Treachery in Death (3 page)

“That’s it. She was yelling and bossing, so Slash sapped her a little to shut her up. Me, I got some candy and chips and shit, and the old man comes out half crazy. He’s, like, attacking me, so I just defended myself and gave him a knock. And he’s going after Skid, and he’s screaming, like,
insane
shit, so Skid, he gave him a zap. We were buzzing and all so we broke the place up, then we left. See? We didn’t kill nobody.”

Peabody pulled a paper out of the file. “This is the autopsy report on Ochi. Do you know what an autopsy is, you asshole?”

He licked his lips. “It’s like when they cut up dead people. Sucks, man.”

“And when they cut up this dead person, it turns out he died of coronary arrest. His heart stopped.”

“See, like I said, we didn’t kill him.”

“It stopped due to an electric shock, which also left electrical burns on his chest. Your fucking zipzap’s the murder weapon.”

Jimmy K’s eyes bulged. “No. Shit, no.”

“Shit, yes.”

“It was an accident, man. An accident, right?” he said, pleading, to Eve.

She was tired of good cop. “You went into Ochi’s Market, intending to rob, to destroy property, to cause intimidation and physical harm to the Ochis and whoever else might have been present. You went in carrying an illegal device you knew caused physical harm, and weighted bags fashioned into saps. You indeed did rob, did destroy property, and did cause physical harm by your own admission. Here’s what happens when a death incurs as a result of a crime or during the course of committing a crime. It bumps it up to murder.”

“Can’t be.”

“Oh,” Eve assured him, “it be.”

2

EVE LET PEABODY SET THE PACE. IT TOOK A BIT longer than it might have, but she couldn’t say the interviews weren’t thorough. At the end of the long process, three dangerous idiots were in cages, where she didn’t doubt they’d spend many decades of their idiot lives.

In her office, she gestured to her AutoChef. “I don’t have coffee,” she said, as if slightly puzzled. “When you correct that situation, you can get one for yourself.”

Peabody programmed two cups, handed one off.

“Good work,” Eve told her, tapped mugs.

“It was pretty much a slam dunk.”

“If it was it’s because you slammed it. You got details and information from a wit, combined that with the information I got from the vic’s wife, with what we observed and compiled from the scene.”

Eve sat, plopped her booted feet on her desk. “From there, you followed instinct and located the suspects, even though you could have left that part of it to the officers already on the lookout.”

Peabody lowered to the spindly visitor’s chair. “You’d have kicked my ass if I’d done that. Our case, our vic, our suspects.”

“You’re not wrong. You, correctly in my opinion, identified the weak sister and played him first, played him well, intimidating him into babbling out a confession, and relating specific details. Who did what, when, how. You got intent, and that was key. You understood to amp up the pressure and the heat on Slatter because he’s tougher than Rogan.”

“Mashed potatoes are tougher than Rogan, but don’t stop now. Please continue to tell me I’m a mag investigator.”

“You didn’t screw up,” Eve said, and made Peabody grin over her coffee regular. “You cooked Slatter because he was pissed enough at Rogan rolling—and knew Rogan had because you laid out the details—to try to roll harder on his pals. He figured since Rogan made the murder weapon, and Lowe had the bright idea to go to the market, Lowe used it on Ochi, he’d be something of an innocent bystander. You let him think it.”

“Yeah. You led him there with the helpful good cop. A mag investigator has to utilize teamwork.”

“You’ve got a few more minutes to milk it,” Eve decided.

“Yay. We worked Lowe like a draft horse.”

“If you say so. It was smart to go with the sneering, it’s already in the bag, asshole, angle. Sarcasm and ugly amusement instead of threats and intimidation. He has almost half a brain and may have lawyered up if you’d gone with the heat. The cold worked on him.”

“I think, on some level, he knew Ochi was dead when he ran out of the market, and on some level he pressed that device to the old guy’s heart because he knew it would do serious damage.”

Not only instinct, not only teamwork, Eve thought, but insight was an important tool of the mag investigator.

And so was practicality.

“I don’t disagree, but we were never going to get them on Murder One. You got what we could get, and adding the assault on police officers—the attempt on you by Lowe, they’re sewed, Peabody. They’ll be in a cage longer than they’ve been alive. Mrs. Ochi won’t get her husband back, but when you contact her she’ll know the people responsible for it are already starting to pay.”

“I think you should tell her. You talked to her—she knows you—and it would probably mean more if you told her we’ve got them.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll contact the wit.” Peabody blew out a breath. “I liked being bad cop—a lot actually. But ... it kind of gave me a headache.”

