Treachery in Death

  “Be tastier,” she admitted, then waved a hand. “We’ve got to get off the food stuff. I’d rather have her nailed before I take Garnet in. Her, and the rest. But it’s not an absolute. He’ll flip if I need him to flip, and he’ll still go away a good, long time. If you’re done with this for the night, no problem.”

  “And I look like the weak sister?”

  “Don’t make me smile again. It hurts.”

  “I’ll finish it. If I get further along, I should be able to program it to complete the task while we both get some sleep.”

  “I need to contact Webster.”

  “Eve,” Roarke said as she reached for her ’link. “He’s with Darcia.”

  “Yeah, so? He needs to . . .” She broke off, winced as she had when her lip throbbed. “You think they’re having sex?”

  “Oh, at a wild, what-the-hell sort of guess? Yes. Very likely.”

  “I can’t think about that. I don’t want to know that. I know what he looks like when he has sex.”

  Roarke flicked a finger on the top of her head. “I wonder why I need to be reminded of that.”

  This time she pressed her fingers to her lip to hold it as it throbbed since she couldn’t quite swallow the laugh. “I’m just saying. I like how you look having sex better.”

  “Darling, how sweet of you.”

  “I need to scrape off the sarcasm you just piled on me, then I’ll contact him—but straight to message. I want him and the rest here by oh seven hundred.”

  Bix picked Garnet up at one A.M.

  “It’s about fucking time,” Garnet said.

  “It took awhile for the LT to get it set up. Nobody wants any mistakes on this. Like she said, you and Dallas had a confrontation. Don’t want this to blow back on you.”

  “Freeman’s got me covered.” Resentment oozed out of his pores. “If Oberman had done the damn job, I wouldn’t need to be covered.”

  Bix said nothing, then glanced over. “Dallas do that to your face?”

  Color—anger and humiliation—stained Garnet’s cheeks. “She’s not looking so pretty either. Cunt sucker-punched me.” The lie came so easily, as it had when he’d told Freeman the same, he nearly believed it himself. “Pulls her weapon on me. Says she’s going to take my badge. Maybe go after Oberman next,” he added, knowing Bix’s loyalties. “She’s jealous of the LT, that’s what it is. Bitch wants to take her down, cause trouble. If she causes enough, the whole thing’s going to break down. We’re all in the shit can then, Bix.”

  “I guess so.”

  “What’s the plan? You didn’t lay it out before.”

  “The boss is using a bogus weasel to tag Dallas with a tip. A big one, deals with Keener. The boss says how Dallas is hot to close Keener, really wants to tie it to use that to discredit her. So we draw her in tonight, back to the scene.”

  “That’s good.” Garnet nodded, tapped a little of his go-powder on his hand, inhaled it. He wanted the buzz, fresh and rising, when he sliced the bitch to pieces. “What’s the tip?”

  “I didn’t ask; don’t need to know. The lieutenant said she’d get Dallas there, she’ll get her there. We take care of business, and that’s that.”

  “She might call it in.” Garnet tried to figure the angles through the rush in his head. “Tag her partner anyway.”

  “So what if she does?”

  “Yeah. We do them both.” He was eager for it. “Maybe better that way. Better yet if we have somebody to pin it on. The whole thing—Keener and the two bitches.”

  “The boss is working on it,” Bix said simply, and pulled to the curb.

  “Dallas is mine.” Garnet patted the sheath on his belt. “You remember that.”

  “If that’s how you want it.”

  “Did you bring me a piece? Bitch took mine.”

  “We’ll take care of it inside.”

  Bix didn’t speak as they walked the short distance to the abandoned building. He knew there were probably some eyes on them—on two men in black—but it was unlikely they’d be approached. People rarely approached him looking for trouble. His size backed them off.

  If anyone did, well, he’d do what needed to be done. He had orders, he had a mission. He would follow orders and complete his mission.

  He unsealed the door, opened the locks.

  “Dark as a tomb in here. Smells worse.” Garnet reached in his pocket for his penlight. “It’s a good place for her to die.”

