Thankless in Death by J. D. Robb

stop.”
    “You got that. Bag of scum’s claiming the junkie fell, and he’s claiming the reason he ran like a freaking gazelle when we tracked him is how he was late for an appointment. And how all the bags of Funk and zoner we spotted—and managed to even scoop up a few before bystanders swarmed—weren’t his. And he’s being arrogant about it, which makes you want to bitch-slap him a few times.”
    “I didn’t hear that part.”
    Carmichael smiled. “Sanchez keeps me in line. He’s a peaceful sort.”
    “Stomped him? How are the bag of scum’s shoes?”
    The smile widened. “He didn’t even bother to change his boots, or get the vic’s blood off them. We’re getting them analyzed, but he left a goddamn boot print on the vic’s chest. Clear as a footprint in wet sand. And we have two wits who were looking out their peeps when he shoved the guy because the bag of scum was yelling his ass off at the junkie.”
    “Sounds like you’ve got him. Why are you getting him a cold one?”
    “Mostly because Sanchez wanted me to cool off. Asshole said all I needed was a good fuck with a big dick, gave me the crotch grab, and said he had one waiting for me.”
    “There’s more than one way to bitch-slap, Carmichael. Interview A’s on my way.” She started to walk. “What’s his name?”
    “Street name’s Fang. Real’s Alvar Ramondo.”
    With a nod, Eve gestured to the door. “Just open it, start to go in. Don’t close it.”
    Carmichael obliged.
    “So I’ll see you after … Hey.” Eve poked her head in the door, pointed at the bulky man—mid-twenties, mixed-race, leaning Latino, sporting complicated and elaborate tat sleeves. “Hey, you didn’t say you had Al in here.”
    Before Sanchez could speak, Eve sent him the briefest glance. He settled back.
    “How’s it going, Al? Not so good, I guess, from the look of it.”
    “Who’s this bitch?” Fang demanded. “You bringing another bitch in? No problem. I can handle both of you.” He smiled, proving he didn’t spend a lot of his profits on dental hygiene, grabbed his crotch, rocked his hips.
    Grunted suggestively.
    “Yeah, that’s what you said that night after all those tequila shots. I dug the tats,” she said to Carmichael, “so I gave him a shot. What the hell. Lemme tell ya.”
    Rolling her eyes, Eve held up her index finger and thumb, a scant two inches apart, then lifting the index, made a soft whooshing sound as she curled it limply down.
    Fang’s face went fiery red as he tried to lurch up. “You lying bitch! Lying
puta
! I never seen you before.”
    “Don’t remember me, Al? You said to call you Fang, right? Didn’t have much of a bite,” she said in an aside to Carmichael, girl to girl.
    “Lying bitch! I never seen you.”
    “Too much tequila.” Eve shrugged it off. “That’s okay. I remember you. I never forget a …” Eve did the falling index finger again. “Anyway,” she said brightly to Carmichael, “see you later.”
    She began to shut the door, considered it a job well done when she heard the shouting stream of curses.
    Then she hotfooted it to Whitney’s office.

4
    THE OUTER OFFICE WAS UNMANNED, AND Whitney’s door stood open. Eve stepped to it, waited a moment as he sat at his desk, concentration on his wide dark face while he scrolled down his desk screen.
    He fit the desk, she thought, the command of it with the windows at his back full of the city he’d vowed to protect. He’d worked the street once, and had been good at it. Now he rode a desk to run what she considered the best police and security force in the country.
    And he was good at that, too.
    She knocked lightly on the doorjamb. “Excuse me, sir. Your admin’s not at her post.”
    “She’s at lunch.” He gave her a come-ahead curl of his fingers. “Shut the door.”
    “Yes, sir.” Since she knew he’d invite her to sit, and she preferred giving oral reports on her feet, she jumped right in.
    “Both Peabody and I just returned