Strangers In Death

17

EVE TAGGED FEENEY ON THE WAY FROM INTERVIEW to her office. “Give me something.”

“Christ, kid, do you know how much I got piled up here from being out? I got the backlog down from my armpits to my asshole. I’ll get to your box.”

“Can’t you just open it and see if she reprogrammed or reloaded it before…” She trailed off at his stony stare. He had a good one, she thought. She’d modeled hers after it. “Okay, all right. Just as soon as you can.”

“If you don’t interrupt me to nag, it’ll be sooner.”

She clicked off.

Circumstantial, she reminded herself. Even if Feeney proved that the dispenser had been reprogrammed and/or reloaded, it was circumstantial. She hated building a case on circumstantial. And that’s all she had. Impressions, comments, Bebe’s statement, personalities. And not a single solid piece of evidence.

Yet.

She strode back into Homicide, where Baxter turned from the AutoChef. “Dallas. The boyfriend/trannie/cross-dressing angle’s not panning out. Custer case,” he said when she looked blank.

“Right. Sorry, my mind’s elsewhere. What’s your sense, Baxter?”

“That the case is as cold as the victim. The kid and I can keep taking pokes at it when we squeeze out some time. I don’t want to put it in Inactive yet. We’re going to have to slap it down to the bottom of the pile, maybe give it a shake every now and then.”

“Not all of them close.”

“Yeah. I know. Pisser when they don’t. We closed six others since we caught this one, and it’s still a pisser.”

She sympathized, but she had her own case to close, and needed to shuffle some of the pieces, try to see a different angle. In her office, she pulled up a couple of the possibles who’d come in below Petrelli on her list. After zeroing in on the next, gauging the time, she detailed a report on the interview with Petrelli, added notes and speculations.

“Computer, run probability. Given the data, the statements, what is the probability Ava Anders is a big, fat liar?”

Your question is not properly structured and cannot be answered on a probability scale. Please rephrase.

“Seemed straightforward to me. Try this. Run probability given the data and statements included in the Anders, Thomas A., homicide that Anders, Ava, has lied to the primary and/or to other individuals who gave an account of conversations with subject.”

Working…

Eve rose, programmed coffee. Stared out the window.

Task complete. Conflicting statements given regarding conversations with subject indicate a 97.3 percent probability Anders, Ava, has given false statements. Probability cannot determine which statements are false and which are factual.

“I think I can figure that out. Run second probability. Given the data, and assuming the statement just logged by Petrelli, Bebe, is factual, what is the probability that Anders, Ava, arranged, devised, or is involved in the murder of Anders, Thomas A.”

Working…

“Yeah, chew on that. Circumstantial, more circumstantial. But probabilities have some weight. Enough weight, somebody sinks. Who else did you set up the way you set up Bebe, Ava? Who else did you have on the line?”

Task complete. Factoring Petrelli statement as a factual account, the probability is 50.2 percent that Anders, Ava, arranged, devised, or is involved in the murder of Anders, Thomas A.

“Bollocks to that,” Eve stated, pulling out one of Roarke’s phrases. “Fifty doesn’t add weight. It’s a wash. I need another. I need one of the other fish on the line to flip.”

“Dallas.” Peabody gave the doorjamb a quick rap. “I arranged transpo for Petrelli. Didn’t want her having to deal with the bus or the subway. She was pretty wrecked.”

“Fine.” Eve turned, held out a hand, rubbed her fingers and thumb together.

Peabody shoved her hands in her pockets. “I don’t have twenty on me. Isn’t it enough reward that you got her to spill it on Ava?”

In answer, Eve simply wiggled the fingers of her outstretched hand.

“Okay, okay, man.” She snatched up a memo cube from Eve’s desk. “This is going to have to come out of my Roarke fund.”

“You have a fund for Roarke? To donate to him, or to try to buy him?”

“I wish-on the buying part. It’d be a skim for McNab. We have a deal where we both got to pick one person, and if we ever got the chance to…” She closed her fist, pumped it while she wiggled her eyebrows. “With said person, the other of us would understand. A one-shot deal. I picked Roarke.”

