anticipating them both, Roarke locked Baxter's arms behind his back as Eve stepped in to drill a finger into the operator's heaving chest. "You got ten seconds, or I let him have you. Then I let the rest of these cops finish the job. I want the make, model, license number of the van you just sidelined."

"I don't know what-"

She leaned in, spoke very softly. "I will give you more pain than you can imagine. Your brains will leak out of your ears, and your bowels out of your ass. I will cause that to happen without leaving a mark, and every cop here will swear you died of natural causes."

He'd been afraid of Baxter, but it wasn't fear he felt now. It was jittering, jelly-filled terror. The man cop had been all heat, and heat could give you a few bruises. But cold, this kind of cold killed.

"Chevy Mini-Mule. 2051 model. Black, panel style. I gotta look up the license. I don't want any trouble. Hey, the owners are out of town for two weeks. Guy just wanted a ride."

"Look it up, you pus-ball. You've got twenty seconds."

She pointed at a uniform to go with the operator into the kiosk. Baxter had stopped struggling against Roarke. He stood now, pale as ice, with grief already creeping into his eyes.

"I was going the wrong way, Dallas. The wrong goddamn way. I left the kid in the club. Wanted to go home, put my feet up, have a beer. I left him there."

"What are you Psychic Cop now? You should've known this was coming down." There was a sneer in her voice, a brutal one she knew would snap him out of it. "I didn't know that about you, Baxter. We'll have to have you transferred to Special Ops. They could use your talents."

"Dallas. He's mine."

"We're going to get him." She let herself go long enough to take Baxter's arm. "Pull yourself together, or you won't be able to help him."

Her head was buzzing with the fear that wanted to sneak back, with the anger, with a sense of being just one step too late. Taking the license number, she drew it all in.

"All units. All units. Subject vehicle is identified as a black Chevrolet Mini-Mule, 2051, panel style. License is NY 5504 Baker Zulu. Repeat. New York, 5504 Baker Zulu. City-wide APB on vehicle and on suspect Stevenson, Gerald, aka Steven Audrey. This is Code Red."

She slapped the communicator back in her pocket. "Peabody?"