Judgment in Death (6 page)

"Someone was looking to the future. A half million in the past five months, and earning decently. Though I'd advise a bit more diversity and more of the pie in growth areas if college tuition is, indeed, the goal."

"He won't be needing a portfolio consult. A cop doesn't come up with a half million by watching his pennies. He comes up with it by being dirty."

With anger simmering, she sat. "He was taking. The question is, from who and why. The deposits and the accounts were down a couple of levels, but not buried deep, not covered up so a full scan didn't pop them right out. Pretty damn cocky."

She rose again to pace. "Pretty damn cocky. I don't think he was stupid. I think he was just sure of himself, sure he'd be covered."

"If he hadn't been killed, no one would have been looking at his financials," Roarke pointed out. "His lifestyle wasn't sending up red flags. He lived within his means."

"Yeah, he did his job, no more, no less. Went home at night to his pretty wife and pretty kids, then got up the next morning and did it all over again. No flash. The kind of cop nobody pays a lot of attention to and everybody likes. Nice guy, quiet guy. But IAB was looking at him."

She stopped in front of the wall screen. "They were looking, and they knew about the take. They don't want it coming out. Last time I looked, IAB didn't have a heart, so it's not concern for his grieving widow. So who's covering whose ass?"

"Perhaps they're simply being territorial. If they had him under investigation, they want to close that internal business up themselves."

"Yes, could be. I wouldn't put it past them." But it stuck in her craw. "Dirty or not, I've got a dead cop. And he's mine." She nodded at the screen. "I want to talk to Max Ricker."

"Lieutenant." Roarke moved behind her, rubbed her shoulders. "I have every confidence in your abilities, your intellect, and your instincts. But Ricker is a dangerous man, with a taste for the unpleasant. Particularly where women are involved. You'll appeal to him on several levels, not the least of which is your connection to me."

"Really?" she murmured and turned around.

"We didn't sever our business association on the best of terms."

"So, I can use that. If he's interested, it'll be easier to wade through his lawyers and set up a meet."

"Let me do it."

"No."

"Stop and think. I can get you to him quicker and more directly."

"Not this time, and not this way. You can't change your past," she said, "and he's part of that. But he's not part of your today."

"He's part of yours."

"That's right. Let's try to keep this, if not separate, sort of side by side. If he's part of it, you'll probably know before I do, because you won't leave it alone. But whatever kind of cop Kohli was, I'm the one standing for him now. I'll set up the meet when the time's right."

"Let me look into it a bit first, then you'll have more in your pocket when you do." And he'd have more time to do what needed to be done to keep her away from Ricker.

"Go ahead and look." But she was careful not to agree. "Tell me what you know about him. Give me an inside track."

Troubled, Roarke walked away, poured a brandy. "He's very smooth, educated, and can be charming when it suits him. He's quite vain and enjoys the company of beautiful women. When they please him, he can be very generous. When they displease him..."

Roarke turned, swirling the brandy. "He can and will be brutal. He's the same with his employees and associates. I once saw him slit the throat of a servant over a chipped wine goblet."

"It's hard to get good help these days."

"Isn't it? His main income is through the manufacture and distribution of illegals on a wide scale, but he also dabbles in weapons, assassinations, and sex. He has several high-placed officials in his pocket, which keeps him protected. Within an hour of your contact with him, he'll know whatever there is to know about you. He'll know, Eve, things you would prefer no one knew."

Her gut clenched, but she nodded. "I can handle that. Does he have family?"

"He had a brother. Rumor is Ricker dispensed with him over some sibling dispute. In any case, his body was never discovered. He has a son about my age, perhaps a few years younger. Alex. I never met him as he was living primarily in Germany when I had dealings with Ricker. Word is he's kept close, and insulated."

"Weaknesses?"

"Vanity, arrogance, greed. So far, he's been able to indulge himself in all three with relative impunity. But over the last year or so, there've been rumors. Quiet, very cautious ones, that his mental health is deteriorating, and as a result, some of his businesses are in mild distress. That's one of the avenues I'll explore more carefully."

"If he's involved in Kohli's death, that impunity ends. If he's mentally defective, it won't keep him out of a cage. Do you figure he'll agree to meet me if I make an approach?"

"He'll see you because he'll be curious. And if you take a shot at him, he'll never forget it. He's cold, Eve, and he's patient. If he has to wait a year, ten years, to circle back to you, he will."

"Then if I take a shot at him, I'll have to make it count."

More, Roarke thought as he finished his brandy. If she went after Ricker, Ricker would have to die.

He, too, could be cold. And patient.

