Judgment in Death

  “How the hell should I know? A big, sharp one.”

  Too much blood, was all she could think. Too much blood, already soaking through the towels. It was bad. It was really bad.

  “They sew you up. You’ll get a goddamn commendation out of this scratch. Then you’ll be able to show it off to all your women and make them giddy.”

  “Bullshit.” He tried to smile, but he couldn’t see her. The light was going gray. “He opened me up like a trout.”

  “Shut up. I told you to shut up.”

  He made a little sighing sound, then obliged her by passing out. She cradled him, sopping at blood, and listened for the sirens.

  She met Whitney in the surgical waiting room. Her shirt and trousers were soaked with Webster’s blood, her face pale as death.

  “I screwed up. I was sure I could reason with him, that I could reach him and bring him in. Instead, he’s at large and another good cop’s dying.”

  “Webster’s getting the best care available. Every one of us is responsible for himself, Dallas.”

  “I took him along.” It could be Peabody on the operating table, she thought. Oh God, no way to win.

  “He took himself along. Regardless, you’ve identified the suspect, and have done so through skilled investigative work. Sergeant Clooney won’t be at large for long. We have an all-points. He’s known. He fled with the clothes on his back. He has no funds, no resources.”

  “A smart cop knows how to go under. I let him go, Commander. I did not take the opportunity to take him down nor did I pursue.”

  “If you were again faced with making the choice of pursuing a suspect or saving a fellow officer’s life, which way would you go?”

  “I’d do the same thing.” She looked toward the operating room. “For what it’s worth.”

  “So would I. Lieutenant, go home. Get some sleep. You’ll need all the resources of your own to finish this.”

  “Sir, I’d like to wait until they can tell us something on Webster.”

  “All right. Let’s get some coffee. Can’t be any worse here than it is at Central.”

  When she dragged herself home, her system was begging to shut down, but her mind refused. She replayed the moment in Clooney’s doorway a hundred times. Had there been a flicker in his eyes, one she should have seen, responded to, an instant before the knife came up?

  If Webster hadn’t moved in, could she have dodged and deflected?

  What was the point? she asked herself as she stepped into the house. Nothing changed.

  “Eve.”

  Roarke came out of the parlor where he’d waited for her. She’d come home bloody before, exhausted before, and carrying a cloak of despair. Now she stood with all three hovering around her and just stared at him.

  “Oh, Roarke.”

  “I’m sorry.” He moved to her, wrapped his arms around her. “I’m so sorry.”

  “They don’t think he’s going to make it. That’s not what they say, exactly, but you can read it on their faces. Massive blood loss, extreme internal damage. The knife nicked his heart, his lung, and God knows. They’ve called his family in, advised them to hurry.”

  However selfish it was didn’t matter to him. All he could think was, It could have been you. It could have been you, and I would be the one advised to hurry.

  “Come upstairs. You need to clean up and get some sleep.”

  “Yeah, nothing more to do but get some sleep.” She started toward the steps with him, then just sank down on them, buried her face in her hands. “What the hell was I thinking? Who the hell do I think I am? Mira’s the shrink, not me. What made me think I could get inside this man’s head and understand what was going on in it?”

  “Because you can, and you do. You can’t always be right.” He rubbed her back. “Tell me what he’s thinking now.”

  She shook her head, got to her feet. “I’m too tired. I’m too tired for this.”

  She walked upstairs, stripping on her way across the bedroom. Before she could step into the shower, Roarke took her hand. “No, into the tub. You’ll sleep better for it.”

  He ran the water himself. Hot, because she liked it hot, added scent to soothe, programmed the jets to comfort. He undressed, got in with her, and drew her back against him.

  “He did it for me. Clooney was going for me, and Webster knocked me down and stepped into the knife.”

  Roarke pressed his lips to the top of her head. “Then I owe him a debt I can never repay. But you can. By finishing it. And that’s what you’ll do.”