“Because it’s not natural for you. Your natural technique is to finesse, to relate and use that to cause the suspect to relate to you. It’s a good trait, Peabody. You can pull out the whoop-ass when you need to, but you’re better with the grease. Now write it up.”

“I’m primary. Don’t I get to tell you to write it up?”

“I outrank you—and milking time has passed. I’ll put my notes together, send them to you. Contact your wit, write the report, then go home.”

Peabody nodded, got up from Eve’s crappy visitor’s chair. “It was a good day. Not for the Ochis,” she said with a little wince, “but . . . you know. I’m feeling pumped. Maybe when I get home I’ll play bad cop with McNab.”

Eve pressed fingers to the corner of her eye when it twitched. “Why do you think I want to know about your perverted sex games with McNab?”

“Actually, I was thinking about practicing investigative techniques, but now that you mention it—”

“Out.”

“Outting. Thanks, Dallas.”

Alone, Eve sat another minute with her coffee, feet up. She’d write up her notes, and she’d write a strong evaluation of Peabody’s work on the case for her file.

Then she’d go home, which did indeed make it a good day.

She glanced at her wrist unit, swore a little. She was already seriously late. According to the marriage rules, she needed to contact Roarke, give him her ETA.

Even as she turned to her desk ’link, it signaled.

“Homicide. Dallas.”

“Lieutenant.” Mrs. Ochi came on-screen. “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but I wanted to know if you’ve ... if you have any news for me.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Ochi. I was just about to contact you. We have all three of them. We have confessions. We have them behind bars now, and the prosecuting attorney is confident he’ll get a conviction that will keep them there for a very long time.”

“You caught them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Those fierce green eyes filled with tears before Mrs. Ochi put her hands over her face. “Thank you.” She began to sob, to rock. “Thank you.”

Eve let her weep, and when the woman’s son and daughter came on-screen, flanking her, holding her, Eve answered their questions.

By the time she was done, her mind was focused on completing the work—and not on the marriage rules. When she’d wrapped it up, she walked out, through the bullpen where Peabody hunched, intent over the work.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, cha,” Peabody muttered.

McNab would have to play bad cop by himself for a while, Eve thought as she started out—then wished to God she hadn’t had the thought. On the heel of it, she remembered she hadn’t called home.

“Shit.” She reached for her pocket ’link.

“LT!” Detective Carmichael hustled after her. “Santiago and I are working a floater. I wanted to run a couple of the angles by you.”

“Walk and talk, I’m heading out.”

She listened, questioned, considered, taking the glides down rather than the elevator to give her detective more time. They paused on a level, with Carmichael tugging her ear.

“Are we cleared for the overtime, to move on this tonight?”

“I’ll clear it. Push it.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“How’s it working out with you and the new guy?”

“Santiago’s okay. Got a good nose. We’re getting a rhythm on.”

“Good to know. Good hunting, Carmichael.”

Eve took the elevator the rest of the way to the garage, thinking of Carmichael’s floater, the angles, authorizing the OT.

She crawled through traffic awhile, played a little game of outwit the other drivers by changing routes a couple times. By the time she remembered the marriage rules again, she was nearly home.

No point now, she decided. She’d just . . . make it up to Roarke. He’d have worked while waiting for her, she thought, so now they could have a nice dinner together. She’d even program it herself—one of those fussy, fancy deals he liked—open a bottle of wine.

Relax, hang. Maybe she’d suggest they watch one of those old vids he liked. A very married evening at home, she thought, followed by some very married sex.

No murder, no mayhem, no work, no pressure. Just the two of them. Hell, she might even dig out one of those sexy, seduce-your-partner get-ups, just to top it off.

She could program some music—go full-out romance.

Pleased with the plan, she zipped through the gates of home. Her mood throttled up another notch or two as she watched the lights shine in the multitude of windows in the gorgeous stone house. They could eat outside, she decided, on one of the terraces. She looked up as she drove, considering the towers and turrets. Maybe the rooftop terrace with its little pool and sweeping view of the city.

Pretty damn perfect.

She left her vehicle out front, and telling herself she was in too good a mood to be bothered by Summerset lurking in the foyer ready to sneer at her for being late, she jogged inside.

The foyer was empty, hitching her stride a moment.

No Summerset?

“Don’t question your luck,” she told herself, and continued her jog upstairs.

She swung into Roarke’s office first, surprised not to find him there, wheeling some deal, calculating some complicated equation.

Frowning, she turned to the house monitor. “Where is Roarke?” she demanded.

Darling Eve, Roarke is on the terrace, main level, rear, section two.

