Promises in Death

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EVE PEELED OFF THE DRESS, YANKED ON PANTS, shirt, her weapon. She hunted up a short leather jacket and shrugged into it as she jogged downstairs. She realized she’d underestimated Peabody when her partner stepped off the foyer elevator with Mira and Mavis.

“I’m about halfway there,” Peabody told her.

“You’re all the way there when we get to the scene, or you stay in the car. Ah, do whatever you think works downstairs,” she said to Mira.

“Don’t worry. Everything’s under control here.”

“We’re totally on top of it,” Mavis assured her. “I told Summerset the what, so he brought your car around.”

“Good thinking. We’ll be back when we’re back. Peabody.”

Peabody went a little pale when the fresh air slapped her, but got into the car with the minimum of groans.

“If you even think about booting in here—”

“No, I’m past that. Where’s the scene?”

“Building down on Pearl.”

“I’ll be leveled out by the time we . . . Where did you get this vehicle?”

“It’s mine. We’ll be using it from now on.”

“Yours, like yours ?” Peabody studied the dash. “Very frosty gadgetry.”

“Use the very frosty gadgetry to map the fastest route to 509 Pearl and to ID the kind of building it is.”

Peabody made the requests. “Three-level, multi-tenant, currently vacant. Rehab pending permits. Do you want the route in-dash or on audio?”

“In-dash. I hate when it talks to you. Inside a vacant building, second floor of. It sounds like the killer didn’t want the body found so fast this time. That building’s outside the Eighteenth’s turf, but not far out. Coltraine’s squad would know the terrain.”

“How about Callendar and Sisto? I need to catch up.”

Eve filled in the blanks, speeding her way downtown.

The building sat squat and sad, a gray slab generously coated with the indignity of graffiti. Windows gaped—mouths with the jagged edges of broken glass like bad teeth. A few were boarded, and more than a few of the boards tipped drunkenly. The bolt and chain on the front door had amused someone enough to take the time to hack it to pieces.

Had it been in perfect repair, it would still have been a joke.

Two black-and-whites nosed together at the curb. A couple of uniforms stood on the shallow concrete platform in front of the entrance, jawing. They broke it off when Peabody and Eve climbed out.

“Homicide,” Eve said, taking out her badge and hooking it on her belt while Peabody got field kits out of the trunk.

“DB’s on the second floor. We’re backup. First-on-scene’s inside. Place is empty—we did a sweep. Brought a coupla lights in, ’cause it’s pitch in there.”

Eve nodded, studied the chain and bolt. “These weren’t compromised tonight.”

“No, sir. We patrol here. It’s been like that a couple months anyway. Funky-junkies flopped here. Owner complained, so we ran ’em off. They just find another hole.”

It stank. Old piss, old vomit, a decade’s worth of dust and grime.

The uniforms had set one of their field lights on the first level, so shadows danced over the piles of rags, papers, and assorted debris the junkies had left behind. She imagined the missing floorboards had been fed into the rusted metal can to burn for warmth. Same with the few missing stair treads, she thought as she stepped over the gaps on her way up.

The light from her field kit shone over a nest of mice in one of the holes, the babies like skinned blobs sucking on their mother’s engorged belly. Behind her, Peabody said, “Eeuuww.”

“Don’t say ‘eeuuww,’ for God’s sake. We’re murder cops.”

“I don’t like mice. Or maybe they were rats. They could be rats. And Daddy wasn’t in there, so he’s somewhere else.” Peabody flashed her light left, right, up, down. “Waiting for a chance to run up my pants’ legs and bite me on the ass.”

“Should that occur, don’t say eeuuww. Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody,” Eve called out. “Homicide.”

On the second floor, in the glare of the field light, one of the uniforms moved toward the stairs. “Officer Guilder, Lieutenant. My partner’s got the nine-one-one callers secured. You want them or the body first?”

“Body.”

“He’s over here. Couple of scavengers called it in. Nothing to scavenge in here. Whatever’s left even the junkies didn’t want, but they came in to pick through. Stated they found him when they were checking out a pile of old blankets. Thought he was sleeping at first, then figured out he was dead. Called it in.”

“Civic-minded scavengers?”

“Yeah, what’re the odds? But they come off straight to me. No weapons on them. Not even a sticker. When we responded, they directed us to the body. We recognized him from the APB, called it in.”

Guilder gestured. “There he is.”

Eve stood in the doorway of what in some dim past might have been an efficiency apartment. “Yeah, there he is.”

He sat on the filthy floor, his back to the wall. He’d been stripped, leaving the small hole and dribble of heart blood on his naked chest exposed.

