Judgment in Death

  “Lights on,” she ordered. “Main bar area.”

  Those that were still operational brightened and cast a cool white light over the destruction.

  “Doesn’t look any better today, does it?” Roarke scanned the room, felt the little stir of temper.

  “Close the door.” She said it quietly, took a breath, and did what she did best. She put herself in the middle of murder.

  “He comes in, after closing. He’s been here before. He has to know the place, the setup, the security. Maybe he worked here, but if he did, and was on last night, he left with everyone else. Nobody’s going to tag him as being alone here with Kohli.”

  She moved around and through the debris, toward the bar. “He sits down, asks for a drink. Friendly, casual. They’ve got business to discuss, something to talk over. That needs privacy.”

  “Why doesn’t he have Kohli disarm the security cameras?” Roarke asked.

  “He’s not worried about the cameras. He’s going to take care of them. After. Just a friendly after-hours drink, a little conversation. Nothing that’s going to set off Kohli’s cop vibes. If he had any. Kohli gets himself a beer, stays behind the bar. He’s comfortable. Eats some nuts. He knows this guy. They’ve probably had a drink together before.”

  She glanced up, checking out the locations of the cameras. “Kohli’s not worried about the security cams either. So either they’re not talking about anything that’s going to jam him, or he has turned them off. All the while, this guy’s sitting here thinking about how to make his move. He comes behind the bar, helps himself to a drink this time.”

  She walked behind the bar, seeing it in her head. Kohli, big, strong and alive, wearing his Purgatory uniform. Black shirt, black slacks. Sipping at a beer, popping some bar nuts.

  “The blood’s pounding in his head, and his heart’s thumping like a drum, but he doesn’t let it show. Maybe he makes a joke, asks Kohli to get something. Just enough to make him turn his back for an instant. Long enough for him to grab the bat and swing.”

  A second, she thought, no more. No more than that to close a hand around the bat, jerk it free. Swing.

  “The first crack of it sings up his arms, right into the shoulders. Blood sprays, and Kohli’s face smashes into the glass. Bottles crash, and it’s like an explosion.

  “An explosion,” she repeated, with her eyes slitted, flat. “That screams in his head. It makes his blood swim, pump, boosts the adrenaline. He turned the corner now, no going back. He swings the second time, into the face. It’s good to see Kohli’s face, the pain and the shock in it when he takes him out. The third swing does the job, cracks his head wide open. Blood and brains. But it’s not enough.”

  She lifted her hands, fisted them one over the other like a batter waiting for a clutch pitch. “He wants to obliterate. He strikes again and again, and the sound of snaps and crunches when bones go is like music. Raging through him. He tastes blood. His breath’s whistling. When he pulls himself back, pulls back just enough to think again, he gets Kohli’s shield out of the pocket, tosses it down in the blood. That means something, blood on the shield, then he rolls the body on top of it.”

  She stopped a moment, thinking. “He’s covered with blood. His hands, his clothes, his shoes. But there aren’t any signs of it in the rest of the club. He changed. He had the sense to clean up first. The sweepers found traces of Kohli’s blood, skin, brain matter in the drain of the bar sink.”

  She turned, looking at the bowl, covered with powder now, under the bar. “He washed up right here, with the body behind him. Cold. Stone cold. Then he took care of business, went around smashing everything. Made a real party out of it. Celebrate. But he’s still got his wits. He tosses the bat with Kohli behind the bar. Here’s what I’ve done, and here’s how I did it. Then he takes the security discs and walks away.”

  “Do you know what it takes to put that kind of image inside your own head, Lieutenant? Courage. An amazing level of courage.”

  “I’m just doing what has to be done.”

  “No.” Roarke laid a hand over hers, found it cold. “You do a great deal more.”

  “Don’t sidetrack me.” She drew away because she was cold, and faintly embarrassed. “Anyway, it’s just a theory.”

  “A damn good one. You made me see it. Blood on the shield. If you’re right about that meaning something, he was probably killed because he was a cop.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I keep circling back to.”

  She glanced over as the door opened. She recognized Mills right away, though he was bigger than she’d assumed, and most of the big had run to fat.