  “Yeah, I’ll finish it.”

  “For now, rest.”

  Fatigue was a weight bearing down on her. She stopped resisting and fell under it.

  She woke to sunlight and the scent of coffee. The first thing she saw was Roarke, with a mug of coffee in his hand.

  “How much would you pay for this?”

  “Name your price.” She sat up, took it from him, drank gratefully. “This is one of my favorite parts of the marriage deal.” She let the caffeine flow through her system. “I mean, the sex is pretty good, but the coffee . . . The coffee is amazing. And you’re all-around handy yourself most of the time. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  She took his hand before he could rise. “I wouldn’t have slept easy last night without you being here.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then shifted toward the bedside ’link. “I want to call and check on Webster.”

  “I’ve already called.” She wouldn’t want it cushioned, so he told her exactly what he knew. “He made it through the night. They nearly lost him twice and took him back in for more surgery. He remains critical.”

  “Okay.” She set the coffee down to scrub her hands over her face. “Okay. He felt like he needed vindication. Let’s give it to him.”

  Purgatory had taken on an edge. Glamour with a bright smear of sin.

  “Fast repair work,” Eve muttered as she wandered through, scanning the trio of winding, open stairs with their treads edged with hot red lights. On closer study, she noted the banisters that curved down them were sleek and sinuous snakes, and every few feet, one was swallowing its brother’s tail.

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes.” Roarke ran one of his elegant hands over a reptilian head. “I thought so. And practical. Start up.”

  “Why?”

  “Humor me.”

  With a shrug, she climbed the first three. “So?”

  “Feeney? Do we register on weapon check?”

  “You bet. Scanner shows police-issue laser on staircase one, and secondary weapon in ankle harness.”

  Eve glanced up toward Control, and the hidden speakers where Feeney’s voice boomed. With a thin smile, she looked back at Roarke. “Why don’t you come on up for a weapon scan, ace?”

  “I think not. Similar scanners are set in all entrances and exits, in the bathrooms, and privacy rooms. We’ll know what we’re up against in that area.”

  “Boomers,” she said, coming down again. “Knives?”

  “We can scan for explosives. Knives are trickier, though the metal detectors will take care of any fashioned from that material. An hour before opening, the entire building will be swept a final time, just as a precaution.”

  “Where do you plan to hold the meet?”

  “We’ve divided the area into twenty-two sectors. Each will have individual security, and all will line to the main control. I’ll have a privacy booth in sector twelve, there.”

  He gestured to a table on the edge of the entertainment platform. She ran her gaze up over the gold and red poles that lanced up from the stage, the pie plate—topped columns, the human-sized gilded cages.

  “Close to the action.”

  “Well now, the show must go on. The booth’s been rigged specifically for our purposes. Audio and video will be transmitted directly to the control.”

  “He’ll insist on a scan, probably a jammer.”

  “Yes, he will, but the system design will override anything
he has.”

  “You’re awfully cocky.”

  “Confident, Lieutenant. I designed the system myself and have already tested it. Two of my hand-picked security will be onstage, performing, during the meet.”

  “You’ve got security strippers?”

  “Don’t hate them because they’re beautiful. If it’s necessary to deal with any of Ricker’s men, they’ll do so.”

  “The deal didn’t include civilian hammers. We’ll have cops in every sector.”

  He nodded pleasantly. “I could, of course, simply set up my personal security team without informing you of it. But as a temporary civilian attaché, I feel obliged to relay all pertinent information to the team commander.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “The bathroom’s are mag,” Peabody reported as she strode up. “Wait till you see, Dallas. The sinks are like little lakes, and there are like a million miles of counter. All this sexy art painted on the walls. And even sofas.”

  She caught herself before Eve could reply, cleared her throat. “McNab and I completed our run-through, sir, and all security—audio, visual, and scans—are operational.”

  “Your uniform jacket is improperly secured, Officer Peabody.”