Nothing left to scavenge, Eve thought. That’s the way the killer hoped it would read. She crouched down as much to study the angle of the body as what surrounded it.

“Got some prints in the dust here, probably from the scavengers. These? The smears? The killer sealed up, wore crime-scene booties from the look of it. Things had gone another way, few days, a week passes, more dust. You don’t see the smears. Heart shot, dead-on. One blow, thin blade. Up close and personal. Verify ID and TOD, Peabody.”

Eve sealed up, took out a pair of microgoggles and approached the body. “Probably a stiletto,” Eve said as she examined the wound. “Don’t want any spatter, any mess. Want it quick and done. Toss rags and useless tarps over him. You might walk right by this pile in the dark. Window’s boarded. Somebody finds him, junkie, sidewalk sleeper, scavenger, most of them aren’t going to report it.”

“Prints verify. Rod Sandy,” Peabody said. “TOD one-fifteen this morning.”

“Smart. Smart. Give him time to panic, to sweat, run him around some. Then lure him here when he’s so knotted up he’s not thinking straight. You need to take him somewhere inside, covered, off the track. You’d get here first, lure him up. He’s got to be sweating. He doesn’t want to stay in a place like this. He needs to get out, you have to help me get out. I can’t stay in this rathole. And it’s like, take it easy, it’s all worked out. You might even put your hand on his shoulder. Holds him steady, gives you a target while you look in his eyes and stick him.”

She pulled off the goggles. “Strip him down so it looks like he was killed for his clothes, what’s in his pockets. But it’s not so smart to cover him up. That’s too much. Just like the single heart shot’s too much. That’s not mugging MO. Overthought it, that’s what you did. Some showing off here, too.”

“The killer should’ve messed him up some,” Peabody put in. “Then left him on top of the rags instead of under them.”

“That’s right. The kill shot indicates skill. There’s pride there. No postmortem wounds, like you’d see if he’d been flopped around while someone was yanking his clothes off. But he had to be careful, avoid leaving trace. All a waste of time anyway, because we’re not idiots.”

She straightened. “Let’s get the sweepers in, and the morgue. I’ll take the scavengers.”

They looked typical, Eve mused. Two humanlike lumps so layered in clothing and grime it was next to impossible to judge gender or age. They sat on the floor, a wheeled basket between them. It held more clothes, shoes, what might have been broken toys and any number of damaged electronics.

They identified themselves as Kip and Bop.

“Legal names would be appreciated.”

“We didn’t keep them,” Kip said. “We only keep what we want.”

Bop clutched an enormous bag. “We keep it and we use it and we sell it. It doesn’t hurt anybody.”

“Okay. You came in here to look for things you could keep or use or sell?”

“Nobody else wants them.” Kip shrugged. “Nobody lives here. Nobody cares.”

“Did you see anyone else in here?”

“The man who’s dead.”

“Maybe you came in here last night, too.”

“No. Last night we were on Bleecker. Lady there leaves stuff out every Friday night, and it’s good pickings if you get there quick.”

“Okay. What time did you get in here tonight?”

Kip lifted his arm, tapped the broken face of his wrist unit. “It’s always the same time. Here’s what. We come in, go up to the top floor so’s we can work it down. Not much up there, so we come on down, and work it. Maybe we’ll find a good blanket or some socks in the pile. But we found the man who’s dead.”

“Did you take anything from him, or from the pile?”

“We found him pretty quick. Don’t take from the dead.”

“You go to hell other,” Bop said with a wise nod.

“What did you do then?”

“We call the nine the one and the one. It’s the right.”

“Yeah, it’s the right. You’ve got a ’link?” At Eve’s question Bop clutched the bag tighter.

“It’s mine!”

“That’s right. It’s yours. Thanks for using it. We can get you to a shelter if you want.”

“Don’t like shelters. Somebody’ll take your stuff for sure.”

Eve scratched her ear. “Okay. How about a flop for a couple of nights. A room, a bed. No shelter.”

Kip and Bob exchanged looks. “Where at?” Kip demanded.

“Officer Guilder, is there a hotel nearby that will take them for a couple of nights? On the city.”

“Sure. I know a place on Broad. The Metro Arms.”

Another look passed between the scavengers. “We don’t pay?”

“No, the city pays to show appreciation for your help.” Though hers were still sealed, Eve stopped short of shaking hands.

“Don’t need to kill for stuff,” Kip said.

“People leave it all over anyway,” Bop added.

Out on the street, Eve studied the building and those surrounding it while sweepers moved in and out. “If you live or work around here, you know buildings like this. Killer’s turf, with the advantage of being way, way off the vic’s.”