  He played the light around the ruined space, calculating the best kill spot. “I want her to see me do it. I want her to see me when I cut her.”

  Bix said nothing. He simply yanked Garnet’s head back by the hair and dragged the keen edge of his knife over Garnet’s throat.

  And it was done.

  He took a moment to be sorry when Garnet fell to the floor, blood and breath gurgling. He hadn’t liked the man, not particularly, but they’d been partners. So he took a moment for a little regret.

  Then he pressed the master he’d used to unseal the doors into Garnet’s hand, slipped it into Garnet’s pocket. Removed Garnet’s disposable phone, his wallet, put them both in a bag, along with the knife he’d used. He’d dispose of them elsewhere.

  He drew out the baggie of the powder Garnet had grown too fond off, dipped the dead’s thumb and index finger in it to leave more trace, then added it to the disposal bag.

  It would look, in a way, very much as it was. Garnet had come to the scene for a meet, and the meet had gone south. His killer had taken whatever was of value from the corpse, and let it lie.

  Bix straightened, cleaned the blood off his sealed hands. He turned and walked away, leaving the door open as a man might when running away from murder.

  Back in the vehicle he drove north, putting some distance down before he contacted his lieutenant. “We’re clear, Lieutenant.”

  Her acknowledgment—a nod as if she’d expected no less—rewarded him. “Thank you, Detective. Be sure to dispose of the weapon before you go to Garnet’s and remove anything that needs removing.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  While Bix circled around to dump the contents of the bag in the river, Roarke stepped into Eve’s office.

  She was, he noted, starting to fade. And he imagined if he drew blood from her and ran it through an analyzer, it would register outrageous levels of caffeine.

  “Marcia Anbrome.”

  Eve looked up, blinked. “Who?”

  Yes indeed, fading fast. “Take a moment,” he suggested.

  “Who the hell is Marcia Anbrome? I just need to finish this backtrack on the—Shit. You got her?”

  And she’s back, Roarke thought. “I want to put a bow on it, so I’ve got it running on auto to tie the ribbon, but I’d say I—or we—have her.”

  “Anbrome—that’s a—what is it—anagram. Oberman, Anbrome. Marcia—Marcus. It’s a goddamn testament, or finger in the eye, for her father.”

  “And I imagine Mira will have considerable to say about it.” He walked over, put her current work on auto himself, shaking his head even as she started to protest. “You have a briefing in less than six hours. She has a home in Sardinia,” he continued, drawing Eve to her feet. “And a flat in Rome. Her passport is Swiss. They’re excellent credentials, by the way,” he added, leading her toward the bedroom. “She must have paid a hefty sum for them. I’ve found properties and accounts worth upward of two hundred million. I think there’s a bit more tucked here and there.”

  “I don’t get it. If she’s accumulated that much, why the hell isn’t she in Sardinia rolling in it? Why is she still pushing her way through the department, aiming at captain—and maybe commander? Why is she still on the job when she could be lying on the beach fanning herself with her own dirty money?”

  “I’m probably the wrong one to ask.”

  “No, you’re exactly the right one.” She sat on the arm of the sofa in the bedroom, pulled off her boots. “And I know the answer. It’s the rush, the challenge, the business. And hel
l, if you can make a couple hundred mil, you can make four hundred. She’ll never give it up. It’s not just what she does, it’s who she is.”

  “As I’ve picked my way through her life—lives, I should say—I’d agree. She does spend time as Marcia. She keeps a private shuttle in Baltimore, flies over once or twice a month, depending. She generally spends an extended time there in the winter, sometimes in the summer as well. But she spends a great deal more time here, running that business.

  “And here,” he told Eve, “she lives precisely within her means. A bit too precisely. Every bill paid upon receipt, and no purchases—that show—that would squeeze her very strict budget. No luxuries, none. So I’d say when she indulges herself, it’s in cash.”

  “Everything’s precise with her, which means the books for her business will be very accurate, very detailed. Strong thinks there’s a hide in the office. I’d bet she has a copy there, another at her apartment. That’s control. That’s being able to open them up and gloat over all those tidy columns while her father watches her from the wall.”

