-=O=-***-=O=-

Her next stop was Feeney's. For the second time, she woke a man from a dead sleep. Heavy-eyed, more rumpled than usual, and wearing a ratty blue robe that had his pale legs sticking out like a chicken's, he answered the door.

"Jeez, Dallas, it's going on two o'fucking clock."

"I know; sorry."

"Well, come in, but keep it down before the wife wakes up and thinks she has to come out and make coffee or some damn thing."

The apartment was small, several steps down from Webster's in size and style. A big, ugly chair sat in the center of the living area, facing the entertainment screen. The privacy screens on the windows had been pulled, giving the place the feeling of a tidy, and well-worn box.

She felt more at home immediately.

He went toward the kitchen, a short, skinny space with a battered counter running along one wall. She knew he'd added that on himself because he'd bragged about it for weeks. Saying nothing, she boosted herself on one of the stools and waited while he programmed the AutoChef for coffee.

"I thought you were going to tag me earlier. Waited around awhile."

"Sorry, I got held up on something else."

"Yeah, I heard. Taking Ricker on. That's a big chunk to chew."

"I'm going to swallow him down before I'm finished."

"Just make sure he doesn't give you permanent indigestion." He set two steaming mugs on the counter, settled onto the other stool. "Mills is dirty."

"Mills is dead."

"Well, shit." Feeney paused, thinking while he drank some coffee. "He died rich. Found two and a half million tucked into different accounts so far, and there may be more. He did a good job of burying them, used names of dead relatives mostly."

"Can you trace where it came from?"

"Haven't had any luck with that yet. With Kohli either. Money's been through the wash so many times, it oughta be sterilized. But I can tell you Mills started pumping up his goddamn pension fund and portfolio big time two weeks before the Ricker bust. There were dribbles before that, but that's when it started rolling."

He rubbed his hand over his face where the nightly complement of chin hair itched.

"Kohli started later. Months after. Don't have anything on Martinez yet. She's either clean or more careful. I took a look at Roth."

"And?"

"She's had some sizable withdrawals over the last six months. Big chunks taken out of her accounts. On the surface, it looks like she's damn near broke."

"Any of the withdrawals connect?"

"I'm still looking." He blew out a breath. "Thought maybe I'd see if I can work into their logs and 'links. Take a little time, since I have to be careful."

"Okay, thanks."

"How'd Mills go down?"

She sat, drank her coffee, and told him. It was still raw inside her, but by the time she'd finished, it was easier.

"He was an asshole," Feeney said. "But that's ugly. Somebody he knew. You're not going to get that close in on a cop, open him up that way, without some solid resistance unless the cop's relaxed."

"He'd been drinking. My hunch is he'd been drinking with somebody. Just like Kohli. Taking a meet in his ride maybe, having a drink. He gets sloppy, gets drugged, gets dead."

"Yeah, most likely. You did good putting McNab on the traffic scans. He'll do the job."

"I've got him and Peabody in my home office at eight. Can you come in on it?"

He looked at her, smiled his sorrowful basset-hound smile. "I thought I already was."