Judgment in Death (25 page)

"That's not what I meant."

"I know, but it's a fact all the same. We'll break the circle. We'll do that together. I'm more inclined to believe in such things as fate."

"Only when your Irish comes out." She managed a smile but moved away. "Could he know about me? Could he have connected me from all those years ago?"

"I can't tell you."

"If he'd tried to track my father, could he have found out who I am? Is it possible to dig up the data on me from before?"

"Eve, you're asking me to speculate -- "

"Could you?" she interrupted, facing him again. "If you wanted the information, could you find it?"

She didn't want comfort, he knew, but facts. "Given the time, yes. But I have considerably more to work with than he would."

"But he could? He has the capabilities? Particularly if he'd begun to track my father when he was double-crossed."

"It's possible. I don't believe he'd have wasted his time keeping track of an eight-year-old girl who was sucked into the system."

"But he knew, when I went to see him, that I had been in the system. He knew where I'd been found, and in what condition."

"Because he researched Lieutenant Eve Dallas. Not because he'd been keeping tabs on a young, abused girl."

"Yes, you're probably right. It hardly matters, anyway." She paused by her desk, lifted a small carved box he'd given her for odds and ends. "You could find the data?"

"Yes, I could find it, if that's what you want."

"No." She set the box down again. "It's not what I want. What I want is here. There's nothing back there I need to know. I shouldn't have let it get to me the way it did. I didn't realize it had."

She sighed, and this time she did smile when she turned. "I was too mad at you to think about it. We've got a hell of a lot of work to do in a short amount of time. You might as well come with me for now."

"I thought you wanted to go over the security."

"I do, but back at Central. I only set up this meet here so I could yell at you in private."

"Isn't that odd? I agreed to the meet here so I could yell at you in private."

"Shows how screwed up we are."

"On the contrary." He held out a hand for hers. "I'd say it shows we're incredibly well suited for each other."

As trying to squeeze more than two people into Eve's cramped office violated several laws of physics, she held the briefing in the conference room.

"Time's short," she began when her team was seated. "As the homicide cases and the matter of Max Ricker have dovetailed, we'll be pursuing them both on parallel lines. Lab results, data searches, and probability scans regarding the homicides are in your reports. I haven't requested a warrant but will do so, with an obligatory DNA test, if the suspect refuses to come in on his own volition. Peabody and I will pick him up, quietly, after the briefing."

"Probability's low," Feeney pointed out, frowning at the printout in his file.

"It'll get higher, and his DNA will match that of the fingernail found on the Bayliss crime scene. Due to Sergeant Clooney's years of service to the department, his exemplary record, his emotional state, and the circumstances that built and were built around him, I prefer to bring him in personally, and hope to persuade him to make a full statement. Dr. Mira is on call to counsel him and offer testing."

"The media's going to rock and roll over this."

Eve gave McNab a nod of acknowledgment. "We can and we will spin the media." She'd already decided to contact Nadine Furst. "A veteran officer with a perfect service record whose son -- only son -- follows in his footsteps. A father's pride. A son's dedication. Because of that dedication, because of that honor to the badge in a squad where a few cops -- and let's keep it at a few for public record -- are corrupt, the son is targeted."

"Proving that -- " Feeney began.

"We don't have to prove it," she interrupted. "It just has to be said to be believed. Ricker," she continued. "He was behind it. I don't question that. Moreover, Clooney didn't. His son was clean, intended to stay clean. He moved up the ranks to detective. He couldn't be bought. He was assigned in the early stages of the Ricker op, I have that from Martinez's notes. Just a peg in the board, but a good cop. A hereditary cop. Put this together," she suggested and rested a hip on the conference table.

"He's straight, he's young, and he's smart. He's ambitious. The Ricker task force is a good break for him, and he's going to make the most of it. He pushes, he digs. Ricker's sources in the squad relay that information. They're nervous. Ricker decides to make an example. One night, the good cop stops off in his neighborhood 24/7. He habitually swung by there on his way home after his shift. A robbery's in progress. Look at the report: That location hasn't been hit before or since, but it was being hit that night, at just the right time. The good cop goes in and is killed. The proprietor makes a frantic emergency call, but it takes a squad car ten full minutes to arrive on-scene. And the med-techs, due to what's reported to be a technical delay, don't arrive for ten more. The kid bleeds to death on the floor. Sacrificed."