“Well, he’s a superior lay, so you’d have that before I peeled the skin off your still quivering body, roasted it on an open fire, then force-fed it to you.”

“Okay then. So…” Clearing her throat, Peabody turned the cube on record. “I owe Dallas, Lieutenant Meaniepants Eve, twenty dollars to be paid out of my hard-earned, under-appreciated detective’s salary next payday. Peabody, Detective Churchmouse Delia.”

She tossed the memo cube. Eve caught it one-handed, slid it into her pocket. “What’s the Roarke fund?”

“Oh, I’m earmarking a little every payday and socking it away. When I get a decent amount I’m going to have him invest it for me. He said he would. It’s not a superior lay, but hey, could be a nice bang.”

“Never known him to misfire. Start on the interviews on old man Anders. Plowder and Bride-West are on there. Don’t hit them. Start with out-of-towners. Start with the ones Ava isn’t tight with. The girl toy, any of the staff who were there, particularly any temps or staff who’ve been fired or have resigned. Low-key it, just following up on additional information that’s come to light. Just reconfirming, blah blah. I’m heading into the field shortly, then I’m working from home.”

“You’re going solo?”

“Actually, I’m going to call in a superior lay, who also looks like a superior lay. He could be handy in my next interview.”

“Okay, but if you get laid in the field, I expect to read the details thereof in your report. All the details.”

“Keep that up and you’ll usurp Jenkinson’s Sick Bastard title.”

“That’s a personal goal of mine. Dallas, are we getting anywhere? I mean, we know what we know. But are we getting anywhere toward bringing her down for it?”

“She won’t think so. And that’s why we’re getting somewhere. Get started on the interviews, full reports on all of them.”

“How many houseguests?”

“Sixteen houseguests, eight staff.”

“Twenty-four interviews? It’ll take hours.”

“Then I’d get started. Out.”

Eve picked up her ’link, and considered it a good omen when Roarke answered personally. “Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering how you’d feel about meeting me at a sex club.”

“How odd. I was just thinking what we might do this evening, and that was top of my list.”

“Bang She Bang, downtown on Spring. Does an hour from now work for you?”

“I can make it work considering the incentive.”

A stray thought brought on a scowl. “You don’t own it, do you?”

He cocked a brow. “I don’t believe I own any establishment with that name. I could probably pick it up within the hour if that would help.”

She’d bet more than Peabody’s twenty he could do just that. “No, thanks. I’ll just use the Power of Roarke to my advantage on this one.”

“I thought it was the Fear of Roarke.”

“Depends on the situation. I’m thinking power will squeeze more juice out of this one than fear.”

“Either are at your disposal. In an hour, Lieutenant.”

After he clicked off she made a few calls, scribbled a few notes, imagined sitting on her hands to keep herself from nagging Feeney.

Peabody hailed her as Eve started out. “I talked to the girl toy-Angel Scarlett. She got all choked up when I mentioned the old man. I don’t think she’s going to be winning any awards as an actress. Her rundown was consistent with her earlier statement, but not so exact it felt practiced.”

Peabody did a left-to-right swivel in her chair. “She and the old man had taken a nap-which she made sure I knew was a euphemism for boinking, then she went down to take a swim. She was in the pool with some of the other guests-and that’s consistent with their original statements-when the old man went down in the shower.”

Peabody glanced down at her notes. “Cocktails and canapes were being served out there. I asked casually about her hostess, and she was offhand about that. Ava was flitting around somewhere, like always. You were off on the martini. It was a gin and tonic, which was the old man’s summer drink of choice. Ava was mixing gin and tonics herself, and commented that the old man wasn’t down. Wouldn’t Tommy go up and tell his father they were all having cocktails. A few minutes later, he ran out on the terrace, up outside the old man’s room, yelled for help. He’d already called nine-one-one, already moved the body in an attempt to revive. That’s all in the reports. But I did get something new.”

“Stun me.”

