Immortal in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

back from leave. I’ll feed her what seems best. She and Channel 75 owe me a few.” She rose. “I have some people to talk to. I’ll contact Feeney and take him along.”
    “Let’s see if we can get things cleared up before your honeymoon.” Her face was such a study of contradictions, embarrassment, pleasure, and fear, he roared out a laugh. “You’ll live through it, Dallas. I can guarantee it.”
    “Sure, when the guy who’s designing my wedding dress is in holding,” she muttered. “Thank you, Commander.”
    He watched her walk out. She might not have been aware that she’d dropped the barrier between them, but he was.
    “The wife’s going to love this.” More than content to let Dallas handle the driving, Feeney leaned back in the passenger seat. Street traffic was light as they headed toward Park Avenue South. Feeney, a native New Yorker, had long since tuned out the bellows and echoes of the tourist blimps and sky buses that crowded overhead.
    “They told me they were going to fix it. Those fuckers. Hear that, Feeney? Do you hear that goddamn buzzing?”
    Obligingly, he focused on the sound coming from her control panel. “Sounds like a swarm of those killer bees.”
    “Three days,” she fumed, “three days in repair, and listen to it. It’s worse than it was.”
    “Dallas.” He laid a hand on her arm. “You may have to face it, finally, learn to deal with the simple fact that your vehicle is a piece of garbage. Requisition a new one.”
    “I don’t want a new one.” Using the heel of her hand, she rapped the control panel. “I want this one, without the sound effects.” She got caught at a light, tapped her fingers on the wheel. The way the controls sounded, she wouldn’t be able to trust automatic. “Where the hell is 582 Central Park South?” Her controls continued to buzz, so she slapped them again. “I said, where the hell is 582 Central Park South?”
    “Just ask nice,” Feeney suggested. “Computer, please display map and locate 582 Central Park South.”
    When the display screen popped up, the holographic map highlighting the route, Eve only snarled.
    “I don’t baby my tools.”
    “Which may be why they’re always breaking down on you. As I was saying,” he continued before Eve could snap at him, “the wife’s going to love this. Justin Young. He used to play this stud on Night Falls.”
    “Isn’t that a soap?” She shot him a glance. “What are you doing watching soaps?”
    “Hey, I tune in the Soap Channel for a little relaxation like everybody. Anyway, the wife was nuts about him. He does the movie thing now. She hardly goes a week without programming one of his movies on screen. Guy’s good, too. Then there’s Jerry Fitzgerald.” Feeney smiled dreamily.
    “Keep your little fantasies to yourself, pal.”
    “I tell you that girl’s built. Not like some of the models who have their bodies honed down to bone.” He made a sound like a man anticipating a large bowl of ice cream. “You know one of the best things about working with you recently, Dallas?”
    “My charming ways and rapier wit?”
    “Oh sure.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s being able to go home and tell the wife who I interrogated today. A billionaire, a senator, Italian aristocrats, film stars. I tell you, it’s done wonders for my prestige.”
    “Glad I could help.” She squeezed her battered police issue between a mini Rolls and a vintage Mercedes. “Just try to control your awe while we do the third degree on the actor.”
    “I’m a professional.” But he was grinning as he climbed out. “Just look at this place. How’d you like to own a place in here?” Then he chuckled and shifted his eyes away from the glossy faux marble facade of the lofty building. “Oh, I was forgetting. This is slumming for you now.”
    “Kiss ass, Feeney.”
    “Come on, kid, loosen up.” He slung an arm around her shoulder as they headed toward the doors. “Falling for the richest man in the