  Didn’t take advantage of the department’s physical fitness program, she thought, or the break they were given on body sculpting.

  The woman beside him was small and lean, built for action. Her skin had the olive cast that always made Eve think of sun-baked countries. Her hair was black and glossy and tamed back into a long sleek tail. Her eyes were nearly as dark and seemed to snap with vibrancy.

  Beside her, Mills looked like an overfed, sloppy mongrel.

  “Word came down it was bad.” Martinez’s voice was clipped and faintly exotic. “But it’s worse.” Her eyes skimmed over Roarke, lingered an instant, then locked on Eve. “You’d be Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “That’s right.” Eve moved back across the room. “Thanks for coming down. The civilian’s the property owner.”

  With barely a nod in acknowledgement, Mills lumbered to the bar. He moved like a bear. An overfed one. “Bought it back here, huh? Shitty way to die.”

  “Most ways are crap.” Martinez turned to the door, fingers dancing a little too quickly for Eve’s taste toward her side arm.

  “My aide,” Eve said when Peabody stepped in. “Officer Peabody, Detective Martinez and Lieutenant Mills.” With a slight shift of her body, she tapped a finger to her collar, then turned back to follow Martinez to the bar.

  Recognizing the signal, Peabody clipped on her recorder and engaged.

  “How long did you know Kohli?” Eve asked.

  “Me, a couple of years. I transferred to the One two-eight from Brooklyn.” She looked down at the mess murder had left behind. “The lieutenant knew him longer.”

  “Yeah, since he came in rookie. Spit and polish and by the book. Did some military time and brought that with him. He was a one-shift wonder.”

  “Give him a break, Mills,” Martinez muttered. “We’re standing in his goddamn blood here.”

  “Hey, just saying it like it was. The guy did his shift, clocked out. Couldn’t get an extra minute out of him without it being a direct order from the captain. But he did his job while he was on.”

  “How’d he get picked for the Ricker team?”

  “Martinez wanted him.” Mills shook his head at the mess behind the bar. “Last cop I’d’ve figured for getting taken out. I’da made book he’d have done his twenty-five and spent his retirement building birdhouses or some shit.”

  “I tagged him for the task force,” Martinez confirmed. She angled her body away from Mills in a way that told Eve the detective wanted distance from the lieutenant. Bad. “I was head investigator under Lieutenant Mills. Kohli was a detail freak. He never missed a word. You had him on surveillance, you got a report that described everything he saw for four hours, down to the garbage in the gutter. He had good eyes.”

  She frowned at the blood splatter. “If you’re thinking Ricker ordered a hit on him, I can’t see it. Kohli was background, he was a drone on that investigation. He was in on the bust, but he didn’t do anything but record the scene. I took Ricker down, for all the fucking good it did.”

  “Kohli was the one with the details,” Eve said. “Anyway, some of those details could’ve gotten through to Ricker, helped him slide?”

  There was a long pause. Eve saw Martinez’s eyes meet Mills’s before they both turned toward her. “I don’t like what I’m hearing coming out of your mouth, Dallas.”

  Mills’s tone was a jagg
ed threat, like rusted metal in a sweaty hand. Out of the corner of her eye, Eve saw Roarke shift, and damn it, Peabody as well. She took a step forward as if to shake off the guard dogs. “What you’re hearing coming out of my mouth is standard.”

  “Yeah, for some half-ass or lowlife who ends up in a bag. It’s not fucking standard for a cop. Kohli carried a badge same as you, same as me. Where do you come off saying he was dirty?”

  “I didn’t say he was.”

  “Hell you didn’t.” Mills jabbed a finger at her. “You start heading down that road, Dallas, you won’t get any help from me. This is why the case belongs in our house and not with some bitch down at Central.”

  “The case is with some bitch down at Central, Mills. Live with it.” At her easy response, Eve thought she caught Martinez biting back a grin. “The question has to be asked, I asked it. I still haven’t heard the answer.”

  “Fuck you. There’s your answer.”

  “Mills,” Martinez murmured. “Take it down.”