“It probably won’t stun you that Angel wasn’t, and isn’t, Ava’s biggest fan. Cold, snobbish, self-righteous-and those were the compliments. And she said she thought things were a little chilly between Ava and the old man that weekend.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t know. Her ‘big white bear’ as she called him never talked business with her, and never gossiped about family. He didn’t care for it when she complained about Ava’s attitude toward her, so she kept it to herself. But she noticed they weren’t all chummy, as usual. Didn’t have coffee together by the pool that morning, and that was a habit of theirs. She suspected they’d had a little spat, but since she didn’t know, kept that to herself, too.”

“Write it up, log it in. I may have a line to tug on that. Later.”

The trip down to Spring, an exercise in tedium on the best days, became a pitched battle due to an overturned glide-cart and the stalled Rapid Cab that had crashed into its grill. Even from ten cars back, Eve could see it would only get worse as the cab driver and the cart operator were currently beating the snot out of each other.

Eve called it in, snapping out an order for a black-and-white or patrol droids. Pissed, she slammed out of her vehicle, whipping out her badge as she strode forward. Mostly, she noted, the two men were just rolling around on raw soy fries and dogs, bapping each other on the back.

“Break it up! NYPSD, and I said break it up.” She gave both of their shins a sharp rap with her boot. “Break it up or I’m hauling you both in. And as God is my witness, if any piece of either one of you makes contact with any piece of me, you’re serving the full pop on assaulting an officer.”

Both men lifted bloodied faces to hers, and began to shout complaints and accusations.

“Zip it! And you people! Go and find something else to do. Show’s over here. You, cab guy, what’s your story?”

“I’m cruising for a fare.” His voice was musical, a tropical island song that contrasted sharply with the bleeding mouth and swollen eye. “Guy’s hailing half a block down, and I gonna pick him up. And this one, this one, he shoves the cart out in the street. In front of me!”

“Fuck I did! Why’d I wanna do that? Wreck my cart thataway?”

“’Cause you crazy, man!”

Eve pointed at Cab Guy to shut him down.

“Your cart’s in the street, pal.” A scrapper, Eve noted, about half the size of Cab Guy, with New York as pugnacious in his tone and attitude as his bloody nose.

“Yeah, it’s in the ever-fucking street, but I didn’t shove it there. Goddamn kids did. Damn kids, they come along, and one’s ordering a dog and fries so I’m on him, you know? And another one of ’em musta flipped off my brakes. Next I know the bunch of ’em are shoving my cart off the corner. Laughing like hyenas. Look what they done to my cart.” He spread his arms wide as blood dribbled out of his nose. “What they want to do that for? I’m just trying to make a living here.”

“Can you ID them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Look at my cart, wouldja? Look at my stuff.”

“I see these boys!” Cab Guy waved a hand in the air. “I see them go flying across the street. Airboards.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cart Guy bobbed his head. “They had airboards. Couple of them riding tandem. I didn’t see which way they went. I was trying to grab the cart, get to the brake, but the cab…” He shoved back his hair. “Man. Sorry about your cab.”

“Not your fault. I see the kids. I can help identify.” Cab Guy offered a unifying smile with bloodied teeth. “Sorry about your cart, man.”

Eve turned the situation over to a black-and-white and a couple of beat droids. Cab and Cart Guy were now enjoying solidarity. They’d be neighborhood kids, she assumed. And they’d likely roll another cart or two before the day was done. But damned if she was going to help track them down.

She was ten minutes over the hour already.

It came to a total of twenty minutes behind before she could park, flip her On Duty, and hit the sidewalk. She’d already seen him-her expert consultant, her superior lay. He leaned against the wall of the graffiti-scrawled, post-Urban War rattrap that held Bang She Bang, wearing a dark suit with the thinnest of pinstripes with a spring-weight overcoat billowing a bit as he worked on his handheld.

His wrist unit was likely worth more than the building against which he braced. In this neighborhood with its funky junkies, chemi-heads, grifters, shifters, and spine crackers, a man’s life was at risk for his shoes. From her vantage point, she saw what Tiko would’ve called a suspicious character swagger in Roarke’s direction, his hand in his pocket and his fingers very likely closed over a sticker.

