Experience told her the coffee here was as lethal as the booze. “Maybe water?”
He snorted, but pulled two bottles from under the bar, then after a moment’s hesitation added a third. “Rats get thirsty, too.”
“Appreciate it.” Eve passed a bottle to Peabody, carried the other two across the room to Webster.
“Too early for entertainment,” he commented.
She glanced toward the stage. In a couple hours a holoband would set the rhythm for the strippers on early shift, and the scatter of customers would insult their deteriorating stomach linings with hard drinks and cheap brew.
By midnight, the place would be ass-to-ass and elbow-to-elbow under swirling lights. Upstairs in the privacy rooms people—many who’d just met—would be humping away at each other like crazed rabbits.
“I could ask Crack to put on a couple virtual strippers, but I think what we’ve got for you is entertaining enough.”
“It better be. How’s it going, Peabody?”
“I guess we’re going to find out.”
“We’re here with the commander’s full knowledge and authorization, and with his directive that, at this time, the information we’re about to give you isn’t reported to anyone else.”
“We’re not lone wolves in IAB, Dallas.”
She figured he had a recorder running. And also figured if he didn’t agree to terms, she’d give him nothing to record.
“Yeah, I get that Bureau is short for bureaucracy, but that’s the directive.”
“My captain—”
“Is not to be apprised at this time.”
He sat back, a good-looking man with cop’s eyes even, Eve thought, if he’d traded the streets for internal sniffing. He’d thought he’d loved her once, which had been an embarrassing and ... fraught situation.
But at the moment he studied her with cold impatience.
“Even the commander can’t dictate IAB procedure.”
“You don’t want to play, Webster, I’ll find somebody who does. There are reasons,” she added, leaning forward. “And if you’d yank the red tape out of your ass, agree, and listen, you’d understand the directive.”
“Try this. I’ll agree, and I’ll listen. Then I’ll make the determination as to whether that directive holds.”
She sat back.
“Dallas, maybe we should just wait until—”
Eve cut Peabody off with a shake of the head. Sometimes, she decided, you had to trust.
Besides, if push met shove, she’d get the recorder off him.
“I’m going to sum it up for you. I have a copy of the record of my partner’s statement, and will have copies of all data pertinent to the homicide which relates. You’ll get those records, Webster, when and if you give your word to adhere to Whitney’s directive. To begin,” she said, and laid it out.
She took him through it dispassionately, watching his reactions. He played a decent hand of poker, she remembered, but she recognized his shock, the calculation.
His gaze tracked to Peabody and back again, but he didn’t interrupt.
“That’s the nutshell,” Eve concluded. “Your ball, Webster.”
“Renee Oberman. Saint Oberman’s baby girl.”
“That’s the one.”
He took a long pull from the bottle of water. “Rough go for you, Detective,” he said to Peabody.
“It was a moment.”
“You’ve gone on record with these assertions?”
“I’ve gone on record with these facts.”
“And it was your choice to, after this incident, inform your cohab, then your partner—and her civilian husband, then after considerable time passed, your commander. All of that prior to relating this information to Internal Affairs.”
Eve opened her mouth, shut it again. Peabody would have to handle more than some deliberate baiting.
“It was my choice to get the hell out of the situation as quickly as possible without detection. I believed, and continue to believe, if I’d been detected I wouldn’t have been in a position to inform anyone because I’d be dead. My cohab is also a cop, and I strongly believed I was in need of assistance. My partner is also my direct superior who I trust implicitly, and whose instincts and experience I rely on. Her husband is also a frequent expert consultant for the department.”
She took a breath. “It was our decision to determine if the Keener referred to by Oberman and Garnet existed, and if so, if he was alive or dead. He’s dead, and as Lieutenant Oberman asserted in the conversation I heard, his death was set up to appear as an OD. I went up the chain of command, Lieutenant Webster, and with that chain gathered and confirmed facts that are now reported to a representative of Internal Affairs. You can criticize my decisions, but I handled it as I deemed best. And would do exactly the same again.”
“Okay then.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Renee Oberman, for Christ’s sake. What are the odds of you proving Keener was murdered?”
“We will prove it,” Eve told him, “because he was, in fact, murdered.”
“I’ve always admired your confidence, Dallas. She’s got, what, a ten-man squad?”
“Twelve.”
“If she ordered this hit, as per Peabody’s statement, it could be any of them, save Garnet.”
“‘Their boy,’” Eve reminded him. “Two of the squad are female. Which leaves nine. She also has a rotation of uniforms at her disposal, which adds. It’s also possible, even likely, she’s recruited beyond her own squad. We’ll handle the homicide, Webster, but I can only access basic data on her, on her squad, or anyone else who might catch my attention without sending up a flag. I’m going to draw her off with Keener, focus her attention and concern on me, but I don’t want her getting antsy, not right off the jump, thinking that I’m looking at her, specifically, or any of her people for it.”
“We’ve got ways of digging without flags, but that’s dicey without a nod from my captain.”
“You’ll have to work around that—and you can’t use your own e-men,” she added. “You’ll have to work with Feeney and McNab.”
“And you figure everybody will assume I’m hanging around EDD for the coffee and donuts?”