“And without Kip and Bop, we’re chasing our tails for Sandy for days, maybe more. All the arrows point to him for Coltraine. When we find him, it looks like he’d gone to ground, got rolled, got killed. You could construe he took off to avoid arrest—and that being tight with Alex, Alex remains a suspect on Coltraine.”

“You could construe.”

“Except for our motto.” Peabody put on a serious look. “We’re not idiots.”

“Too bad for Sandy, he was. Let’s go write it up.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

There was plenty of action in Central in the dark hours. The whines of street LCs, the moans or giggles of junkies, the weeping of victims. Eve closed herself into her office to translate her record into a report.

When her ’link signaled, she pounced on it. “Callendar. Gimme.”

Callendar grinned. “I got gimmes. Let me start with a big, juicy belch. Two, in fact. Transmissions from Omega to New York, confirmed. Both sending and receiving on unregistered ’links. And yeah, baby, that would be the same ’link used on the home planet. They match.”

“Oh yeah, baby,” Eve echoed.

“Encrypted transmissions from here to there were not logged. Big no-nos on the party palace of Omega.”

“Can you break them?”

“No encryption defeats me. But it’s going to take a little time, and a couple hours’ sleep. Meanwhile, Sisto had a little chat with our old friend Cecil Rouche’s drinking buddy, who also just happened to be on communications at the time in question. Guy named Art Zeban. Zeban played it dumb at the jump, but smartened up when Sisto leaned on him. Which Sisto reports he enjoyed bunches. Zeban claims Rouche gave him a thousand a pop to keep the transes off log. Just a favor for a pal, with compensation.”

“This is good.”

“Better is that the Gs included wiping the record of Ricker’s hygiene break.”

“It’s gone.”

“Please.” Callendar waved a hand in the air as if flicking off a gnat. “Nothing’s ever gone when I’m around. I’ll dig it out. Meanwhile in the meanwhile, I got authorization to search Rouche’s quarters.”

“Does he know?”

“Not yet. We’re—”

“Keep him in the dark. Make sure he’s unable to make any contact on planet—or off. No communications. Wrap him up, Callendar, and wrap him tight. Bring him and his drinking buddy home.”

“All over that. This shit is fun!”

“While you’re having fun, make goddamn sure none of it—not an inkling of it—leaks to Ricker. I want him closed down. If the warden has a problem, he can contact me. But Ricker is shut down tight until further notice.”

“Total,” Callendar said and signed off.

Eve added the new data, then rose to expand her murder board.

“I’m clear,” Peabody said as she came in. “Unless you want to notify next of kin tonight, we . . .” She trailed off when she noticed the additions to the board. “You got something again.”

“Callendar confirms Omega transmissions. They’re encrypted, but she says she can break that. And she matched the on-planet send-and-receive to the ’link Feeney found. She’s got the tech—” Eve tapped Zeban’s photo. “The guard Ricker’s bribing bribed him to keep them off the log, and to wipe the recording of Ricker’s shower. But she says she can reconstruct.”

“She’s good. McNab says straight up. That’s a lot of bribing.”

“Yes, bribing on a penal colony. I was shocked. It’s a food chain,” Eve muttered. “Ricker at the top. You’ve got Sandy, and Rouche, Zeban, and probably more under that. But there’s the link between Ricker and Sandy. That level. We need to fill that one in to make it all hold.”

She turned around, frowned. “What time is it in France?”

“Um.”

“I don’t know either. I shouldn’t have to know. Roarke would know, but he’s in Vegas. I don’t know what time it is there, either.” She waved her hand before Peabody could inform her. “Find me the head French cop, the one who handles the area where Rouche’s ex lives. I want her watched. I need her communications monitored.”

“You might have better luck with Global.”

“They’re greedy. They’ll want her for their own. Let’s try the locals first.”

It took persuasion, cajolery, and in the end the mention of illegal funds and considerable merchandise purchased with those illegal funds—all housed in france—to ensure cooperation.

The possibility of confiscating a few million was worth the time and effort to sit on one Luanne Debois, and to monitor her communications.

“It’ll take time,” Eve complained as they rode down to the garage. “Proper authorization—meaning bureaucratic crapola—before they can implement the watch. But he got a sparkle in his eyes when I outlined the money laundering, seeing as the result of it’s sitting, primarily, on his turf.”

“You get that, and Callendar comes through, we’ll pin Ricker. Doesn’t pin or even identify his next in command here.”

“Working on it.”

Peabody stopped and narrowed her eyes when Eve stepped up to her vehicle.

