Page 23 of Bonded in Death

In contrast with his unit, he wore brown, a wrinkled shit-brown jacket and pants, a tie the color of shit that had dried out after a few weeks in the sun, with a shirt of sad beige.

She found it comforting.

His wiry ginger hair exploded on his head. His baggy basset hound eyes studied her face.

“We’re working it.”

“I know.”

“I got a program running in here. Not that the kids don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Callendar’s running dead people.”

“Cover the bases. You got COD yet?”

“Yeah. Not poison—or not the usual gulp down some wine and die. He was gassed.”

Frowning, Feeney leaned back on his desk. “In the limo?”

“No question where, and now no question how. Sweepers found a canister of it. In the ceiling, which meant removing the ceiling, installing the canister so it would go through the AC vents, the air vents. Replacing the ceiling.”

“Lot of work. Lots easier ways to get the job done. He’s a poser.”

“Yeah.”

Since he was there, the man who’d trained her, taken her into Homicide, made her his partner, she pulled out her ’link.

“Check this.”

She showed him the killer holding up the fake cop card and smirking.

“Arrogant bastard poser.”

“He installed a remote on the canister, so he could release the gas once Rossi was in and secured. And eyes and ears. He could watch him die on the in-dash.”

Nodding, Feeney snagged a couple of candied almonds from the crooked bowl on his desk. “Making sure, maybe. More likely enjoying the show. You gotta connect somewhere. Does Roarke know Rossi?”

He might’ve been captain of EDD, but Feeney still thought like a murder cop.

“Not offhand. He’s checking.”

“Something’s gotta be there. Or the asshole wants notoriety. Get the Icove cop, the Red Horse cop on the chase.”

“Shit. Just shit.”

Now he smiled. “It’s a damn good vid. The wife’s reading Nadine’s new book. She’s liking it. Could be as simple and stupid as that. Figuring he’ll get himself in a book or vid.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going to check with Nadine, see if he’s contacted her or tried to.”

“She’d let you know if he had.”

“She would, but—”

“Cover those bases. What kind of gas?”

“Something Dickhead called phosphine. Colorless,” she began.

“Now, that’s something I haven’t heard of in a hell of a time.”

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