Loyalty in Death by J. D. Robb Read Free Book Online Page B

clamped down. “Did you say Branson?”
    “That’s right. The Bransons hired me. Mr. and Mrs. B. Donald Branson. He owns Branson T and T. Good tools.”
    “Oh.” Peabody set down her spoon. “Oh, shit, Zeke.”
    Fixer’s was a grungy smear in an area not known for its tidiness. Just off Ninth, a bare block from the entrance to the tunnel, Fixer’s was a dilapidated storefront mined with security bars, patched with intercoms and peek lenses, and as welcoming as a cockroach.
    The one-way windows offered the passerby a dingy field of black. The door was reinforced steel, studded with a complicated series of locks that made the police seal look like a joke.
    People who loitered in the area knew how to mind their own business — which was usually second-story work. One glance at Eve had most of them finding something else to do and somewhere else to do it.
    Eve used her master on the police seal, relieved that the sweeper team hadn’t engaged Fixer’s locks. At least she wouldn’t have to spend time decoding them. It made her think of Roarke and wonder how long it would have taken him to slide right through them.
    Since a part of her would have enjoyed watching him do just that, she scowled as she stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
    It smelled — not quite foul but close, she decided. Sweat, grease, bad coffee, old piss. “Lights, full,” she ordered, then narrowed her eyes at the sudden brightness.
    The interior of the shop was no more cheerful than the exterior. Not a single chair invited a customer to sit and relax. The floor, the sickly green of baby vomit, carried the grime and scars of decades of wear. The way her boots stuck and made sucking noises as she walked told her that mopping up hadn’t been a major occupation of the deceased.
    Gray metal shelves rose up one wall and were jammed full in a system that defied all logic.
    Miniscreens, security cams, porta-links, desk logs, communication and entertainment systems crowded together in varying stages of repair or harvesting.
    Jumbled on the other side of the room were more units she took to be complete as the hand-lettered sign above warned that pickup must be made within thirty days or the customer defaulted the merchandise.
    She counted five No Credit Given postings in a room no larger than fifteen feet wide.
    Fixer’s sense of humor — for lack of a better term — was evidenced by the dangling human skull over the cashier’s counter. The sign under the sagging jaw read The Last Shoplifter.
    “Yeah, that’s a laugh riot,” Eve murmured and huffed out a breath.
    Damn if the place didn’t give her the creeps, she realized. The only window was behind her and barred. The only outside door mired with locks. She glanced up, studied the security monitor. It had been left running and gave her a full view of the street. On another, securing the interior, she could study herself on the crystal-clear screen.
    Nobody got in, she decided, unless Fixer wanted them in.
    She made a note to ask Sally at NJPSD for copies of the security discs, exterior and interior.
    She crossed to the counter, noted that the computer stationed there was an ugly hybrid of scavenged parts. And in all probability, she mused, ran with more speed, efficiency, and reliability than the one in her office at Cop Central.
    “Engage, computer.”
    When nothing happened, she frowned and attempted to boot it manually. The screen shimmered.
    Warning: This unit protected by fail safe. Code proper password or voice print within thirty seconds of this message or disengage.
    Eve disengaged. She’d see if Feeney, top dog in the Electronic Detective Division, had the time and inclination to play with it.
    There was nothing else on the counter but some greasy fingerprints, the dull sheen left by the sweepers, and a scatter of parts she couldn’t identify.
    She uncoded the door leading to the back area and stepped into Fixer’s workshop.
    The guy could’ve used a few elves, she thought.