  “And fuck that, too.” He rounded on her. His fists were clenched, and the blood had surged to his face. “Goddamn skirts don’t belong on the job anyway. You go ahead and play with Whitney’s pet cunt, Martinez, and see where it gets you. No cop turns on another, no matter what he was, and gets by me.”

  With a last vicious look at Eve, he stalked out.

  Martinez cleared her throat, scratched her head. “The lieutenant has a problem working with women and minorities.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. So you shouldn’t take it more personal than that. Look, the Ricker deal was mine, and Kohli was a straight arrow. That’s one of the reasons I tagged him for some of the drone work. I don’t like your question either, but I figure it’s like you said. It had to be asked. Kohli may not have been one to go the extra mile, but he respected his badge. He liked being a cop, standing for the law and order thing. I can’t see him going on the take, Lieutenant. Just doesn’t fit.”

  It depended, Eve thought, on where you put the pieces. “What did Mills mean, no matter what he was.”

  “On Kohli?” Her eyes sparkled with what might have been humor or temper. “Meaning Kohli was black. Mills is of the opinion the only real cop is male and white and hetero. Personality-wise, Mills is pretty much a flaming asshole.”

  Eve waited until Martinez left. “You get all that, Peabody?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Record off. Make a copy for my file, keep the other under wraps. Walk Roarke through the place so he can get his damage report. You’ve got fifteen minutes,” she told him. “Then you’re out, and the place is sealed until I say different.”

  “She’s lovely when she’s annoyed, isn’t she, Peabody?”

  “I’ve always thought so.”

  “Fourteen minutes,” Eve warned. “And counting.”

  “Why don’t we start at the top?” He offered Peabody his arm. “And work our way down.”

  When they were out of earshot, she pulled out her communicator and called Feeney in the Electronic Detective Division. “I need a favor,” she said the minute his worn and weary face floated on-screen.

  “If it ties to the cop killing, we won’t count it. Every man in my unit’ll put in whatever time you need on it. Son of a bitch thinks he can get off with doing a cop like that, he’s gonna find out different, and the hard way.”

  Eve waited until he’d run down. “Switch this transmission to privacy mode, would you?”

  Feeney frowned but made the switch and slipped on his headset. “What’s the deal?”

  “You’re not going to like it. Let’s clear that up front so you don’t have to give me grief on it. I need you to run two cops for me. Lieutenant Alan Mills and Detective Julianna Martinez, both in Illegals out of the One twenty-eight.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I need a quiet run, Feeney. I don’t want any flags going up.”

  His already mournful face dropped into sags. “I especially don’t like it.”

  “I’m sorry to ask. I’d do it myself, but you can do it faster and quieter.” She glanced up to where Roarke and Peabody walked along the top level. “I don’t like it either, but I’ve got to open the door before I can close it.”

  Though he was alone in his office, Feeney lowered his voice. “You just looking, Dallas, or are you looking for dirt?”

  “I can’t fill you in now, but I’ve got too many connections to ignore. Do this for me, Feeney, and when it’s done, let me know. We’ll hook up somewhere, and I’ll bring you up to date.”

  “I know Mills. He’s an asshole.”

  “Yeah, I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “But I can’t see him dirty, Dallas.”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We never want to see it.”

  She pocketed the communicator, righted a bar stool, and sat. In her notebook she began listing names, putting Kohli’s in the center with arrows out to Ricker, connecting his with Mills and theirs with Martinez. She added Roth, curving a line to all, then in the bottom corner she added Webster. IAB.

  She arrowed his to Kohli and wondered if she would be connecting him to anyone else before it was done.

  Then, because it had to be done, she added Roarke, hooked him to Kohli and to Ricker. And hoped to God that would be the end of it.

  Death, she thought, left a picture, told a story, from both the victim’s and the killer’s point of view. The scene itself, the body, the method, time and place, what was left behind, what was taken away. They were all part of the story.

  Illegals, she thought, continuing to scribble in her book. Blood on the shield. Overkill. Strippers. Missing security discs. Vice. Sex? Money. Thirty credit chips.

  She continued to make notes, frown over them as Roarke and Peabody worked their way back to her. “Why the credit chips?” she asked out loud. “Because he died for money? Not to make it look like a robbery. Another symbol? Blood money. Why thirty chips?”