She waited a beat, knowing any cop in the room would see it as clearly as she did. "The squad car was manned by two men, and their names were on the list Vernon gave me this morning. Ricker's men. They let him die, one of their own. And the signal was sent: This is what happens if you cross me."

"Okay, it plays," Feeney agreed. "But if Clooney's following the same dots, why didn't he hit the cops in the squad car?"

"He did. One of them transferred to Philadelphia three months ago. He was hanged in his bedroom. Ruling was self-termination, but I think the PPSD will reopen that case. Thirty credits were scattered on the bed. The other drowned, slipped in a bathtub while on vacation in Florida. Ruled accidental. The coins were found there, too."

"He's been eliminating them for months." Peabody blew out a breath. "Just ticking them off, and going on with business."

"Until Kohli. Kohli snapped him. He liked Kohli, knew his family, felt close to him. More, his son and Kohli were friends, and when Ricker, through IAB, planted Kohli, spread rumors that he was on the take, it was like losing his son all over again. The eliminations became more violent, more personal, and more symbolic. Blood on the badge. He can't stop. What he does now he does in his son's memory. In his son's honor. But knowing he killed an innocent man, a good cop, is breaking him down. That's Ricker's angle. He can sit back and watch us destroy each other from within."

"He's not that clever, not anymore." Roarke spoke up. "He wouldn't understand a man like Clooney, or that kind of love and grief. Luck," he said. "He put the pieces on the tray, and luck, or if you prefer, love, linked them."

"That may be, but putting the pieces on the tray is enough to fry him. Which brings us to the second avenue of this investigation. As you are now aware, Roarke has been enlisted as temporary civilian liaison on the matter of Max Ricker. Peabody, are you familiar with the street name for civilian liaison?"

Peabody squirmed. "Yes, sir." When Eve merely waited, Peabody winced. "Um... weasel, Lieutenant. The street name's weasel."

"I imagine," Roarke said, "that weasels are adept at catching rats."

"Good one." Feeney leaned over and slapped Roarke on the back. "Damn good one."

"We have a very big rat for you." She straightened, jammed her hands in her pockets, and outlined the plan for the rest of the team.

There was no doubt who was in command here, Roarke thought as he watched her. Who was in control. She left no angle unexplored, no corner unswept. She prowled the room, thinking on her feet, and her voice was clipped.

In some past life she'd have been wearing a general's braiding. Or armor.

And this woman, this warrior, had trembled in his arms. That was the power between them. The miracle of it.

"Roarke?"

"Yes, Lieutenant."

Something in his eyes had her heart stuttering a bit. She clamped down on it, frowned at him. "I'll leave you to go over the security with Feeney and McNab. I don't want any holes in it. Not a single pinprick."

"There won't be any."

"Make sure of it. I'm calling Martinez in on this for the bust. And she'll get the collar when it goes down. Any objections?" She waited, got none. "Peabody, you're with me."

She started out, glanced back. Roarke was still watching her, the faintest of smiles on that killer mouth, the faintest glint in those wild blue eyes.

"Jesus, he makes your mouth water."

"Sir?"

"Nothing." Mortified, she strode out. "Nothing. Has my unit been repaired or replaced?"

"Dallas, that's so sweet. I didn't know you believed in fairy tales."

"Damn it. We'll steal one from somewhere." Then she began to grin. "I'll just take Roarke's."

"Oh, tell me it's the XX. The 6000. It's my favorite."

"How the hell are we going to bring in a suspect in a two-seater? It's some snazzy sedan type today. I've got the code. Won't he be surprised when he goes down and finds it gone. I think -- "

Distracted, she nearly walked into Webster. "Lieutenant, a minute of your time."

"I'm low on minutes, walk and talk."

"You're going for Clooney."

"Goddamn it." Though he'd kept his voice low, she whipped her head around to be sure no one had heard. "What makes you think that?"

"I still have my sources." His face was grave, and his voice remained quiet. "You left the breadcrumbs. I can still follow the trail."

"Have you been in my files?"

"Dallas." He laid a hand on her arm, felt the tremor of temper. "I'm deep in this. Part of what I did, following orders, may have sparked what's gone down. I did the internal run on Clooney's son. I feel responsible. Let me go with you to pick him up."