“I don’t get it. I just don’t get how come you have to pick something so ugly when you could have anything. Like the 2X-5000, or the big, burly all-terrain, or—”

“I didn’t pick it; Roarke did.”

“You’re shattering all my hopes and dreams.”

“Because he’s smart enough to know it blends. Nobody’ll look twice at it. Do you want a ride home or not?”

“I’m not going home.” Peabody jumped in before Eve. “I’m going back to your place. All my stuff’s there, and that’s where McNab’s coming when he gets back. Plus, brunch.”

Eve felt the warning throb behind her eyes. “They’re not still there. Are they? Why?”

“Because that was the plan, and yes, they are. I checked in.”

“I was going to go by the morgue.”

“Why?”

“Because. We could’ve missed something.”

“I’ll tag the morgue from here while you drive us to a magolishous breakfast buffet.”

Life had to be, Morris had said, or what was the point? At the moment she might wish it would be elsewhere, but she accepted defeat. She could work from home, she told herself. Hide out in her office until the houseload of women finally went away. She could work on pinning down that last link while she waited for Callendar to come through.

She’d need to deal with Rouche, and needed to discuss that deal with the DA’s office. Well, ADA Cher Reo was sleeping off a night of drunken revelry like the rest of them, so that would be handy.

Plus, she had Mira right on-site, too. Mira would be good with additional profiling.

They wanted brunch? she thought. Fine. But they were going to work for it.

She slid her gaze right and noted that Peabody was slumped against the door and out like a light.

Okay, they’d work for it as soon as they woke up.

Dawn pearled the air as she approached the house. Probably just as well they were sleeping, Eve decided. It would give her time to recharge, think, pace, work on some angles without a bunch of distractions.

Quiet, she thought. She could definitely use the quiet.

She shoved Peabody’s shoulder and got a shocked snort out of her partner. “Wake up, go in, go up, go to bed.”

“I’m awake. I’m good. Where . . . oh. Home again.”

“Don’t get used to it. Take a couple hours down. You can eat when you get up, then you’re on the roll until I say otherwise.”

“Okay. All right.” She rubbed her eyes as she followed Eve to the door. “Are you going down?”

“I want to take advantage of the quiet until—”

She opened the door, and the high-pitched scream had her reaching for her weapon. Peabody grabbed Eve’s arm. “Don’t draw down. It’s the baby.”

Eve kept her hand on her weapon while her ears rang with wails and screams. “That’s not possible. Nothing that small can make those sounds.”

But she followed the sounds to the parlor, where a pajama-clad Mavis walked a shrieking, red-faced Bella.

“Hey!” Mavis walked, patted, swayed. “You’re back. Sorry, she’s a little fussy.”

“It sounds like she’s being hacked up with an axe.” More, Eve thought, like she wanted to hack somebody else up with an axe.

“She’s got good lungs.”

Eve jolted as Mira—a Mira in a peacock blue robe—rose from the sofa. “Here, sweetie, let me take her awhile. Come to Aunt Charley, baby girl. Yes, there we are.”

“Whew.” Mavis grabbed a mug off the table, glugged. “I brought her down here to keep from breaking eardrums upstairs. She sure is pissed.”

“Why? What did you do? That can’t be normal. You’re a doctor,” Eve added, pointing at Mira. “You should do something.”

“I am.” Mira walked, stroked, crooned. “She’s just teething and feeling mad, aren’t you, poor thing? Poor Belle. I bet you could use some coffee.”

“I bet she could,” Eve muttered.

Mavis rose, handing Mira some pink-and-blue device that Mira plugged in Belle’s mouth, then Mavis poured another mug of coffee. “Here you go. Peabody?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Since whatever Belle gnawed on took the shrieks down to sucking sounds and whimpers, Eve drank. “So . . . everybody else is asleep.”

“As far as I know,” Mavis told her. “Some conked downstairs watching vids. Others crawled off to their assigned rooms. Everyone had a mega-blast. Sorry you got called away.”

Eve kept a wary eye on Belle, whose eyes were going glassy as she sucked. “Is that thing tranq’d? Is it legal?”

“No, it’s not tranq’d; yes, it’s legal. It’s cold. The cold makes her inflamed gums feel better.” Mira stroked Belle’s cheek with her own. “She’s worn herself out. Haven’t you, sweetheart, just worn yourself out. The call was connected to the Coltraine case?”

“Yeah, one of our prime suspects is in the morgue.” Eve stayed braced, in case the baby decided to erupt again. “Callendar hit hot on Omega. I’m waiting to hear back from her. I’ve got a couple of lines to look down. I could . . . I’ll go up.”

