Treachery in Death

  Every inch of her yearned, here in the heat and steam, with the pounding and pulsing of water against tile, against flesh. His hands were magic on her body, triggering needs, tripping sensations, finding—owning—her secrets. His mouth, when he used it on her, infused her body with a thousand aches of pleasure.

  His fingers found her, opened her, and wet to wet stroked her through those aches and beyond.

  She wrapped around him, a sleek, fragrant vine, her hands tangled in his hair, her mouth avid on his. Her heart beat wild and strong against his chest in quick, lusty kicks. And she filled her hands with soap, glided them over his back, his hips, slicked them between their slippery bodies to take him in that silkened grip.

  To destroy him.

  He all but heard the lead snap on his control and plunged into her. Trapping her against the wet tiles, capturing her cries even as her arms chained around his neck.

  Hot jets of water pummeled their joined bodies. Drops glistened on skin, on the air. Steam rose and spread to blur them into one desperate form in that last mad rush.

  She went limp in his arms. It was a moment he loved, when the pleasure overwhelmed her, left her weak. Just that instant of utter surrender to him, but more, to them.

  Basking in it, she rested her head on his shoulder until he lifted her face, laid his lips on hers. Softly now, and sweetly.

  He watched her eyes clear, watched them smile. “That wasn’t makeup sex.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Just confirming.”

  “But it was an excellent prelude.”

  “Worked for me. Coffee in bed, sex in the shower—makes a solid wake-up combo.”

  She nuzzled another moment, then was gone—stepping out and into the drying tube.

  While air swirled around her he ordered the water temperature to lower five civilized degrees.

  When he walked into the bedroom with a towel slung around his waist she stood in a short robe doing something he rarely if ever saw her do. Actively studying the contents of her closet.

  “This is weird,” she said, “but I need to ... Pick something out for me to wear, will you? I need to look in control, an authority, serious. Seriously in charge.”

  Frustrated, she circled her hands in the air. “But without looking planned or studied. I don’t want it to come off like an outfit, but—”

  “I understand you.” He stepped in, studied the jackets first. He’d selected every one of them himself as wardrobe—much less shopping for wardrobe—was dead low on her list of priorities.

  “This.”

  “Red? But—”

  “Not red, but burgundy. It’s not bright, not bold, but deep and serious—and transmits authority, particularly in this very tailored cut. With these pants—a serious gunmetal gray, and this top in a slightly softer gray—no fuss, no embellishments. The gray boots, as they’ll give you one long line, with the jacket as the subliminal element of authority.”

  She puffed out her cheeks, blew out the air. “Okay. You’re the expert.”

  Once she’d dressed she had to admit there was a reason he was the expert. She looked put together but not—how had she put it—studied. And the red—sorry, burgundy—did look strong.

  Plus, if she got blood on it, it might not show. Much.

  “Wear these.”

  She frowned at the little silver studs he held out. “I hardly ever wear earrings to work. They’re—”

  “In this case, just a bit of polish. Simple and subtle.”

  She shrugged, then put them on. Finished, she stood studying herself in the mirror as she sipped another cup of coffee.

  “You’re not giving this attention to your wardrobe for Whitney,” Roarke said. “At least not particularly. It’s true, that old saying. Women dress for other women. This is for Renee Oberman’s benefit.”

  “If things go as I’m damn well going to make sure they go, we’ll have our first face-to-face today. This is the sort of thing she’d pay attention to. She’s going to know, on every level I can manage, she’s dealing with power.”

  “You want to challenge her.”

  “I will challenge her. But that’s for later.” She glanced at the time. “I have to take the next step, contact Whitney. Christ, I hope his wife doesn’t answer the ’link.”

  Eve picked hers up from the dresser, squared her shoulders. “Here we go.”