She angled her head. "Someone in IAB's dirty, in Ricker's pocket. How do I know it's not you?"

His hand dropped away. "You don't." He let out a breath. "You can't. Okay." He stepped back, started to turn.

"Hold on. Peabody." She gestured, moved a few steps away. "Do you have a problem on staying with the briefing, finishing the paperwork?"

Peabody glanced back at Webster, who was standing with his hands in his pockets and a miserable look on his face.

"No, sir."

"All right. Set up an interview room, block observation. I don't want anybody nosing in while I'm talking to Clooney. Let's give him what dignity we can."

"I'll take care of it. Good luck."

"Yeah." She walked back to Webster. "Let's go."

He blinked, then took in a breath. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me. You're along for ballast."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Peabody dawdled. She procrastinated. She fiddled. Then when she couldn't avoid it any longer, she went back into the conference room.

Some complex schematic was on the wall screen, and Feeney was whistling at it as though it were the image of a naked and nubile woman.

"Hey, She-Body. What's up?" McNab asked.

"Just a change of plans. I'm going to sit in on the security briefing."

"Dallas isn't going for Clooney?" Feeney asked.

"Yeah, yeah, she's going." As if it was vitally important, she selected a chair, brushed off the seat, settled into it.

"Alone?" Roarke's voice made her want to cringe, but she looked up over his shoulder, shrugged her own. "No, no, she's got somebody. Um, you'll have to explain the system to me in English. I only speak pidgin tech-speak."

"Who's with her?" Roarke asked, though he already knew. It was just like her.

"With her? Oh, ah, hmmm. Webster."

Silence fell, a clatter of broken bricks. Peabody folded her hands in her pockets and prepared for the explosion to follow.

"I see." When Roarke simply turned back to the screen and continued, she didn't know whether to be relieved or scared to death.

Webster resisted, barely, making some smart comment about the sleek luxury car and instead settled in to enjoy the ride.

Or tried to, but his nerves were jumping.

"Okay, let's just get this out of the way. I'm not Ricker's man in IAB. I guess I figured there had to be one, but I don't have a line on it. I will have. I'm going to make a point of it."

"Webster, if I thought you were hooked to Ricker, you'd still be back at Central, crawling over the floor trying to find what was left of your teeth."

It made him smile. "That means a lot to me."

"Yeah, yeah, save it."

"So... I went into your files. You can kick me about that later if you want. I had your code and password. Bayliss dug it out. I didn't have any right to and blah, blah, but I did it. I followed your line on Clooney. It was good work."

"You expect me to blush and say aw, shucks? You try that crap again, and I'll have you up, toothless, before the review board."

"Fair enough. You didn't get a warrant."

"That's right."

"What you got's thin, but it spreads enough that a judge Would've issued."

"I don't want a warrant. He's entitled to a little consideration."

"Bayliss hated cops like you." Webster looked out at New York, the jam of it, crowded, colorful, arrogant. "I'd forgotten what it was like to work this way. It's not something I'm going to forget again."

"Then listen up, here's how we do it. Clooney's living on the West Side. It's an apartment. He moved out of his house in the burbs a couple months after his son died. Hang a busted marriage on Ricker while you're at it."

"It's the middle of shift. He's not going to be home."

"You didn't finish his file. It's his day off. If he's not there, we knock on doors until somebody tells us where he might be. And we go find him, or we wait. I do the talking. He's going to come in voluntarily. That's the way we're going to make it happen."

"Dallas, he's killed three cops."

"Five. You didn't finish my notes, either. You're slipping, Webster. A thorough cop is a happy cop."

She found the address, started to double-park, then remembered she not only had Roarke's snappy sedan, but didn't have her On Duty light.

Cursing under her breath, she cruised until she found a parking slot. Two blocks down and one level up.

"It's a secured building," she noted, nodding toward the security cam and code box. "We bypass it. I don't want him to have time to get ready for us."

Webster opened his mouth to remind her of the lack of warrant. Then closed it again. It was her show, after all.

She used her master, keyed in her badge number. A more sophisticated system would have requested her to state her police emergency, but this one simply unlocked the outer doors.

"Fourth floor," she told him, heading inside and to the single elevator. "You carrying?"

"Yeah."

"I wasn't sure you guys in IAB carried anything but a data book. Keep your weapon harnessed."