  “My . . .” She looked down, turned bright pink to the roots of her bowl-cut hair, and hastily began to secure the brass buttons McNab had so hastily undone.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Peabody, are you a damn rabbit? Go fix yourself up somewhere and put your hormones on hold for awhile.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  Peabody slunk away and left Eve scowling at Roarke. “Don’t think I don’t know what a big, fat kick you’re getting out of this. I told you this thing with McNab was going to screw up my aide.”

  “As a recent liaison to the NYPSD, I found the conduct disgraceful.” He turned back, leading with the grin that made his face impossibly young, ridiculously beautiful. “Absolutely disgraceful. I think we should go do a run-through of the lounges personally. Right now.”

  “Pervert.” She jammed her hands in her pockets and was about to walk away from him and up to Control when the main door opened. Rue MacLean stepped in.

  She hesitated when Eve’s cold stare blasted her, then straightened her shoulders and crossed the room. They met in front of the bar where Kohli had served his last drink.

  “Ms. MacLean.”

  “Lieutenant. I’m perfectly aware of what you think of me, and you’re entitled to say it to my face.”

  “Why waste my breath? I walked through a cop’s blood on this floor. That says enough.”

  “Eve.” Roarke touched her shoulder. He turned to Rue. “You’ve seen Ricker?”

  “Yes. He’s—”

  “Not here.” He gestured to the side wall. The control panel, as the elevator it operated, was hidden in the mural depicting the fall of Adam. The door slid open to a small private car. They rode silently to the owner’s office.

  Roarke moved to a friggie behind a smoked mirror, took out chilled bottles of spring water, poured. “Why don’t you sit down, Rue? Conversations with Ricker have a tendency to shake the spirit.”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Aren’t we polite?” Furious, Eve gestured away Roarke’s offer of water. “Aren’t we just delightful and civilized. You want to trust her, pal, that’s your privilege. Don’t expect the same consideration from me. She set you up.”

  “That’s right.” Roarke put the glass in Rue’s unsteady hand. “And now she’s returning the favor. And not without risk.”

  Roarke took Rue’s hand, and though she tried to jerk free, he calmly unbuttoned her cuff and rolled the sleeve up on the arm he’d noticed her favoring.

  Dark, ugly bruises ran from wrist to elbow.

  “He hurt you. I’m sorry.”

  “He likes hurting people. Bruises fade. I’m sure your wife will agree, I deserve a great deal worse.”

  “He has fingers like spikes,” was all Eve said, but she felt herself shift inside. “Why did he use them on you?”

  “Because he could, for the most part. If he hadn’t believed me, I’d have gotten that and worse. Passing on the information from you put him in a good mood.”

  She took a drink, set the glass aside. “It ran almost exactly as you thought it would. I went to him, asked for money for information. That pissed him off, so I let him push me around a little until I gave it for free. That also cheered him up.”

  Absently, she rebuttoned her cuff. “I told him you were distracted, bad-tempered, how you were cracking the whip to get the place open because it was costing you money to keep the doors closed. That, and your feathers were ruffled because the cops were breathing down your neck. I topped it off by saying I overheard you arguing with your wife.”

  “Good.” Roarke sat on the arm of a chair.

  “You were going around about the investigation, how it was looking for you, and more, about the position she was putting herself in. You’re frantic about that, and pushing her to resign from the force. You two had a real blowup about that.

  “I told him there were some hard words about being on opposite sides of the line, and you just lost it. I hope you don’t mind that I painted a very clear picture of a man on the edge. You were getting damn tired of walking on eggshells, tired of losing money by keeping your business on her side. A lot of threats and recriminations. You cried,” she said to Eve, not without some satisfaction.

  “Well, thanks.”