She turned to him in the night. It was rare for her to do so unless the dreams were chasing her. When she slept, she slept deep and unprotected. Perhaps she knew he needed it, needed to feel her wrapped around him in the dark, the intimacy of it that stated more truly than words what they'd come to be to each other.

Her mouth found his, offered, while her hands roamed up the solid length of his back, down again to his hips.

They shifted on the wide bed, a tangle of limbs, of warm flesh, of breath beginning to quicken with each touch.

The taste of her -- lips, throat, breasts -- filled him, as it always did, even as it stirred hunger for more. Her heartbeat under his hand, under his mouth, and her first sign of pleasure trailed off into a quiet moan.

She arched against him, strength and surrender. Opened for him, invitation and demand.

He slipped inside her -- hot and wet and waiting -- and it was he who moaned as she closed around him. Shadows in the dark, their bodies rose and fell together, a slow, silky rhythm to draw out the night.

Pleasuring her, pleasuring himself, he slipped his hands under her hips, lifted her. Gave her more.

She locked herself around him, rode the edge. And when she felt herself begin to fall, she said his name.

He lifted his head, saw the gleam of her eyes, open, on him. "Eve," he said, and let himself fall with her.

Into the night, in the dark, he lay beside her, listening to her breathe. He knew the varied and sundry reasons a man would kill. But none were more fierce, none were more vital than to hold safe what he loved.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lieutenant Alan Mills caught Eve on her communicator as she was grabbing her second cup of coffee. Her first thought was that he looked as though he could have used a good jolt of caffeine himself.

His eyes were sleepy and irritable, a watery gray in a pale face.

"Dallas. Mills, here. You looking for me."

"That's right. I'm primary on the Kohli homicide."

"Son of a bitch." Mills snorted, sniffed. "I'd like a piece of the dickweed who did Kohli. What have you got?"

"This and that." She wasn't about to share investigative data with a man who looked like he'd yet to roll out of bed and had probably rolled into it with a little chemical enhancement, not strictly departmentally approved. "You and a Detective Martinez worked with Kohli on a task force over the past year. Max Ricker."

"Yeah, yeah." Mills rubbed his face. She could actually hear the scrub brush sound of his stubble against his palm. "Him and about a dozen other cops, and the slick bastard still oozed through the cracks. You think Ricker's tied to this?"

"I'm covering my bases here. I need a picture of Kohli, then maybe I'll get a picture of his killer. You got some time this morning, Mills, maybe you could hook Martinez and meet me at the crime scene. I'd appreciate any input."

"I heard the case was being transferred to our house."

"You heard wrong."

He seemed to digest this information and not find it particularly to his liking. "Kohli was one of ours."

"And now he's mine. I'm asking for some cooperation on this. Are you going to give it to me?"

"I want a look at the scene anyway. When?"

"No time like the present. I'll be at Purgatory in twenty minutes."

"I'll round up Martinez. Probably still taking her siesta. She's a Mex."

He ended transmission and left Eve regarding her communicator thoughtfully before she stuck it in her trouser pocket. "Gee, Mills. Nobody told me you were a complete and total asshole. Go figure."

"The asshole is still going to want to prove he has harder balls than you," Roarke commented. He'd stopped scanning the morning stock reports to watch her handle her colleague.

"Yeah, I got that."

She snagged her weapon harness, strapped it on in a way, Roarke thought, another woman clipped on earrings. He rose, slid a finger down the dent in her chin. "He'll find out, very shortly, he's wrong. No one has harder balls than you, Lieutenant."

She checked her weapon, settled it. "Is that a compliment or a dig?"

"An observation. I'd like to take another look at the scene myself -- for insurance purposes."

For insurance purposes her ass, Eve thought. "Not today, pal. But I'll try to clear it for you by tomorrow."

"As property owner, I'm entitled to an on-site scan to determine damage costs."

"As primary in a homicide investigation, I'm entitled to seal and preserve the crime scene until I'm satisfied all evidence has been gathered."

"The sweep was completed yesterday afternoon, and the scene was fully recorded." He reached down to the table in the sitting area of the bedroom, lifted a file disc. "At this point, the property owner is allowed admittance, in the company of a police representative and his insurance agent, to estimate repair and replacement costs. The memo from my attorney on the matter, Lieutenant."

She snatched the disc he offered. "Now who's rattling their balls," she muttered and made him grin. "Maybe I don't have time for you this morning."

He strolled to his closet, selected a suit jacket from the vast forest of his wardrobe. She had never figured out how he knew what went with what when there was so damn much to choose from.

"Maybe you'll have to make time. I'll ride with you. I've made arrangements to be picked up at the club when I'm finished there."