"Well hell, I was looking forward to going through the door blasting. I'm not a moron, Dallas."

"IAB, moron. IAB, moron. I can never tell the difference. But enough of this frivolity. Stand back," she ordered when they reached the fourth level. "I don't want him seeing you through the peep."

"He may not open the door for you."

"Sure, he will. He wonders about me." She pressed the buzzer on the side of the door. Waited. She felt herself being observed, kept her face blank.

Moments later, Clooney opened the door. "Lieutenant, I wasn't -- " He broke off when Webster shifted into the doorway. "I wasn't expecting company."

"Can we come in, Sergeant, and speak to you?"

"Sure, sure. Don't mind the mess. I was just making a sandwich the old-fashioned way."

He stepped back, casual, easy. A good, smart cop, she thought later. That's why she missed it.

He brought up the knife fast, a smooth, quick motion, aimed at her throat. She was a good, smart cop, too. She might have dodged it. It was something she'd never know for certain.

Webster shoved her, hard enough to knock her off her feet, and the movement, the twist of his body put him in the path of the knife.

She shouted something as the blood spurted. Something as Webster went down. And was already scrambling to her knees, already reaching for her weapon as Clooney sprinted across the room. If she'd fired without warning, fired into his back, she would have had him. The instinctive hesitation, the ingrained loyalty, cost her an instant.

And he was out the window and clambering down the fire escape.

She rushed to Webster. His breathing was short, shallow, and the blood was coming fast from the long slice that ran from his shoulder down across his chest.

"Jesus, Jesus."

"I'm okay. Go."

"Shut up. Just shut up." She ripped out her communicator as she leaped to her feet and ran to the window. "Officer down. Officer down." She rattled off the address, scanning for Clooney. "Immediate medical assistance required this location. Officer down. Suspect fleeing on foot, heading west. Suspect is armed and dangerous. White male, sixty years."

Even as she spoke, she was shrugging out of her jacket, tearing through the apartment for towels. "Five feet, ten inches, one hundred and eighty. Gray and blue. Subject is suspect on multiple homicides. Hold on, Webster, you stupid son of a bitch. You die on me, I'm going to be supremely pissed."

"Sorry." He sucked in his breath as she ripped his shirt, pressed the folded towels over the wound. "Christ, it really hurts. What the hell kind of..." He bore down, fighting to stay conscious. "What the hell kind of knife was that?"

"How the hell should I know? A big, sharp one."

Too much blood, was all she could think. Too much blood, already soaking through the towels. It was bad. It was really bad.

"They sew you up. You'll get a goddamn commendation out of this scratch. Then you'll be able to show it off to all your women and make them giddy."

"Bullshit." He tried to smile, but he couldn't see her. The light was going gray. "He opened me up like a trout."

"Shut up. I told you to shut up."

He made a little sighing sound, then obliged her by passing out. She cradled him, sopping at blood, and listened for the sirens.

She met Whitney in the surgical waiting room. Her shirt and trousers were soaked with Webster's blood, her face pale as death.

"I screwed up. I was sure I could reason with him, that I could reach him and bring him in. Instead, he's at large and another good cop's dying."

"Webster's getting the best care available. Every one of us is responsible for himself, Dallas."

"I took him along." It could be Peabody on the operating table, she thought. Oh God, no way to win.

"He took himself along. Regardless, you've identified the suspect, and have done so through skilled investigative work. Sergeant Clooney won't be at large for long. We have an all-points. He's known. He fled with the clothes on his back. He has no funds, no resources."

"A smart cop knows how to go under. I let him go, Commander. I did not take the opportunity to take him down nor did I pursue."

"If you were again faced with making the choice of pursuing a suspect or saving a fellow officer's life, which way would you go?"

"I'd do the same thing." She looked toward the operating room. "For what it's worth."

"So would I. Lieutenant, go home. Get some sleep. You'll need all the resources of your own to finish this."

"Sir, I'd like to wait until they can tell us something on Webster."

"All right. Let's get some coffee. Can't be any worse here than it is at Central."

When she dragged herself home, her system was begging to shut down, but her mind refused. She replayed the moment in Clooney's doorway a hundred times. Had there been a flicker in his eyes, one she should have seen, responded to, an instant before the knife came up?