  “Thirty pieces of silver,” Roarke said, watching Eve’s blank stare. “Your state education, Lieutenant, wouldn’t have included Bible study. Judas was paid thirty pieces of silver for betraying Christ.”

  “Thirty pieces of silver.” It clicked with her, and she nodded as she pushed to her feet. “We can figure Kohli stands for Judas. But who’s standing as Jesus?” She scanned the scene one last time. “Time’s up,” she told Roarke. “You’ll want to call your ride.”

  “He’ll be outside by now.” Roarke opened the door himself, holding it. As Eve moved by him, he caught her, yanked her against him and closed his mouth warmly over hers. “Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant.”

  “Oh man, he can really kiss.” Peabody all but sang it as Roarke strolled to the limo waiting at the curb. “You can tell, just by watching him do it, he’s a seriously excellent kisser.”

  “Just stop imagining he was kissing you.”

  “I can’t.” Peabody rubbed her lips together as Eve resealed the door. “And I can tell you, that one’s going to get me through the day and into the night.”

  “You’ve got your own men now.”

  “Not the same.” Peabody sighed as she trudged to Eve’s car. “Just nowhere near the same. Where are we going?”

  “To see a stripper.”

  “Tell me it’s a male stripper and my day is made.”

  “You’re doomed to disappointment.”

  Nancie lived in an attractive prewar building on Lexington. There were window boxes spilling with flowers on several of the upper levels, and a cheerful-faced uniformed doorman gave Eve a dazzling grin when she held up her badge.

  “I hope there’s no trouble, Lieutenant Dallas, ma’am. If there’s anything I can do, you just let me know.”

  “Thanks, I think we can handle it.”

  “I bet he makes tons in tips,” Peabody commented as they entered the small, dignified lobby. “Great smile, nice butt. What else could you ask for in a doorman?”

  She studied the lobby with it
s discreet name plaques, polished brass elevator, and attractive arrangement of spring flowers. “I never figured a place like this for a nude dancer. It’s more like what you’d think of for upper-level office drones and junior execs. I wonder what she makes a year.”

  “Thinking of switching professions?”

  “Yeah, right.” Peabody snorted as they stepped onto the elevator. “Guys are lining up to see me naked. Though McNab—”

  “Don’t go there. I just can’t take it.” Eve hurried off the elevator on six, made a beeline for apartment C. She was relieved when the door opened promptly and cut off any idea Peabody might have harbored about finishing the statement.

  “Nancie Gaynor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. Can we come in and speak with you?”

  “Oh, sure. This is about Taj.”

  Nancie fit the image of the apartment. Tidy, attractive and pretty as a sunbeam. She was young, midtwenties by Eve’s estimation, and cute as a damn button with a curling mop of golden hair, doll-baby lips painted rosy pink, and huge green eyes. The buttercup-yellow skin suit she wore showed off her talent and still managed to look sweet.

  She stepped back into the room on bare feet, leaving a faint trace of lilies in the air.

  “I’m just sick about it,” she began. “Just sick. Rue called us all yesterday to tell us.” Those big eyes filled, swam like irrigated green fields. I just can’t believe something like this could happen at Purgatory.”

  She made a helpless gesture toward a long, curving sofa covered in velvety pink fabric and an avalanche of shimmering pillows. “I guess we’d better sit down. Should I get you something, like to drink?”

  “No, don’t bother. Do you mind if we record this conversation, Miss Gaynor?”

  “Oh. Oh. Golly.” Nancie bit her pretty bottom lip, clasped her hands together between her truly spectacular breasts. “I guess not. Are you supposed to?”

  “With your permission.” A stripper who said golly, was all Eve could think. Just when you’d thought you’d seen it all.

  “Okay, gee. I want to help if I can. But we can sit down, right? Because I guess I’m a little nervous. I’ve never been involved in a murder case. I was questioned once, right after I moved here from Utumwa, because my roommate, she was an LC, and she’d let her license lapse, but I’m sure it was just an oversight. Anyway, I talked to the officer in charge of the licensing committee and all. But that was different.”