“We have sections? Which is—”

Location highlighted
.

“Okay.” She pursed her lips, studied the house map and the blinking light. “Got it.”

She headed down. What was he doing out there? she wondered. Maybe having a drink with Summerset—which would answer the other question. Talking about old times, jobs pulled, booty stolen, burglaries accomplished.

The sort of thing it wasn’t ... polite to reminisce about with a cop present.

Time to break up the nostalgia and—

She pulled up short when she stepped out. Roarke was indeed with Summerset, but they weren’t having a drink—or not only—and they weren’t alone.

Two people she’d never seen before in her life sat with them at a white-draped table, with candles flickering prettily against the late-summer evening, apparently enjoying a very fussy, fancy dinner.

The strangers, a couple she judged in their middle sixties, included a woman with gold-coin hair forming a short, straight frame for a face dominated by big, round eyes, and a man sporting a trim goatee that set off his angular, somewhat scholarly face.

Everyone laughed uproariously.

She felt her shoulders tighten even as Roarke lifted his wineglass. He looked relaxed, happy, those strongly sculpted lips curved as he listened to something the complete stranger, female, said to the group at large in a tony Brit accent.

His sweep of midnight hair gleamed in the candlelight nearly to the shoulders of his suit jacket. She heard him respond—the richness and warmth of Ireland like wisps of smoke in his voice.

Then his eyes, wickedly blue, met hers.

“Ah, here’s Eve now.” He pushed back his chair, stood long and lanky, and held a hand out to her. “Darling, come meet Judith and Oliver.”

She didn’t want to meet Judith and Oliver. She didn’t want to talk to strangers with tony Brit accents, or have all attention focused on her coming home late, probably sweaty and with blacktop grime on the knees of her trousers from her altercation with three assholes.

But she could hardly just stand there.

“Hi. Sorry to interrupt.”

Before she could think to stick it in her pocket, Roarke had her hand and pulled her another foot toward the table. “Judith and Oliver Waterstone, my wife, Eve Dallas.”

“We were so hoping to meet you.” Judith sent her a smile, sunny and bright as her hair. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Judith and Oliver are old friends of Summerset’s. They’re in New York for a couple of days before they travel back to England.”

“You work murder cases here in New York,” Oliver began. “It must be fascinating and difficult work.”

“It can be both.”

“I’ll get another setting.” Summerset started to rise, but Eve shook her head.

“No, don’t worry about it. I’ve got a few things to deal with.” They were, as far as she could tell, nearly finished with the meal, so what was the point of squeezing her into the party? “I just wanted to let you know I was back. So ... it was nice to meet you. Enjoy your dinner.”

She’d managed to retreat inside before Roarke caught up with her. “Eve.” He snagged her hand again, and this time tugged her in for a welcome-home kiss. “If you’ve caught something hot, I can make my excuses and come up.”

“No.” The fact that he would made her feel smaller, and crankier. “It’s nothing hot. Just—”

“Well then, come out and have some food, some wine. You’ll like these people.”

She didn’t
want
to like these people. She already had more people in her life than she could keep up with.

“Look, it’s been a long day, and I’m dirty and sweaty on top of it. I said I had things to deal with, so go back to your little dinner party and let me deal with them.”

She strode away, annoyance vibrating from every step. Roarke watched her. “Well then,” he murmured, and went back to his guests.

At Central, Peabody finished and filed her report, completed the murder book—and gave it a little pat.

Case closed, she thought. She’d already tagged McNab, told him she’d be late, so she took a few minutes to organize her work station as she liked to when she had the time.

As she tidied her space, she went over the stages of the investigation in her head, well satisfied, and a little bit smug. Until she remembered the punches Lowe had landed—and Eve’s critique of her hand-to-hand.

“She’s right, too,” Peabody admitted, gently rubbing her sore ear. “Definitely need to sharpen up in that area.” She considered switching bad cop with McNab to hand-to-hand practice.

But they’d just end up hot and sweaty, and having sex. Which would be good—really good—but not if she was serious about sharpening up.

She’d take an hour in the workout area, right there at Central. Set a program that would home in on her weak spots, help her improve them. Then she could grab a shower, change clothes, and be all fresh and shiny when she got home.

For some really good sex.

She headed down to her locker and, after pushing her change of clothes and workout gear into a hand duffle, made a note to remind herself to bring in a new change to replace what she took.

New deal, she told herself. An hour in the gym every day—okay that would never happen. Three times a week.

She could do three times a week. And keep it to herself, or herself and McNab. Then in maybe a month, dazzle Dallas with her light feet and lightning reflexes.