If Webster hadn't moved in, could she have dodged and deflected?

What was the point? she asked herself as she stepped into the house. Nothing changed.

"Eve."

Roarke came out of the parlor where he'd waited for her. She'd come home bloody before, exhausted before, and carrying a cloak of despair. Now she stood with all three hovering around her and just stared at him.

"Oh, Roarke."

"I'm sorry." He moved to her, wrapped his arms around her. "I'm so sorry."

"They don't think he's going to make it. That's not what they say, exactly, but you can read it on their faces. Massive blood loss, extreme internal damage. The knife nicked his heart, his lung, and God knows. They've called his family in, advised them to hurry."

However selfish it was didn't matter to him. All he could think was, It could have been you. It could have been you, and I would be the one advised to hurry.

"Come upstairs. You need to clean up and get some sleep."

"Yeah, nothing more to do but get some sleep." She started toward the steps with him, then just sank down on them, buried her face in her hands. "What the hell was I thinking? Who the hell do I think I am? Mira's the shrink, not me. What made me think I could get inside this man's head and understand what was going on in it?"

"Because you can, and you do. You can't always be right." He rubbed her back. "Tell me what he's thinking now."

She shook her head, got to her feet. "I'm too tired. I'm too tired for this."

She walked upstairs, stripping on her way across the bedroom. Before she could step into the shower, Roarke took her hand. "No, into the tub. You'll sleep better for it."

He ran the water himself. Hot, because she liked it hot, added scent to soothe, programmed the jets to comfort. He undressed, got in with her, and drew her back against him.

"He did it for me. Clooney was going for me, and Webster knocked me down and stepped into the knife."

Roarke pressed his lips to the top of her head. "Then I owe him a debt I can never repay. But you can. By finishing it. And that's what you'll do."

"Yeah, I'll finish it."

"For now, rest"

Fatigue was a weight bearing down on her. She stopped resisting and fell under it.

She woke to sunlight and the scent of coffee. The first thing she saw was Roarke, with a mug of coffee in his hand.

"How much would you pay for this?"

"Name your price." She sat up, took it from him, drank gratefully. "This is one of my favorite parts of the marriage deal." She let the caffeine flow through her system. "I mean, the sex is pretty good, but the coffee... The coffee is amazing. And you're all-around handy yourself most of the time. Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

She took his hand before he could rise. "I wouldn't have slept easy last night without you being here." She gave his hand a squeeze, then shifted toward the bedside 'link. "I want to call and check on Webster."

"I've already called." She wouldn't want it cushioned, so he told her exactly what he knew. "He made it through the night. They nearly lost him twice and took him back in for more surgery. He remains critical."

"Okay." She set the coffee down to scrub her hands over her face. "Okay. He felt like he needed vindication. Let's give it to him."

Purgatory had taken on an edge. Glamour with a bright smear of sin.

"Fast repair work," Eve muttered as she wandered through, scanning the trio of winding, open stairs with their treads edged with hot red lights. On closer study, she noted the banisters that curved down them were sleek and sinuous snakes, and every few feet, one was swallowing its brother's tail.

"Interesting."

"Yes." Roarke ran one of his elegant hands over a reptilian head. "I thought so. And practical. Start up."

"Why?"

"Humor me."

With a shrug, she climbed the first three. "So?"

"Feeney? Do we register on weapon check?"

"You bet. Scanner shows police-issue laser on staircase one, and secondary weapon in ankle harness."

Eve glanced up toward Control, and the hidden speakers where Feeney's voice boomed. With a thin smile, she looked back at Roarke. "Why don't you come on up for a weapon scan, ace?"

"I think not. Similar scanners are set in all entrances and exits, in the bathrooms, and privacy rooms. We'll know what we're up against in that area."

"Boomers," she said, coming down again. "Knives?"

"We can scan for explosives. Knives are trickier, though the metal detectors will take care of any fashioned from that material. An hour before opening, the entire building will be swept a final time, just as a precaution."

"Where do you plan to hold the meet?"

"We've divided the area into twenty-two sectors. Each will have individual security, and all will line to the main control. I'll have a privacy booth in sector twelve, there."

He gestured to a table on the edge of the entertainment platform. She ran her gaze up over the gold and red poles that lanced up from the stage, the pie plate -- topped columns, the human-sized gilded cages.