"You had this set up before you got home last night."

"Hmmm." He moved to her closet, found the gray vest that matched her trousers. If she'd thought to look for it herself, it would have taken her an hour not to find it. "It's cool out this morning," he said as he handed it to her.

"You think you're slick, don't you?"

"Yes." He bent down, kissed her, deftly did up the vest buttons for her. "Ready?"

"You don't talk to the other cops," Eve warned as they approached the club.

"What in the world would I have to say to them?" He continued to read and respond to overnight correspondence on his PPC while she pulled to the curb.

"You don't go anywhere on scene unless you're accompanied by me, Peabody, or an officer I designate," she continued. "And you take nothing -- that means nothing -- off scene."

"Are you interested in a small summer home in Juno, Alaska?" He glanced at her, met her narrowed eyes. "No, I see you're not. I don't believe I am, either. Ah, here we are." He pocketed the mini-unit. "And we appear to be the first to arrive."

"Roarke, no funny business."

"Fortunately, I left my red rubber nose at the office." He climbed out of the car. "Shall I open it for you?" He gestured at the police seal on the club's entrance door.

"Don't start with me." Struggling not to rise to the bait, she strode to the door, uncoded the seal. "If you screw around, I promise I'm calling a couple of big, burly uniforms and having them remove you from the scene."

"But darling, it's so much more arousing when the police brutality comes from you."

"Keep it up, smart guy." She shoved open the door. The light was dim through the windows, and she could still smell the unpleasant aroma of spilled liquor and stale blood that mixed with the chemical stench of sweeper dust.

"Lights on," she ordered. "Main bar area."

Those that were still operational brightened and cast a cool white light over the destruction.

"Doesn't look any better today, does it?" Roarke scanned the room, felt the little stir of temper.

"Close the door." She said it quietly, took a breath, and did what she did best. She put herself in the middle of murder.

"He comes in, after closing. He's been here before. He has to know the place, the setup, the security. Maybe he worked here, but if he did, and was on last night, he left with everyone else. Nobody's going to tag him as being alone here with Kohli."

She moved around and through the debris, toward the bar. "He sits down, asks for a drink. Friendly, casual. They've got business to discuss, something to talk over. That needs privacy."

"Why doesn't he have Kohli disarm the security cameras?" Roarke asked.

"He's not worried about the cameras. He's going to take care of them. After. Just a friendly after-hours drink, a little conversation. Nothing that's going to set off Kohli's cop vibes. If he had any. Kohli gets himself a beer, stays behind the bar. He's comfortable. Eats some nuts. He knows this guy. They've probably had a drink together before."

She glanced up, checking out the locations of the cameras. "Kohli's not worried about the security cams either. So either they're not talking about anything that's going to jam him, or he has turned them off. All the while, this guy's sitting here thinking about how to make his move. He comes behind the bar, helps himself to a drink this time."

She walked behind the bar, seeing it in her head. Kohli, big, strong and alive, wearing his Purgatory uniform. Black shirt, black slacks. Sipping at a beer, popping some bar nuts.

"The blood's pounding in his head, and his heart's thumping like a drum, but he doesn't let it show. Maybe he makes a joke, asks Kohli to get something. Just enough to make him turn his back for an instant. Long enough for him to grab the bat and swing."

A second, she thought, no more. No more than that to close a hand around the bat, jerk it free. Swing.

"The first crack of it sings up his arms, right into the shoulders. Blood sprays, and Kohli's face smashes into the glass. Bottles crash, and it's like an explosion.

"An explosion," she repeated, with her eyes slitted, flat. "That screams in his head. It makes his blood swim, pump, boosts the adrenaline. He turned the corner now, no going back. He swings the second time, into the face. It's good to see Kohli's face, the pain and the shock in it when he takes him out. The third swing does the job, cracks his head wide open. Blood and brains. But it's not enough."

She lifted her hands, fisted them one over the other like a batter waiting for a clutch pitch. "He wants to obliterate. He strikes again and again, and the sound of snaps and crunches when bones go is like music. Raging through him. He tastes blood. His breath's whistling. When he pulls himself back, pulls back just enough to think again, he gets Kohli's shield out of the pocket, tosses it down in the blood. That means something, blood on the shield, then he rolls the body on top of it."

She stopped a moment, thinking. "He's covered with blood. His hands, his clothes, his shoes. But there aren't any signs of it in the rest of the club. He changed. He had the sense to clean up first. The sweepers found traces of Kohli's blood, skin, brain matter in the drain of the bar sink."

