Judgment in Death

  Eve just blinked. “Utumwa?”

  “Iowa. I moved here from Iowa four years ago. I was hoping maybe to be a dancer on Broadway.” She smiled a little. “I guess girls move here thinking stuff like that all the time. I’m really a pretty good dancer, but well, so are a lot of other girls, and it can be pretty expensive to live here, so I took a job in a club. It wasn’t a very nice club,” she confided, blinking those big eyes. “And I was getting pretty scared and discouraged and thinking maybe I should just go back to Iowa and marry Joey, but he’s sort of a cluck, you know, and then Rue came in to catch my act and got me a job at this better club. It was nice, and the pay was much better, and the customers didn’t paw at you. Then when Rue went to Purgatory, she took some of us with her. That’s a really classy club. I just want you to know that. Nothing hinky-dink goes on there.”

  “Hinky-dink,” Eve repeated, slightly dazed by the tumble of words and information. “I appreciate you telling me all that.”

  “Oh, I want to help.” Nancie leaned forward, leading with her eyes. “Rue said if any of us knew anything, we should contact you. Lieutenant Eve Dallas. And that we should answer all your questions and do whatever we could, because, well, it’s the right thing and you’re married to Roarke. He owns Purgatory.”

  “I heard that somewhere.”

  “Oh gee, I’d answer the questions even if you weren’t married to Roarke. I mean, it’s my civic duty and all, and Taj was a really nice guy. He respected your privacy, you know? Even in a classy club, some of the staff can take peeks when they’re not supposed to. But you could walk right in front of Taj naked as a jay, and he never looked. I mean he looked because you were right there, but he never looked. He had a wife and kids, and was a real family man.”

  How did you shut this one off? Eve wondered. “Miss Gaynor—”

  “Oh, you can call me Nancie.”

  “Fine, Nancie, you were working last night. Was a dancer named Mitzie also on?”

  “Sure. We work pretty much the same schedule. Mitzie left kind of early last night. She was blue, you know, because that asshole—excuse my French—of a boyfriend dumped her for some sky waitress. She kept breaking down and crying in the dressing room because like, well, he was the love of her life and all and was going to marry her and buy a house in Queens. I think, or maybe it was Brooklyn, and then—”

  “Miss Gaynor.”

  “I guess that doesn’t matter, huh?” she said with a cheery smile. “Anyway, Rue took her home. Rue’s really good at taking care of us dancers. She used to be one. Maybe I should call Mitzie and see how she’s doing.”

  “I’m sure she’d appreciate that.” A tangle of information it might have been, Eve thought, but it corroborated Rue MacLean’s alibi. “Why don’t you tell me about the last time you saw Taj.”

  “Okay.” Nancie sat back, wiggled her butt into the cushions, and folded her hands, tidy as a schoolgirl, in her lap. “I had two shows that night, plus the two group dances, and three private performances, so I was kind of busy. On my first break, I saw Taj eating a chicken sandwich. I said, ‘Hey, Taj, that looks good enough to eat.’ You know, like a joke, because you make a sandwich to eat it.”

  “Ha,” Eve managed.

  “So he laughed a little and said that it was, and that his wife had made it for him. I got a soda pop, a Cherry Fizz, and said how I’d see him later because I had to go change costumes.”

  “Did you talk about anything else?”

  “No, just his chicken sandwich. Then I went back to change, and the dressing room was a real zoo. One of the girls, that’s Dottie, couldn’t find her red wig, and like I told you, Mitzie—”

  “Yes, we covered Mitzie.”

  “Uh-huh. One of the other girls, I think it was Charmaine, was telling Mitzie how she should say good riddance, which only made Mitzie cry harder, so Wilhimena, who used to be a guy but opted for the sex change, told her to shut up. Charmaine, I mean, not Mitzie. And everybody was running around because we had a group dance coming up. So we did that, the group dance, then I had a private. I saw Taj working the bar, and I waved.”

  Her ears were going to start ringing in a minute. Eve was sure of it. “Was he talking to anyone in particular?”