  Commander Whitney’s wide face came on-screen after the second beep. She had a moment to be relieved he hadn’t blocked video, which meant it unlikely she’d woken him. Still, she was pretty certain it was a sleep crease across his left cheek and not a new line dug by time and the stress of authority, so she hadn’t missed by much.

  “Lieutenant.” He spoke briskly, dark eyes sober in his dark face.

  She matched his tone. “Commander, I apologize for the early hour. We have a situation.”

  She laid it out with a military precision Roarke admired. Across the room, he dressed for the day, listened to Whitney pepper Eve with questions. Roarke thought you’d have to know the man and listen very well to hear the shock, but it was there.

  “I want to review Peabody’s statement, to speak with her myself, and to review your records.”

  “Yes, sir. Commander, if I could suggest we hold this initial review here rather than Central? Detectives Peabody and McNab are at this location at this time, and we would be assured of privacy until you make your determinations.”

  He considered a moment, then, “On my way,” and clicked off.

  “On your turf,” Roarke commented.

  “That’s a factor, but he knows it’s smarter to start this outside rather than with a major meeting in his office. I’m going to go prep for this.”

  “I imagine he’ll have some questions for me, so I’ll see if I can be available. I have a holo-conference in ten minutes. I should have it wrapped by seven or so. You did well,” he added.

  “It’s just the beginning.”

  5

  EVE PREPARED A PACKET FOR HER COMMANDER with copies of all data, recordings, statements, and notes. While she worked she practiced, in her head, her pitch for the steps she hoped to take next, her reasons for each, her justifications for bringing in Feeney and Mira and connecting with Webster for the IAB aspect.

  Tone, strategy, logic, confidence. She’d need them all, and in a seamless blend, to keep her hands on the controls of what would be a two-point investigation—one that put Marcus Oberman’s daughter in the crosshairs where they met.

  She glanced up as McNab came in. He wore his own clothes—probably for the best. Seeing him in normal attire might shock their commander senseless.

  “Peabody’s taking a few more minutes,” he told Eve. “I think she just wanted a little time alone.”

  “What’s her status?”

  “She’s pretty solid. I thought maybe she’d have nightmares, but I guess she was too wiped.”

  Wiped was how she’d describe him now. The bright clothes, the shine of the earrings crowding his earlobe didn’t disguise the strain and worry clouding his face.

  “Ah, you look ... I guess the word’s formidable. In a styling way,” he added.

  Score for Roarke, she thought.

  “Anything I can do?” he asked her.

  “There will be, but for now we’re on hold. I checked the monitor. Everything’s five-by-five there. Get some coffee,” she said when he just stood in front of the board she’d set up, jingling whatever he had in his multitude of pockets. Then she remembered who she was talking to. “And some food.”

  “Maybe I’ll put something together for Peabody.” He started toward the kitchen, then stopped in front of her desk. His green eyes burned cold. “I want blood. I know I’ve got to get over, got to get straight, but fuck it, Dallas, that’s what I want. It’s not because—or just because—she was in a situation. The job puts you in situations, that’s what it is. But it’s not supposed to come from other cops.”

  “A badge doesn’t make you a cop.
Get over, get straight, McNab.” She’d already told herself the same. “That’s how we’ll make this right.”

  While he fiddled in her kitchen, Eve rose to check the board again, to be certain she’d forgotten nothing. She heard Peabody come in behind her. “McNab’s fixing food. Go get some.”

  “Stomach’s a little jumpy. The idea of going through it with Whitney.”

  Eve turned. Not altogether solid, she noted. “Do you trust your commander, Detective?”

  “Yes, sir. Without reservation.”

  She used the same brisk tone she had with McNab as she gestured toward the kitchen. “Then get some food, shed the nerves, do the job.”

  Turning away, she checked the monitor again—unnecessarily, she knew, and logged the time as Peabody moved by her.

  Moments later she heard McNab’s voice. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was sly, teasing. And Peabody laughed. Eve felt the tension in her own shoulders ease.