“There’re more fizzies and PowerBars up there. My place is primary HQ on this. We have a comp lab as well-equipped as EDD’s, and my home office is sufficient for our purposes.”
“Yeah, I remember your home office.”
She met his look equably. “Then you won’t have any problem finding it.”
“This process would move more efficiently with the full resources of IAB.”
“You’re so sure everyone in or associated with IAB is clean, Webster? Have you ever gone sniffing around Renee before—and because I’m betting from your reaction the answer’s no, can you guarantee she doesn’t have somebody inside looking out for her interests?”
“Nothing’s guaranteed, but I know the people I’ve worked closely with, and that goes without a shadow for my captain.”
“I don’t know them. If you share the recording you’ve made of this conversation, and it gets back to Renee or Garnet, you’ve put Peabody’s ass on the line.”
She waited a beat, and now her voice was coolly matter-of-fact. “I’ll break your arm if you try to walk out of here with the recorder you’ve got on you unless I have your word on this. If you take that broken arm to your captain or anyone else and repeat this conversation, if you do anything to jeopardize my detective, my partner, I’ll bury you. You know I mean it.”
His gaze locked on hers; he took another pull of water. “Yeah, Dallas, I know you mean it. And I mean this. I don’t put a good cop’s ass on the line.”
“Then give me your word. I’ll take it and we move from here. Otherwise I tag Whitney right now. He may not have the authority to directly interfere with IAB procedure, but he can sure as hell transfer you to fucking Traffic Control in fucking Queens.”
He set the water down, leaned forward into her space. “Don’t threaten me
, Dallas.”
She mirrored his move. “Too late.”
He shoved away from the table, strode to the bar where Crack sat working silently in a notebook. In a moment Webster came back with a mug of coffee Eve knew would kick and burn like hot battery acid.
“You’ve got my word, not because you worry me, but because, I repeat, I’m no more willing to put a good cop’s ass on the line than you are.”
“Said ass appreciates it,” Peabody muttered.
Webster drank some coffee, hissed, and swore. “Christ, this is bad. I need copies of every byte of data you’ve got, will get, hope to get.”
“You’ll have it.”
“Every briefing’s on record for IAB files.”
“No. I can’t agree to that, Webster,” she said before he could argue. “All results, all operational and investigative plans will be written up and recorded, but I’m not having my people have to censor every word or risk a poke from IAB. My contacts and conversations with Renee Oberman, William Garnet, and anybody else I believe is potentially connected will be recorded and copied to you for IAB. I’ll be wired, as will Peabody.”
“You’re going to get in her face with Keener.”
“I’m going to crawl up her ass with Keener.”
“How?”
Okay, Eve thought, she had him now. Invested, he’d not only assist, but he’d keep her team covered from any internal backlash.
“I’ve deduced he was her weasel by reading his file—which happens to be true. Plus, my mythical weasel knew him. I know how to handle that end.”
“And I know how to handle mine. I have to tell my captain something. So . . . I’ve got a possible line on something major, but need some time to suss it out further before involving the Bureau. He’ll press me some, but he won’t box me in if I tell him I need the room.”
She argued a little for form’s sake. “How much room is he going to give you after you dangle a hint of something major under his nose?”
“Enough. I won’t lie to my captain, Dallas—and more—by informing him to that extent, it puts my part of the investigation on record. That’s going to matter when we nail her and her merry men.”
“Okay.”
“Now, since this coffee didn’t kill me, I’m going to get started.”
“Sixteen hundred, HQ,” Eve told him.
“I’ll be there.” He stood. “You did the right thing, Peabody. Right down the line, you did right. That’s going to matter, too.”
Peabody sat another moment after Webster walked out. “God, I’m glad that part’s over. Dallas, would you really have broken his arm? Or tagged Whitney and tried to get Webster transferred to Queens?”
“Yeah—maybe I’d’ve gone for his nose and Yonkers.” She shrugged. “But I’d’ve been a little sorry about it.”
Back at Central she told Peabody to start the board and book on Keener. “I’m going up to EDD, get wired, then pay Renee a visit.”
“Shouldn’t I go with you?”
“We’re going to initiate this as a kind of courtesy call—LT to LT, weasel handler to weasel handler. I want her to know we’re giving the case our best effort, and my detective is laying the foundation before we check in with the morgue.”
“Do you think she already knows we found him?”
“It’s going to be interesting to find out. Get it started, Peabody, then take one of your little ‘breaks’ with McNab and get wired up.”
All innocence, Peabody widened her eyes. “What little breaks?”
“Do you really think I don’t know what goes on in my own department?”
Eve split off, took the glide up to EDD.
She ignored the noise, the eye-searing colors, the incessant movement as best she could and ducked into Feeney’s blissfully normal office.
He sat at his desk, comfortably rumpled, stoop-shouldered, alternately tapping his fingers on a screen, and raking them through his bush of wiry ginger red hair.
His basset hound eyes tracked to hers.
“I’ve got to close out that noise. How the hell do you stand it?” She shut the door, and for a moment neither spoke.