Roarke simply flicked his gaze up, over, locked them on. And suspicious character kept on swaggering by.

“You.” Eve jabbed a finger at one of the grunts loitering in a doorway.

“Fuck you,” he called back, and added his middle finger in case English wasn’t her first language.

Eve flipped out her badge as she crossed the sidewalk. The badge itself didn’t mean much here. It was all about what she put behind it. “That’s Lieutenant, as in: Fuck you, Lieutenant.”

Beside the grunt, his gap-toothed companion sniggered.

“Here’s what I could do,” Eve supposed. “I could slap your head against that wall, while I’m kicking your balls into your belly,” she added to the companion. “And after that, I can have you in restraints while I turn out your pockets. You’re carrying illegals.”

“Fuck you know. You can’t rouse without probable.”

“I see the illegals. I’ve got X-ray vision.”

“No shit?” The companion grinned at her, wide-eyed. “That is frosty, complete.”

“Ain’t it? But I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to do runs on both of you, then come around to your flops and turn them upside down and inside out. I’m not going to personally see to it that you spend the next several days in a cage. I’m not going to do that because you’re both going to stand right here until I come back, and you’re going to watch my ride there as if it were your own beloved child. I come out, and my official police vehicle’s exactly where I left it, in exactly the condition I left it, we part friends. Otherwise, I’m going to be paying you a visit later. Got it?”

The first guy shrugged. “I got nothing better to do.”

“That’s handy, because I do. You got ten now,” she said and pulled out the bribe. “You get another when I come back. I bet your name’s John Smith,” she said to the companion.

“Hell, no. Clipper Plink.”

“That’s what I said. You’re Clipper Plink.”

“How do you know this stuff?” He eyed her as if she were the Second Coming. “You got superpowers, bitch?”

“Damn right.”

“Jesus, Clip,” she heard the grunt say as she strode toward Roarke, “can you be any fucking dumber?”

He loved to watch her work, Roarke thought. It never failed to fascinate and entertain him. So he’d done just that, relaxed against the wall while she’d taken aim at the pair of street toughs. Well, one and a half toughs, he supposed was more accurate. They hadn’t stood a chance against her when she’d tossed on the badass cop as she did her coat.

Now she strode to him, the faintest hint of a smile on her face. “How many street thieves, muggers, and spine crackers did you flick off with one ‘Try it, boy-o, and you’ll be pissing blood for some time to come’ stare?”

“I didn’t count. I don’t believe this is a very safe neighborhood. I’m relieved I have a cop nearby.”

“Yeah, like you need one.”

“Only you, darling. Night and day. Boy-o?”

“That particular stare has the boy-o in it. Don’t tell me you came down here in a ride as fancy as the suit?”

“Then I won’t. Why don’t you tell me why we’re heading into this sex dive on an evening that makes me almost believe spring may come again?”

“One of the strippers, LC for club work, also happens to be one of Ava’s mommies. I’ll fill you in on the rest later, figure you can follow along as we go. But I want to take her now. She’s only on about another hour.”

“Let’s not waste time, then.” He pulled open the door.

They walked out of the almost spring evening and into the sharp, bright world of sex for sale.

It smelled of sweat, cum, smoke from a variety of illegal substances, and the cheapest of alcoholic liquids. A great many of those unattractive substances splattered the floor. Men and women with hard eyes, glassy eyes, crazed eyes, bored eyes hunched at tables or squatted at a short, stained bar on backless stools while two servers-one male, one female-carted drinks or empties on trays. Both were naked, unless you counted tats and piercings, their skin pulsing faintly red in the ugly light.

On a small, raised stage, two women-it would be absurd to term them dancers-humped long silver poles while what only the deaf could mistake for music blasted. Each wore a sparkling band at the waist, with a few bills tucked in. Neither, Roarke noted, had pulled in much for this particular number.