  “Not that I noticed. He had a way of working the bar so everybody had their drink and didn’t get all huffy. So I did the private for this businessman from Toledo. He said it was his birthday, but sometimes they say stuff like that so you’ll do extra, but Rue doesn’t want any of the dancers doing extra unless they’re licensed. He gave me a hundred tip anyway, then I had a turn in the spinner, that’s the level that revolves. I don’t really remember seeing Taj again till closing because we were pretty packed. I wanted another Cherry Fizz, and he got me one, and I sat at the bar for a little while after the place cleared out, just unwinding, sort of.”

  She sucked in a breath, Eve opened her mouth. But Nancie recovered first. “Oh, and Viney was sick. Um, Nester Vine. We girls call him Viney ’cause he’s long and skinny. Isn’t it funny how sometimes people look just like their names? Anyway, he was all pale and sweaty and kept going back to the john until Taj told him to go home and take care of himself. I was feeling a little blue because I heard how Joey got engaged to Barbie Thomas back home.”

  “In Utumwa.”

  “Right. She was always chasing after him.” Nancie frowned over it, then appeared to let it go. “So Taj was being sweet and telling me not to fret over that. How I was a pretty young girl and would find the right man when the time came. He said how when you found the right person, that was just it, and you didn’t even have to wonder about it. I’d just know. I could tell he was thinking about his wife, because he always got this soft look in his eyes when he thought about her. It made me feel good, so I stayed a little longer. Viney should have been there to close up with him, but he was sick. Did I tell you that?”

  “Yes,” Eve said, a little dizzy. “You did.”

  “Okay, he was sick, like I said. We aren’t really supposed to close up alone, but sometimes we do. Taj said to me how it was getting late, and I should go on home. He said he’d call me a cab, but I was going to take the subway. He wouldn’t let me, because the streets can be dangerous at night, so I called a cab, and he waited at the door until I got in it. That was like him,” she said, and her eyes went damp again. “He was sweet that way.”

  “Did he tell you anything about expecting a friend to come by that night?”

  “I don’t think. . .” She trailed off, pursed her lips. “Maybe. Maybe he did, when I was crying the blues a little over Joey, and missing my friends from home, I think he said something about how friends were always friends. I think maybe he said he was looking forward to seeing a friend later. But I didn’t take it to mean that night, at the club. Anyway.” She sighed, dabbed under her eyes with a fingertip. “A friend didn’t hurt Taj that way. Friends don’t do that.”

  It depends, Eve thought. It very much depends on the friend.

  chapter five

  Eve calculated she could spend the next three days interviewing strippers, table dancers, customers, and club crawlers, or she could zero in on Max Ricker.

  It wasn’t a tough choice, but both areas had to be covered.

  She walked into the detectives’ squad room, scanned faces. Some cops worked the ’links, others wrote reports or studied data. A team was taking a statement from a civilian who appeared to be more excited than distressed. The scent of bad coffee and aging disinfectant stung the air.

  She knew these cops. Some were sharper than others, but all of them did the job. Pulling rank here had never been her style, and she thought she could get what she wanted without resorting to it now.

  She waited until the civilian, looking flushed and pleased with himself, left the bullpen.

  “Okay, listen up.”

  A dozen faces turned in her direction. She watched expressions shift. Every one of them knew the case in her hands. No, she thought when ’links were disengaged
and screens ignored. She wouldn’t have to pull rank.

  “I’ve got over six hundred potential witnesses to either eliminate or interview in the matter of Detective Taj Kohli. I could use some help. Those of you who aren’t on priority cases or who can see their way clear to put in a couple of extra hours over the next few days can see either me or Peabody.”

  Baxter was the first to get to his feet. He was an occasional pain in the ass, Eve thought, but Christ, he was dependable as sunrise.

  “I got time. We all got time.” He glanced around the room himself as if daring anyone to disagree.