  To satisfy her own needs she ordered Renee Oberman’s ID photo and data on her comp screen for another long study.

  Age forty-two, blond and blue, five feet four inches, one hundred and twenty pounds. Attractive, as Roarke had said. Flawless ivory skin with a hint of roses, classic oval face with sharply defined eyebrows several shades darker than her hair.

  Dark eyebrows, Eve noted, and a dark forest of lashes—which probably meant Renee had a clever hand with facial enhancements. She’d left the face unframed, pulling her hair back for her official photo, but Eve had studied others with the long, straight-as-rain fall of it sleeked to the shoulders.

  Vanity, Eve thought. Maybe another area to exploit.

  The only child of Marcus and Violet Oberman, who’d been married forty-nine years. Father, police commander (retired) with fifty years on the job. Mother, a waitress, had taken six years as a professional mother after the daughter was born, then found employment as a sales manager in a women’s upscale boutique until retirement.

  Renee Oberman, one marriage that had lasted two years, one divorce. No offspring. Cross-reference had shown her that Noel Wright had remarried, and the second, six-year union had produced two offspring, a boy age five and a girl age three. The ex owned and operated a bar in the West Village.

  She filed it all away. You never knew what might be useful, she thought.

  “Lieutenant,” Summerset announced through the house ’link. “Commander Whitney has just been cleared through the gates.”

  She’d already decided against going down to meet him, to escort him upstairs made it more like home, less like a work space. “Send him right up. McNab! Program a pot of coffee. The commander’s on site.”

  But she stood, deliberately flanking Peabody with McNab when Whitney strode in.

  He wore command, she thought, on his wide shoulders, on his tough face, in the cold beam of his eyes.

  He stopped at her board. She’d positioned it so he would see it immediately, so Renee Oberman’s face, Garnet’s, Keener’s, the crime scene ranged together, connected.

  And she saw a quick flare of heat flash through the cold.

  Without asking, Eve poured him coffee, crossed over to offer it. “I appreciate your quick attention to this matter, Commander.”

  “Save it.” He moved past her, zeroed in on Peabody. “Detective, I will review your statement on record, but at this time, I want to hear it from you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Instinctively Peabody shifted to attention. “Commander, at approximately twenty hundred hours I entered the workout facilities in sector two.”

  Whitney went at her hard, hard enough to put Eve’s back up, hard enough she had to shoot McNab a warning glare when she saw the temper light up his face.

  Whitney questioned her ruthlessly, interrupting, demanding, forcing her to backtrack, repeat, overlap.

  Though she paled, and Eve clearly heard the nerves skittering under the words, she never faltered, never changed a single detail.

  “You were not able to make a visual identification of either individual?”

  “I was not, sir. While I clearly heard the male subject refer to the female as Renee, and as Oberman, and heard her call him Garnet, I was unable to see either clearly. The female subject referred to as Renee Oberman was clear in her conversation that the male subject was her subordinate. I was able at one point to see a portion of her profile, hair color, skin color. I was able to determine her approximate height. With this information we have identified the individuals as Oberman, Lieutenant Renee, and Garnet, Detective William, of the Illegals Department out of Central.”

  “You are aware that Lieutenant Oberman is a decorated and ranked officer with a service of nearly eighteen years in the department.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are further aware that she is the daughter of former Commander Marcus Oberman.”

  “I am, sir.”

  “And you are willing to swear to these statements in an internal investigation of these officers, possibly in a criminal trial?”

  “Yes, sir. I am willing and eager to do so.”

  “Eager, Detective?”

  “Eager to do my duty as a member of the NYPSD, as an officer who has sworn to protect and serve. I believe—correction, sir—I know these individuals have used their position and authority, have used their badges unethically, immorally, and illegally, and I am eager, Commander, to do whatever I can to stop them from continuing to do so.”

  He said nothing more for a moment, then—very quietly—sighed. “Sit down, Detective. Leave her be,” he ordered McNab when the e-man started to go to her. “She doesn’t need you hovering and clucking like a mother hen. She’s a cop, and she’s sure as hell proved it.