He walked to the bar with Eve. The man running the stick had skin so white it nearly glowed. The faint pink around his eyes usually indicated funky-junkie, but Roarke noted the eyes were the palest of blues-water blue-and just as clear.

The albino slapped a short glass of something the color and consistency of coal oil on the bar in front of a customer before moving down to them. “Stand at the bar, you order one drink minimum. Table runs two.”

“Cassie Gordon?”

“Stand at the bar, one drink minimum.”

Even those pale eyes should’ve made her for a cop, Roarke thought. Roarke pulled out a ten, covering them both, even as she pulled her badge. “Keep the drinks,” Roarke told him. “I’ve a fondness for my stomach lining.”

Eve slapped the badge down. “Cassie Gordon.”

“We got a license.” The albino gestured behind him where it was displayed, as per city ordinance. “Up to date.”

“I didn’t ask for your license. Cassie Gordon.”

The bartender plucked up Roarke’s bill, slid it into his own pocket. “She’s up with a private. Got another five minutes on his roll. Then she’s on in twenty, you can catch her between, wait till she’s done. No matter to me. You take a table, cost another ten.”

“Pal, I wouldn’t sit at one of those tables if I was decked out in a hazmat suit. What you’re going to do is show us a clean private room-not one of the sex rooms-and you’re going to send Cassie there. You’re going to signal her to cut it short, and come down. If you don’t, my partner and I are going to make your life really unhappy.”

“This isn’t a cop.” The bartender jerked his head at Roarke. “Cops don’t dress like that.”

“I’m not, no,” Roarke said in what seemed like the most pleasant of tones, if you were deaf and didn’t hear the jagged threat under it. “And that’s why I’ll hurt you more, and enjoy it more. Where’s the owner’s peep?”

“Got no reason to cause trouble.” The bartender reached under the bar. Even as Eve braced, she heard a faint buzz. A door behind the bar slid open.

“That’ll do nicely, then. I’ll be matching that first ten when we’re done.” Roarke’s terrifyingly pleasant tone never altered. “Unless you do something to annoy me or my partner here. That happens, I’ll be having the first ten back along with a chunk of you.”

Eve said nothing until they were inside the peep-a small, relatively clean room holding a couple of chairs, a little desk, and boasting a wall of screens that surveyed the club.

“I’ve got the badge. I get to do the intimidating and make the threats.”

“Why’d you ask me for this romantic date if you weren’t aiming to let me play, too?”

“I wanted to scare the albino bartender in the sex club.”

He laughed, tapped his finger on the dent in her chin. “Aw, darling, I promise you can scare the next one.”

“Yeah, because the city’s loaded with them. We’ve probably got a couple minutes. So lightning-round version.”

She zipped through the salients on Bebe Petrelli, skimmed over her theory about the senior Anders to give Roarke a taste, and ended with her supposition Ava might have approached Cassie Gordon.

“She made a mistake with Petrelli,” Roarke pointed out. “Do you think she made another?”

“Won’t know until I ask. Gordon’s done strip and sex work for eight years. A woman makes it through eight years doing that, she probably knows how to read people. She’s got a daughter. Ten-year-old daughter, in the program. Ice skater. No father in the picture. Kid didn’t cop a scholarship, but Anders is paying for her rink time. She’s got a private coach. On paper, Gordon’s paying her.” Eve nodded to the screen. “Do you figure she makes enough in a dive like this to pay for a private coach?”

“Not in a thousand rides on the pole, not here.”

“She’s going to tell us where she’s getting the money for the coach, how many favors she’s done for Ava. And I’m going to know if one of those favors was killing him.”

“There she is.”

Roarke looked away from Eve’s fierce eyes to the screen where a tall blonde in a short green robe swayed through the tables on glossy, high-platform heels. As she passed, one of the men at a table for three reached out, stuck his hand under her robe.

The blonde backhanded him, knocking him out of the chair without breaking stride.

“Well now, there’s another woman who can take care of herself.” He smiled at Eve. “That sort never fails to appeal to me.”