Free Immortal in Death by J. D. Robb

pretty reliable for a bust here and there. Couple of times I tagged a middle level dealer on his data.” He grinned again. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”
    “Yeah. So who beat him into putty?”
    The grin faded. Casto set the egg back down and shook his head. “Can’t say as I have a clue. Boomer wasn’t your lovable sort, but I don’t know anybody who hated him enough, or was pissed enough, to whack him that way.”
    Eve studied her man. He looked solid, and there had been a tone in his voice when he’d spoken of Boomer that reminded her of her own cautious affection. Still, she believed in holding her cards close. “Was he working on anything in particular? Something different? Something bigger?”
    Casto’s sandy brow lifted. “Such as?”
    “I’m asking you. Illegals aren’t my game.”
    “There wasn’t anything I knew of. Last I talked to him, hell, maybe two weeks before he went floating, he talked about sniffing out something outrageous. You know how he talked, Eve.”
    “Yeah, I know how he talked.” It was time to lay one of her cards down. “I also know I copped some unidentified substance hidden in his apartment. It’s in the lab now, and they’re analyzing. So far, all they tell me is it’s a new blend, and it’s more potent than anything currently on the street.”
    “New blend.” Casto’s brow creased. “Why the hell didn’t he tip me to that? If he tried to play both sides…” Casto hissed a breath between his teeth. “You think he got whacked over it?”
    “That’s my best theory.”
    “Yeah. Dumb shit. Probably tried to shake down the maker or the distributor. Listen, I’ll talk to the lab, and I’ll see if there’s any buzz on the street about something new coming in.”
    “Appreciate it.”
    “It’ll be a pleasure working with you.” He shifted, let his gaze linger on her mouth for a beat, with a kind of talent that missed insulting by miles and bull’s-eyed on flattering. “Maybe you’d like to catch a bite to eat, discuss strategy. Or whatever comes to mind.”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Is that no because you’re not hungry, or because you’re getting married?”
    “Both.”
    “Well, then.” He rose, and being human, she had to appreciate the way the denim snugged over long, lanky legs. “If you change your mind about either, you know where to find me now. I’ll be in touch.” He sauntered toward the door, paused, and turned. “You know, Eve, you’ve got eyes like good, aged whiskey. Sure brings out a powerful thirst in a man.”
    She frowned at the door he closed behind him, annoyed at the fact that her pulse was a little quick, a little unsteady. Shaking it off, she dragged both hands through her hair and looked back at the report on her screen.
    She hadn’t needed to be told how Pandora had died, but it was interesting to see that the ME believed the first three head blows had been fatal. Anything after that had just been indulgence on the killer’s part.
    She’d put up a fight before the head blows, Eve noted. Lacerations and abrasions on other parts of the body were concordant with a struggle.
    The time of death was listed at oh two fifty, and stomach contents indicated the victim had enjoyed an elegant last meal, at about twenty-one hundred, of lobster, escarole, Bavarian cream, and vintage champagne.
    There had also been heavy traces of chemicals in her bloodstream which had yet to be analyzed.
    So, Mavis had probably been right. It looked as though Pandora was jazzed on something, possibly on the illegals list. In the grand scheme of things, that might or might not make a difference.
    But the traces of skin under the victim’s nails were going to make a difference. Eve was terrifyingly sure when the lab finished its work, it was going to prove to be Mavis’s skin. Just as the strands of hair the sweepers had bagged near the body were going to be Mavis’s hair. And most damning, she was afraid, the prints on the murder weapon could be