She turned, looking at the bowl, covered with powder now, under the bar. "He washed up right here, with the body behind him. Cold. Stone cold. Then he took care of business, went around smashing everything. Made a real party out of it. Celebrate. But he's still got his wits. He tosses the bat with Kohli behind the bar. Here's what I've done, and here's how I did it. Then he takes the security discs and walks away."

"Do you know what it takes to put that kind of image inside your own head, Lieutenant? Courage. An amazing level of courage."

"I'm just doing what has to be done."

"No." Roarke laid a hand over hers, found it cold. "You do a great deal more."

"Don't sidetrack me." She drew away because she was cold, and faintly embarrassed. "Anyway, it's just a theory."

"A damn good one. You made me see it. Blood on the shield. If you're right about that meaning something, he was probably killed because he was a cop."

"Yeah. That's what I keep circling back to."

She glanced over as the door opened. She recognized Mills right away, though he was bigger than she'd assumed, and most of the big had run to fat.

Didn't take advantage of the department's physical fitness program, she thought, or the break they were given on body sculpting.

The woman beside him was small and lean, built for action. Her skin had the olive cast that always made Eve think of sun-baked countries. Her hair was black and glossy and tamed back into a long sleek tail. Her eyes were nearly as dark and seemed to snap with vibrancy.

Beside her, Mills looked like an overfed, sloppy mongrel.

"Word came down it was bad." Martinez's voice was clipped and faintly exotic. "But it's worse." Her eyes skimmed over Roarke, lingered an instant, then locked on Eve. "You'd be Lieutenant Dallas."

"That's right." Eve moved back across the room. "Thanks for coming down. The civilian's the property owner."

With barely a nod in acknowledgement, Mills lumbered to the bar. He moved like a bear. An overfed one. "Bought it back here, huh? Shitty way to die."

"Most ways are crap." Martinez turned to the door, fingers dancing a little too quickly for Eve's taste toward her side arm.

"My aide," Eve said when Peabody stepped in. "Officer Peabody, Detective Martinez and Lieutenant Mills." With a slight shift of her body, she tapped a finger to her collar, then turned back to follow Martinez to the bar.

Recognizing the signal, Peabody clipped on her recorder and engaged.

"How long did you know Kohli?" Eve asked.

"Me, a couple of years. I transferred to the One two-eight from Brooklyn." She looked down at the mess murder had left behind. "The lieutenant knew him longer."

"Yeah, since he came in rookie. Spit and polish and by the book. Did some military time and brought that with him. He was a one-shift wonder."

"Give him a break, Mills," Martinez muttered. "We're standing in his goddamn blood here."

"Hey, just saying it like it was. The guy did his shift, clocked out. Couldn't get an extra minute out of him without it being a direct order from the captain. But he did his job while he was on."

"How'd he get picked for the Ricker team?"

"Martinez wanted him." Mills shook his head at the mess behind the bar. "Last cop I'd've figured for getting taken out. I'da made book he'd have done his twenty-five and spent his retirement building birdhouses or some shit."

"I tagged him for the task force," Martinez confirmed. She angled her body away from Mills in a way that told Eve the detective wanted distance from the lieutenant. Bad. "I was head investigator under Lieutenant Mills. Kohli was a detail freak. He never missed a word. You had him on surveillance, you got a report that described everything he saw for four hours, down to the garbage in the gutter. He had good eyes."

She frowned at the blood splatter. "If you're thinking Ricker ordered a hit on him, I can't see it. Kohli was background, he was a drone on that investigation. He was in on the bust, but he didn't do anything but record the scene. I took Ricker down, for all the fucking good it did."

"Kohli was the one with the details," Eve said. "Anyway, some of those details could've gotten through to Ricker, helped him slide?"

There was a long pause. Eve saw Martinez's eyes meet Mills's before they both turned toward her. "I don't like what I'm hearing coming out of your mouth, Dallas."

Mills's tone was a jagged threat, like rusted metal in a sweaty hand. Out of the corner of her eye, Eve saw Roarke shift, and damn it, Peabody as well. She took a step forward as if to shake off the guard dogs. "What you're hearing coming out of my mouth is standard."

"Yeah, for some half-ass or lowlife who ends up in a bag. It's not fucking standard for a cop. Kohli carried a badge same as you, same as me. Where do you come off saying he was dirty?"

"I didn't say he was."

"Hell you didn't." Mills jabbed a finger at her. "You start heading down that road, Dallas, you won't get any help from me. This is why the case belongs in our house and not with some bitch down at Central."

"The case is with some bitch down at Central, Mills. Live with it." At her easy response, Eve thought she caught Martinez biting back a grin. "The question has to be asked, I asked it. I still haven't heard the answer."