  “Good.” Eve slipped her hands in her pockets. “To give you an update on the investigation . . .” And here she had to step carefully. “Detective Kohli was bludgeoned to death while moonlighting in a high-class strip club called Purgatory. The club was closed, and it appears Kohli knew his attacker. I’m looking for someone he knew well enough to be alone with, to turn his back on.”

  Someone, she thought, who was contacted by him or contacted him on his personal palm-link during his shift. That’s why the killer removed it from the scene.

  “At this point, it doesn’t appear that Kohli was working on a sensitive case or pursuing information regarding one. But it’s possible the killer was a weasel or outside informant. Robbery isn’t a motive that holds. This was personal,” she added, watching faces. “A personal attack on the badge. The One twenty-eight thinks the investigation belongs with them. I say it stays here.”

  “Damn right it stays here.” A detective named Carmichael lifted her coffee mug, scowled into it.

  “The media’s leaving this alone so far,” Eve continued. “It’s not a hot story. A bartender doesn’t boost ratings, and the fact that he was a cop doesn’t make much of a ripple on-screen. He doesn’t matter to them.”

  She waited, scanned faces. “But he matters here. Any of you who want in can let Peabody know how many witnesses you feel you can handle. She’ll assign. Copy all statements and reports to me.”

  “Hey, Dallas, can I have the strippers?” Baxter teased. “Just the well-stacked ones?”

  “Sure, Baxter. We all know the only way you’re going to see a woman naked is if she’s paid for it.” There was a chorus of snorts and whoops. “I’ll be in the field most of the day. Anyone pulls anything I need to know, tag me.”

  As she headed toward her office, Peabody hurried after her. “You’re going in the field alone.”

  “I need you here, coordinating the witness assignments.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Peabody, up until last year, I did most of my field work solo.” As she shoved back her desk chair to sit, she caught the gleam of hurt in Peabody’s eyes. Nearly rolled her own. “That doesn’t mean you haven’t aced the job, Peabody. Get a hold of yourself. I need you here right now, running this and scanning data. You’re better at the tech stuff than I am.”

  That appeared to brighten Peabody again. “Yeah, I am. But I could hook up with you when I’m clear here.”

  “I’ll let you know. Why don’t you get started while everyone’s in the mood to put in extra time?” In dismissal, Eve turned to her desk unit. “Let’s get moving.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eve waited until Peabody left, then got up to close the door. Back at her desk she called up all known data on Max Ricker.

  She didn’t want any surprises.

  She’d seen his picture before, but she studied it more carefully now. He had a powerful look, a strongly carved face with prominent planes that looked glass sharp. His mouth was hard, with the silver brush of a mustache doing nothing to soften it. His eyes were silver as well, opaque and unreadable.

  The vanity Roarke had spoken of showed in the waving mane of dark hair tipped with silver wings, in the single diamond stud he wore in his right ear, and in the smooth polish of his white, white skin that showed neither line nor fold but looked as if it had been stretched taut as bleached silk over those ice-edged bones.

  Subject Ricker, Max Edward. Height, six feet, one inch. Weight two hundred two pounds. Caucasian. DOB 3 February 2000. Born Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Parents Leon and Michelle Ricker, deceased. One sibling, deceased.

  Educated University of Pennsylvania with degree in business.

  No marriages or legal cohabitations. One son, Alex, DOB 26 June 2028. Mother listed as Morandi, Ellen Mary. Deceased.

  Current residences include Hartford, Connecticut, Sarasota, Florida, Florence, Italy, London, England, Long Neck Estates on Yost Colony and Nile River Hotel on Vegas II.

  Profession listed as entrepreneur with interests and holdings as follows . . .

  Eve sat back now, closed her eyes, and listened to the rundown of Ricker’s businesses. There had been another time she’d done a run on a man who had extensive and varied interests, who’d owned strings of companies and organizations. Who’d looked, as Ricker did, dangerous.

  That run had changed her life.

  She intended for this one to change Ricker’s.

  “Computer, list criminal record, all arrests and charges.”

  Working . . .