  “He liked that part. Anyway, after you stormed out, I went in, offered Roarke a sympathetic ear. He was prime for it, so we had a couple drinks. That’s when you told me you’d had enough of the straight life. You were bored, restless, and your marriage was shaky. Not that you didn’t love your wife, but you needed an outlet. She didn’t have to know you were dipping back into the pool, did she? You needed something to distract you from worrying about her. And you figured you might kill two birds by going to Ricker and making a deal. A nice quiet business association, the high side of profit for him, and he leaves your wife alone. You’re going to get her off the force, but you want her in one piece while you work on that. You’re stupid in love with her, but damned if she’s going to castrate you and keep you on a leash. I agreed with you, then offered to talk to Ricker for you. That was the part that took him awhile to buy.”

  She touched her fingers to her sore arm. “I convinced him you agreed to it because you haven’t been yourself. You’d gone soft and careless in certain areas. I think he swallowed it because it’s what he wanted and because he doesn’t believe I’d have the guts to lie to him.”

  She picked up her glass again, wet her throat. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” she decided. “He was biting at the bait before I’d finished hanging it. The lawyer, Canarde, he doesn’t like it, but Ricker told him to shut up. When he didn’t, Ricker threw a paperweight at him. Missed, but it left a hell of a dent in the wall.”

  “Ah, to be a fly,” Eve murmured.

  “It was a moment,” Rue agreed. “In any case, Canarde shut up then, and Ricker will be here. He won’t miss the chance to humiliate you, to grind you under his heel a bit. And if he sniffs out that he should’ve listened to the lawyer, to take you out where you stand. If he can’t have you ruined, he’ll have you dead. Those were his words, exactly.”

  “Then it’s perfect,” Roarke decided, and he felt the thrill of the hunt heat his blood.

  “Not quite.” Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets, and turned toward Rue. “Why didn’t you have Roarke cry?”

  Rue shot her a look of such profound gratitude Eve had hope it was all going to work.

  chapter twenty-two

  Time was running short. Running two critical operations meant every hour was crammed with two hours’ work and worry. She left Purgatory in Roarke’s perhaps too-competent hands and, switching gears, drove out to Clooney’s suburban house.

  “Whitney already had Baxter question the
wife,” Peabody said and earned a steel-tipped stare from Eve.

  “I’m following up. Do you have a problem with that, Officer?”

  “No, sir. No problem at all.”

  Time might have been rushing by for Eve, but for Peabody it seemed the next thirty hours were going to crawl like a slug. She decided it best not to mention the surveillance car parked in full view of the single-story ranch house on the postage-stamp lot.

  Clooney would spot it, too, if he attempted to get to the house. Maybe that was the point.

  Keeping her silence, she followed Eve up the walk, waited at the door.

  The woman who opened it might have been pretty in a round, homey way. But at the moment she merely looked exhausted, unhappy, and afraid. Eve identified herself and held up her badge.

  “You found him. He’s dead.”

  “No. No, Mrs. Clooney, your husband hasn’t been located. May we come in?”

  “There’s nothing I can tell you that hasn’t already been said.” But she turned away, shoulders slumped as if they carried a fierce burden, and walked across the tidy little living area.

  Chintz and lace. Faded rugs, old, comfortable chairs. An entertainment screen that had seen better days. And, she noted, a statue of The Virgin—mother of Christ—on a table with her serene, compassionate face looking out over the room.

  “Mrs. Clooney, I have to ask if your husband’s contacted you.”

  “He hasn’t. He wouldn’t. It’s just as I told the other detective. I think, somehow, there’s been a terrible mistake.” Absently, she pushed a lock of brown hair, as faded as the rugs, away from her face. “Art hasn’t been well, hasn’t been himself for a long time. But he wouldn’t do the things you’re saying he did.”

  “Why wouldn’t he contact you, Mrs. Clooney? You’re his wife. This is his home.”

  “Yes.” She sat, as if her legs just couldn’t hold her up any longer. “It is. But he stopped seeing that, stopped believing that. He’s lost. Lost his way, his hope, his faith. Nothing’s been the same to us since Thad died.”