His face, as comfortably rumpled as his shirt, went grim. “This is a hell of a thing.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve crossed with Oberman’s daughter plenty. Everybody needs EDD. I wouldn’t have figured it.”
“You’re not alone.”
“I took a look at her when she came out of the Academy. Had a shiny record there, so I thought about asking if she wanted Homicide, wanted me to train her.”
Connections, Eve thought. You never knew where they’d come from. “Why didn’t you?”
“Just didn’t seem the right fit. I can’t put my finger on it, even now, except you know when you know. Like I looked at somebody else who came out of the Academy with a shiny record a few years later and knew.” His saggy face moved into a smile. “That was a pretty good fit.”
And if he’d taken Renee, would he have still taken her? Fate, she decided, you never knew where that came from either.
“You’d be running Homicide still if you hadn’t gone over to the dark side.”
“I trained you to run it.” He tapped a finger in the air at her. “Besides, you never did understand or appreciate the power of the geek.”
“Enough to know when to use them.” She sat on the edge of his desk, dipped a hand into his dish of candied almonds. “Fuck, Feeney, I just put us in bed with IAB.”
“No choice, kid.” He opened a drawer. “And no regrets. I’ve got your eyes and ears here. High grade. They won’t show on a scan or a sweep. Running a network like this, she’s probably hooked in for scans. You want to be careful with these. They’re worth double what we make in a month, combined.”
He rose, blew out a breath. And his ears pinked a little. “You gotta strip off the jacket and shirt.”
“Yeah, yeah.” They avoided looking at each other as she did.
“That one, too.”
“Jesus, Feeney, I’m naked under here. It’s a support tank.”
His color spread from his ears to his cheeks; his gaze stayed pinned over her shoulder. “I don’t want to see your tits any more than you want to flash them, but this has to go against skin. So you should’ve thought of that and worn one of those other things.”
“Man.” Mortified, she stripped to the skin, shoved the diamond she wore behind her back.
“You got some tan.”
“Jesus, Feeney.”
“I’m just saying ’cause I’ll need to adjust the tone, blend it in. I can make it damn near invisible even when you’re naked. Stop fidgeting. Talk about the murder.”
She put herself back in the filthy bathroom, which was somehow better than thinking about standing half naked in EDD.
“I think the killer put the new lock on the front door. Why would Keener do that? New locks just dare some asshole to break it and see what’s worth locking up inside.”
“Wanted him to be found.”
“Yeah. Not this fast, but yeah. If some asshole found him, it’s probable they’d have messed up the crime scene, riffled through Keener’s junk. He had some clothes, a little cash, a toss-away ’link in the room he’d flopped in. And shoes. They always take the shoes. If it had gone that way, we’d have less to work with. I have a source, which I made up, telling me Keener wouldn’t OD. I play that against his record, his experience with his recreation of choice.”
“How are you going to work her?”
“I’ve got some ideas, but I need a face-to-face to refine them. And I need to talk to Mira. I have to make first contact now, but I want a run-through with Mira.”
“Done.” He immediately turned his back. “Put something on, for Christ’s sake.” He picked up an earbud the size of a baby pea. “When and if you need it, one of us will be able to communicate with you through this.”
“How do I turn the recorder on and off?”
“I’ll set you up key phrases, whatever
you want.”
“Ah. Cinnamon donuts. I missed breakfast,” she told him. “I could go for a cinnamon donut.”
He sat, keyed the phrase into a control panel. “That’s on. I could go for a cinnamon donut myself.”
“Who couldn’t?”
“And it’s reading five-by-five. Off phrase?”
“Down the block.”
He keyed it in, tested it. “Those phrases, your voice print. That’s a go. It’ll record into this.” He tapped a mini-monitor. “I’ll be bringing this to Roarke’s lab. We’ll set up another in your office. Peabody will be keyed in the same. The kid okay?”
“Yeah. Can you have McNab hook her up? They can use one of their rendezvous closets and everybody’ll just think they’re groping.”
“I like to pretend I don’t know about the closets and the groping. Yeah, I’ll tell the boy.”
She nodded. “Sixteen hundred, HQ, initial full briefing.”
“I’ll tell the wife not to hold dinner.”
She started out, hesitated. “Do you always remember? To tell her?”
“She doesn’t complain if I have to work a seventy-two-hour stretch, if I crash in the crib because I’m too beat to get home. She’s a damn good cop’s wife. But if I don’t tell her I’m going to be late for dinner, my life isn’t worth living.”
“I guess that’s fair. So, we’ll provide the chow.”
“That’s fair, too,” Feeney told her.
She walked out and headed for the Illegals division.
She made her strides brisk as she passed through the warren and angled off toward Renee Oberman’s squad. Engaged the recorder. She scanned the squad room, noted the case board, the assignments listed, the open cases, the closed ones.
Like any squad there was noise and movement, the tap of fingers, the beep of ’links, but it was muted—more to her mind like a droid office pool than a cop shop. And unlike her division every cop at a desk wore a suit. Nobody worked in shirtsleeves, and every man wore a tie. The smell was off, too, she decided. No hint of processed sugar or burned coffee.
No personal clutter either, mixed in with the files and disks, the memo cubes—not even in the cubes where a couple of uniforms worked.