“Do you want my input?”

“It can wait.”

“I can take her.” Mavis moved over, reached for Belle. “She’s about ready to go down again. Poor little Belly Button, Mommy’s got you. Thanks,” she said to Mira.

“I loved it.”

Baffled, because the statement seemed sincere, Eve started upstairs. “Reo’s still here, isn’t she?”

“Yes. She went up to bed about two, I think. Are you looking for input from the ADA, too?”

“At some point, yeah.”

“Why don’t I go get her?”

“It could wait . . . But why should it? Yeah, why don’t you go get her?” Eve continued up to her office, and glanced back at Peabody. “I said you could have a couple hours.”

“I’m awake. And I’m hungry. I’m going to get some breakfast stuff out, if we’re going to have a consult. You looking for protein or carbs?”

“Whatever.” Eve turned into her office. She went straight to her board and updated it. As she started to run probabilities, Peabody set a plate and a fresh mug of coffee on her desk.

“Bacon and eggs seemed right. Dr. Mira, how about some breakfast? I’m serving it up.”

“Oh. That’s an idea.” Mira came in, walked to the board. “Whatever Eve’s having is fine.” She studied the dead photo of Sandy. “One wound?”

“Yes. One stick, dead in the heart.”

“Personal again. Close work. Different weapon, different methodology than Coltraine, but the same sentiment, if you will. He likes to watch then die. Likes to be connected. Businesslike about it, but not removed.”

“Killing’s business for cops. You could say.”

“Leaving him naked. Humiliation, as with using Coltraine’s own weapon on her, taking it and her badge from the scene.”

“I guess so.” It threw her for a moment—and Eve realized it shouldn’t have—to see the woman who’d been cuddling and soothing a screaming baby one minute coolly profiling a killer the next.

“It’s a cover-up, a way to make it look like he got rolled and done,” Eve continued. “Like taking Coltraine’s jewelry, her wallet, were or could be interpreted as a cover-up, to make it initially appear as robbery. But the humiliation follows. It’s a benefit. He was covered with ratty blankets, dirty clothes, filthy tarps.”

“The killer disliked him, found him of little worth. Easily disposed of.”

“Ricker likes to dispose of people who outlive their usefulness to him.”

“Ricker may have ordered the murder, but the person who carried it out would—or certainly could—choose the method. The time, the place. Thank you, Peabody.” Mira sat with the plate Peabody brought her. “You’re focused on Coltraine’s squad. Let’s look at them.”

“I smell food.” Cher Reo, disheveled in pajamas covered with yellow daisies stopped on her way into the room to sniff the air. “And coffee. Food and coffee, please.”

“I can be the waitress.” Mavis followed Reo into the room. “Belle’s sleeping, and I’m starved. I feel like French toast.”

“Mmm,” Reo said. “French toast.”

“I’ll make it two. Hey, Nadine, want to be a threesome with French toast?”

“I’d be a fool not to. Who got killed?” Nadine demanded as she strolled in. “Mira wouldn’t spill.”

“Jesus, go away,” Eve ordered, but resisted yanking at her hair. Or Nadine’s. “I’m working.”

“I’ll keep it off the record.” Nadine grabbed a slice of bacon from Eve’s plate. “I can help. We’re the smart girls. Let’s solve some crime!”

When she reached for Eve’s mug, Eve grabbed her wrist. “There’ll be another murder if you touch my coffee.”

“I’ll go get my own.” But she walked to the board first, and found Sandy’s photo. “One in the heart. No muss, no fuss.”

Eve frowned as Nadine strolled to the kitchen. The hell of it was, they were the smart girls.

“Okay, all right. Reo, shut the damn door before somebody else wanders in here.” Then she blew out a breath when Louise did just that.

“I couldn’t sleep so . . . oh, French toast!”

“She’s a smart girl,” Nadine pointed out, and went over to shut the door herself. “Mavis, Louise wants French toast. We’re helping Dallas on a case.”

Eve resisted—barely—the urge to beat her head against the desk. “Everybody just sit down and shut up. Nadine, I don’t want anything in here on-air, unless I clear it. And I don’t want to see any of it in a damn book.”

“I won’t air anything without your go-ahead. As to the book? Hmmm, interesting.”

“I mean it. Louise, you take your medi-van down to Pearl, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Have you ever treated a couple of scavengers called Kip and Bop.”

“As I matter of fact I have. They—”

“You can stay. I might have questions. Reo, let me tell you about this guard on Omega.”

Since they were, Eve started on the eggs while she summed up Cecil Rouche’s connection to Ricker.