  “Lieutenant.”

  Now Eve stood at attention. “Sir.”

  “You waited nearly eight hours to report this matter to command.”

  She’d expected this, had her response ready. “Six, sir, as it took time to acquire Detective Peabody’s full and detailed statement, and to determine that the individuals she overheard were, in fact, NYPSD officers. At which time it was my judgment that this matter was best served by attempting to corroborate that statement and those details by locating Keener, and gathering all information possible to present to you.”

  She paused a moment, not a hesitation, but a beat to punch a point. “My detective had informed me of a possible homicide. I felt it imperative that I verify.”

  “That could work,” Whitney murmured.

  Would, she corrected in her head. She’d damn well make it work.

  “All actions are on record, sir, for your review. I further determined after the body of Rickie Keener was located, both the scene and the body monitored, to wait approximately oh three hours before so informing you rather than contacting you with this information at three hundred hours. This is a delicate and disturbing process, Commander. I didn’t feel it could be, or should be, rushed.”

  He nodded, then he, too, sat. “At ease, Dallas, for Christ’s sake.” He kneaded his brow, then dropped his hands. “Marcus Oberman is one of the finest cops I’ve ever served with. This process, as you call it, will smear his record, his reputation, and his name. And very likely break his heart.”

  And here, she thought, may be the stickiest of the sticking points. “I regret that, sir. We will all regret that. However, the daughter isn’t the father.” Her entire life, in many ways, had grown on that single fact.

  “I’m aware of that, Lieutenant. I’m aware of that as Renee Oberman has served under me for several years. She is not the cop her father was, but few are. Her record has, so far, been excellent, and her work perfectly acceptable. Her strengths include a forceful personality, an ability to select the right person for the right job, and she’s adept in accessing the details of a situation and streamlining them into a logical pattern. She is, I feel, better suited for administrative and supervisory duties than the street, and—in fact—prefers those duties. She runs her squad with a firm hand and gets results.”
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  “A lieutenant running a squad should do work that’s more than perfectly acceptable. In my opinion, sir.”

  He nearly smiled. “You would home in. In a department the size and scope of the NYPSD, it’s often necessary to—accept the acceptable. There have been no signs, no forewarnings, no leading indicators of this corruption. Lieutenant Oberman is ambitious and has structured her career, has situated herself on a path to a captaincy. I have no doubt she has her eye on my seat, and very likely has a time line for when she’d drop her ass into it.”

  “She’s going to be disappointed.”

  He did smile now, huffing out a half laugh. “Even prior to this, I’d have done whatever I could to keep her out of the commander’s chair. She doesn’t have the temperament for it. For the politics, for the grips and grins, for the paperwork and public relations, yes. She’d do well. But she lacks compassion, and she sees her men as tools, and the job as a means to an end.”

  He doesn’t like her, Eve realized, and wondered if that made his part of the situation easier or more difficult.

  “All that said,” he continued, “we have an explosive situation, with the fuse already lit.” He glanced over as Roarke stepped into the room.

  “Jack,” Roarke said with a nod.

  “At this time only the five people in this room are aware of this situation. Correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” Eve agreed. “At this time.”

  “Show me the body. More detail.”

  “Monitor on-screen,” Eve ordered, and the image flashed.

  Whitney sat back, studied. “You chose not to establish TOD or secure any evidence.”

  “ID only, Commander. My thoughts were—”

  “I know what your thoughts were,” he interrupted. “Run the record, start to finish, on this location.”

  Eve followed orders, her face impassive as it played on-screen. Her recorder caught part of the scuffle between Roarke and the street thug.

  “Prime move!” McNab’s enthusiasm got the better of him. “Sorry, sir.”

  “No need. It was a prime move.” Whitney nodded at Roarke. “Did you break that elbow?”