  She sat up again when the data began to roll, and her eyebrows lifted. There were a number of charges over the years, beginning with petty larceny in 2016, continuing with gun running, illegals distribution, fraud, bribery, and two conspiracies to commit murder. None of it had stuck, he’d slipped and slithered through, but his sheet was long and varied.

  “Not as clever as Roarke, are you?” she murmured. “He never got caught. There’s the arrogance. You don’t mind getting caught, not really.” She studied his face again. “Because it gives you a kick to fuck the system. That’s a weakness, Ricker. A big one. Computer, copy all data to disc.”

  She turned to her ’link. It was time to find out just where Ricker was currently cooling his well-shod heels.

  She considered it good luck that Ricker was spending some time in his Connecticut compound. She considered it his arrogance that he’d agreed to meet with her without making her dance through a sea of attorneys.

  She made the drive in good time and was met at the gate by a trio of hatchet-faced guards who put her through an ID scan for form’s sake. She was instructed to leave her vehicle just inside the gates and get into a small, sleek cart.

  Its operator was an equally small and sleek female droid who drove her along the winding, tree-lined path to a sprawling three-story house of wood and glass that perched on a rocky slope over a restless sea.

  There was a fountain at the entrance where a stone woman draped in a flowing gown gracefully poured pale blue water from a pitcher into a pool teeming with red fish. A gardener worked a plot of flowers at the east side of the house.

  He wore baggy gray pants and shirt, a wide-brimmed hat, and a double-scoped distance laser.

  Another female droid met her at the door, this one a comfortably built serving model in a starched black uniform. Her smile was welcoming, her voice warm.

  “Good day, Lieutenant Dallas. Mr. Ricker is expecting you. I hope you had a pleasant trip. If you’d follow me, please.”

  Eve studied the house as they walked through. Here, the money all but dripped. It didn’t have the class of Roarke’s place where the mood was rich but somehow homey, with its polished woods and muted colors. Ricker went for the modern and the garish, surrounding himself with eye-searing colors, too much fabric, and not enough taste.

  Everything was sharp-edged and accented by what she now concluded was his signature silver.

  Thirty pieces of silver, she thought as she stepped into a room done in bloodred with a breathless view of the sea through the window-wall. The other walls were jammed with art, all of it modernistic or surreal or whatever the hell they called stuff that was nothing more than slashes of paint on canvas and pulsing slides of ugly colors on glass.

  The scent of flowers was heavy here, and funereal, the light overbright, and the furniture all sliding, sinuous curves with glimmering cushions and silver limbs. r />
  Ricker sat in one of the chairs, sipping something violently pink out of a long, slim tube. He got graciously to his feet, smiled.

  “Ah, Eve Dallas. We meet at last. Welcome to my humble home. What can we offer you in the way of refreshment?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, well, you’ve only to ask if you change your mind.” There was a roundness to his voice, something that reminded her of the dialogue in some of the old black-and-white videos Roarke liked to watch. “That will be all, Marta.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ricker.” She backed out of the room, closing the doors behind her.

  “Eve Dallas,” he said again, eyes sparkling as he gestured to a chair. “This is absolutely delightful. May I call you Eve?”

  “No.”

  The sparkle turned cold, silver sleet now, even as he let out a hearty laugh. “Pity. Lieutenant, then. Won’t you sit down? I have to admit to some curiosity about the woman who married one of my old . . . I was going to say protégés,” he said as he sat again. “But I’m sure Roarke would object to the term. So I’ll say one of my former associates. I had hoped he would accompany you today.”

  “He has no business here, or with you.”

  “Not at the moment. Please sit. Be comfortable.”

  Comfort wasn’t one of the options in the ugly chair, but she sat.

  “How attractive you are.” He spoke smoothly while his gaze crawled over her.

  Men who looked at a woman in just that way wanted her to feel sexually vulnerable, physically uneasy. Eve only felt mildly insulted.

  “In a competent, unpretentious sort of fashion,” Ricker finished. “Not what one expected of Roarke, of course. His taste always ran to the more stylish, more obviously female.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, and she noted he had his nails painted in his signature color. And the tips were filed to vicious little points.