  After dragging on a sleep shirt, she rolled into bed. “It’s all the same. Money is power, power is money, control holds both, and command opens doorways for more. Sex and command are tools for creating more money and power, and the badge? It’s a gateway. Killing? Just the cost of doing business.”

  “There are others like her.” Sliding in beside her, Roarke drew her close. “I’ve known them. Even used them when it seemed expedient, though I preferred, until more recently, to avoid cops altogether.”

  “There’s more of us than them. I have to believe that.”

  “Since I’ve been exposed to how real cops work, think, what they’ll risk and sacrifice, I can say one of you is more than a dozen of them. Let it go now.” He brushed his lips over hers. “It’s smarter to go into a fight rested.”

  “You gave it up for me. You were mostly out of that kind of business when we got together, but you gave up the rest for me.”

  “The rest was more a hobby by that point. Like coin collecting.”

  She knew better. “I don’t forget it,” she told him, and closed her eyes to sleep.

  Her com signaled at four-twenty and, cursing, she groped for it.

  “Dallas.”

  “Lieutenant. Detective Janburry from the one-six. Sorry to get you up.”

  “Then why are you?”

  “Well, I’ve got a dead body here, on your crime scene. Your name’s on the seal.”

  “Off Canal?”

  “That’s the one. I’m on the DB, Lieutenant, but wanted to give you the heads up. Especially since the vic was on the job.”

  Her belly contracted. “ID?” she demanded, but already knew.

  “Garnet, Detective William. Illegals out of Central.”

  “I need you to hold this until I get there. I’m on my way now. Don’t transport the DB.”

  “I can hold it. I’m primary on this, Lieutenant. I didn’t inform you to pass this ball.”

  “Understood, and the tag is appreciated, Detective. I’m on my way.”

  She tossed the com down, pushed out of bed to pull at her hair, to pace, to curse. “I set him up; she took him out. Goddamn it, goddamn it. I could’ve taken him in. I could’ve slapped him in a cage, put the pressure on with what I had. But I wanted more. I wanted to make them sweat. I wanted more time to put it together, to see what she’d try next. Now he’s dead.”

  “Don’t you stand there and take the blame for one dirty cop killing another.”

  “I made a choice. The choice killed him.”

  “Bollocks to that, Eve.” Roarke said it sharply enough to stop her, to make her turn. “His choices and Renee’s killed him. Do you think she couldn’t have gotten to him in a cage, had him done?”

  “I’ll never know now. I miscalculated. I didn’t think she’d risk bringing this kind of attention to the squad, adding another avenue of investigation. She outplayed me on this.”

  “I disagree. You’re angry, and foolishly guilty, so you’re not thinking it through.”

  “I’m thinking it through—Garnet’s dead.”

  “Yes, and killing him requires another tale spun. More lies, more cover-up. If she’d thought it through, she’d have found a way to placate him, to keep him level. Failing that, kill him, certainly, but get rid of the body, lay a path that indicates he packed up, left.”

  She stopped dressing to frown at him. “Hmm.”

  “Hmm? He’d been suspended, and after tonight, he’d lose his badge. He’d be disgraced. Christ, I can write the script myself. Eliminate him, destroy the body. Meanwhile, go into his apartment, pack what a man who’s angry, who’s fed up, who’s humiliated might pack. Toss a few things around—temper, temper—and so on. In a day or so, tap his account, use his credit—send a message to his lieutenant, maybe to you, telling you all to go to hell. You can keep the bloody badge. He’s done with it, with you, with New York.”

  “Okay, I can see how that would work. It’s a little unnerving just how easily you came up with it, but I can see it.”

  And calmer, Eve saw it clearly.

  “Keep tapping the account,” she considered, “tapping the credit awhile, making it look like he’s traveling or gone to Vegas II, whatever. Then transfer the money out.”

  “Basically. A few finer details to tie it up, but basically. He’s not dead. He’s just gone.”

  “But she didn’t think of that—and she should have. Hell, I should have. But she wanted him dead and gone. She went with impulse—she may not see it that way, but that’s what it was. And what I didn’t expect. She went with impulse rather than planning. So there’ll be mistakes in there. One of them was not arranging for one of her crew to get the tag on this. No way Janburry contacts me this early if he’s with her.”

  “Now you’re thinking. I’ll drive.”

  “No. I’d appreciate the other set of eyes, and the scary brain, but if I’m hung up I need you here to start briefing the team.”

  Those fabulous eyes stared right through her. “You want me to brief a room of cops? That’s appalling, Eve, on so many levels.”

  “Nobody knows how to run a meeting as well as you. I’ll try to be back, but I have to follow this out.”

  “I’m definitely going to want the costumes. I may have them designed for you.”

  “One of us is worth a dozen of them,” she said, repeating his words. “You’re one of us.”

  “I realize you see that as a compliment, but ...” He trailed off, sighed. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Roarke watched her rush out, sighed again. “Bloody hell.”

  Since he was up, he’d get some work done—of his own, thank you—before the cops came to his door.

  She went in hot. She didn’t want to give Janburry time to change his mind, and did a quick run on him on the way.

  He looked solid. Fourteen years on the job, into his tenth as a detective—and recently promoted to second-grade. He was thirty-seven, on his second marriage—four years in—with a two-year-old kid.

  Good service record, from what she could see. No big highs, no big lows. She knew his lieutenant a little. She could tug some lines if she needed to.

  First, she’d see how Janburry wanted to play it.

  She nosed in behind a black-and-white, hooked her badge in the breast pocket of her jacket.

  A lot of cops, she noted, tapping her badge before ducking under the barricade. That’s the way it was when word went out one of their own had gone down.

  How many here, she wondered, would consider Garnet one of their own if they knew?

  Janburry stepped out as she approached.

  He had a strong, dark face, with deep brown skin stretched over hard bones, deep brown eyes. Cop’s eyes, she thought, and held out her hand. “Detective Janburry, again I appreciate you contacting me.”

  “Lieutenant. It was your scene first. Dead junkie. My vic worked Illegals. One an
d one add up to two in my book.”

  “Yeah, mine, too. Is it okay with you if I take a look before you fill me in?”

  “Sure.”

  “My field kit’s still in my vehicle. Can I borrow some Seal-It?”

  He nodded, and she saw he understood she didn’t intend to step on his toes. “Hey, Delfino. Toss me some Seal.”

  He caught the can, tossed it to her.

  “What time did you get the dispatch?” she asked as she sealed hands and boots.

  “It came in at three-fifty. My partner and I arrived on scene at oh four hundred. Uniforms doing a drive-by saw the broken seal—the door open—and investigated. They’d secured the scene by the time we got here.”

  “That’s good.”

  She stepped inside, into the glare of cop lights.

  He hadn’t gotten very far, Eve noted. Maybe six paces inside the door. He’d fallen on his back, so he lay faceup, arms and legs sprawled out. The long slice across his throat had pumped out blood that soaked his jacket, shirt, spread a lake on the dirty floor.

  She noted the knife and sheath on his belt, and the lack of a sidearm. His penlight lay a few feet away, its beam still shining like a little white eye.

  “What have you got so far?” she asked Janburry.

  “No money, no ID. We ran his prints and identified him. My partner—Delfino!”

  His partner, a small, spare woman with curly dark hair fought back in a tail, moved to join them. She nodded at Eve.

  “Detective Delfino ran the vic while I worked the body.”

  In a rhythm that told Eve they worked well together, Delfino picked it up. “I got his squad, his CO, and he just got a rip this afternoon. Ordered by you, Lieutenant.”

  “That’s correct. Your vic didn’t like my investigative style on Rickie Keener. Keener was Garnet’s LT’s weasel, and it was necessary for me to . . . discuss that relationship and any cases involving my vic with Lieutenant Oberman. However, Garnet and his partner took it upon themselves to access my vic’s flop, without authority. On learning this I had a further discussion with Lieutenant Oberman and Detectives Garnet and Bix. During the discussion, Garnet used abusive language, made threats, and even after being warned, made physical contact.”