by J. D. Robb
“He was up for a promotion.”
“Was he?” The faintest of smiles touched her lips. “He didn’t tell me.”
“He may not have known, but it was in his file. He put a lot of work into this last campaign.”
“Yes, he did. The whole team did.”
“You know the people he worked with.”
“Yes. Nancy—Nancy Weaver, his boss—she’s been by. She’s been wonderful. Steve and Lew, they both contacted me. Steve sent food. This huge ham with bread and … things. For sandwiches.”
“And I wish you’d eat a little more of it.” Dana came in with a tray, set it down.
“I will. I promise.” Elaine took her mother’s hand, drew her down.
“Sometimes when people work so closely together, on an important project, there’s conflict,” Eve began. “Was there any conflict within the team?”
“It’s hard to fight with Joe,” Elaine said while her mother poured out the tea. “He loves his job, and he’s good at it. He likes being part of a team.”
“Was he aware Vann and Weaver had an affair?”
Again, that faint smile. “Joe’s a quiet man, and quiet types see things. He knew.”
“Did it bother him?”
“No. It bothered me, some. I thought—said—how Steve covered all the bets. Family and sex, but Joe just laughed it off. And Steve did good work. He loves his boy. I guess that goes a long way with me—and with Joe. When a father loves his son, and it shows.”
“That leaves Callaway.”
“Lew?” Elaine curled up her legs, pretended to drink her tea. “Another quiet type, but not as naturally outgoing or easygoing as Joe. Joe used to say Lew had to work at the grip and grin. He did better with ideas—big pictures. Joe liked to fiddle and finesse, dig in. I’d get annoyed sometimes when Joe worked out Lew’s concepts, spent all the time to bring them in line, if you understand me. And most of the time, he wouldn’t take credit for it. But I guess people noticed anyway. He was up for a promotion, Mom.”
“Nobody deserved it more.”
“So he never complained to you about his coworkers?”
“Well, he’s not a saint. He’d gripe now and then, in his Joe way. Steve took another two-hour lunch, or left early for a hot date. Lew’s on the broody train again.”
“Broody train?”
“Joe’s expression. Lew’d get moody—kind of sulk, I guess, when his ideas got shot down or re-imagined. Stuff like that rolls off Joe’s back, but I guess it stuck to Lew’s.”
“Did you know Carly Fisher?”
“Not really. I met her, and I know Joe thought she was bright, and had a strong future. I hated hearing she’d been killed. She was Nancy’s favorite.”
“Was she?”
“Absolutely. I think Nancy saw a lot of herself in Carly. Joe said he was looking at his next boss.”
“It didn’t bother him?”
“Not Joe. He didn’t want to be the boss. He wanted to be one of the team. That’s what he was good at.”
After they’d left Elaine with her mother, Eve stood out in the wind for a moment. “What did we learn?” she asked Peabody.
“That Joe Cattery was a nice guy who enjoyed his work. His wife loved him, and they’d built a nice life here.”
“And other than the eulogy?”
“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Nice guy with a nice life. Not the big idea guy, not the driven guy, the flashy guy. But the nice guy who’s working his way up because he likes his work and he’s good at it, because he’s a team player by nature. He’s willing to help, to take the extra step without making a big deal out of it. And apparently the brass noticed. So he got the juicy bonus, and would’ve been promoted. Then there’s Callaway. He’s got the big ideas. He’s driven. He’s no team player but he pretends to be. Everybody’s always fucking with his concepts, nudging him aside so somebody else can slide by him on the way up. So he sulks and the brass notices.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“Can I talk in the car? It’s freezing out here.”
“Clears the head.” But Eve opened the car door, slid behind the wheel. “Big campaign, and Joe’s out of the way. Promotion’s up for grabs. Vann’s already got the corner office. Callaway’s got to think if somebody’s going to get promoted, get fucking noticed it’s going to be him now. Fisher’s gone, too, so no teacher’s pet’s breathing down his neck. He showed them. Boy, he showed them. Fucking worker bees, buzzing in their hive. He can take them out any time. Whenever he wants, as many as he wants. And they did it to themselves, didn’t they? He wasn’t even there.”
“That’s a little scary.”
“I’d say he’s plenty scary, the fuck.”
“No, I mean you, being him. That’s a little scary.”
“She gave me a nice picture of him and she doesn’t much like him, that came through.”
“It did.”
Eve started the car, pulled away. “No particular feeling for him, which tells me Joe likely didn’t warm up to him either. She talked about Weaver coming out here, and there was emotion when she did. She talked about Vann and Callaway contacting her, and she was grateful. Vann sent a big-ass ham so she wouldn’t have to think about food. It meant something to her.”
“People send food for death.”
“They do?”
“It’s a line from a book, I can’t think what book. But yeah, people send food for death, flowers for sickness. To Kill a Mockingbird! That’s it. Score for me.”
“I’ll make a note,” Eve said dryly. “Weaver comes all the way out to Brooklyn to see the widow, and I’ll bet they had a weep together. Vann contacts her, talks to her, and sends food. But Callaway, just the contact. He does what he has to do, and nothing more. That’s why somebody like Joe wouldn’t especially warm to him, and why his widow didn’t either. Weaver doesn’t like him either, or she’d have slept with him. He does a good job, he has some good ideas, but he doesn’t shine for her. Carly Fisher did.”
“We should find out who else did. If we can’t close him down, he’s going to go after another.”
“You’re right about that.” Eve tapped her fingers on the wheel as she drove. “We’ll talk to Fisher’s roommate, find out who she hung with from work. And we’ll bring him in. I want to talk to the parents, get a—”
She broke off when her ’link signaled, then switched it to her wrist unit. “Dallas.”
“That is so iced,” Peabody murmured.
“Lieutenant, Agent Teasdale. I’ve arranged for the Callaways to be brought into New York. They should be at Central by fourteen hundred.”
“That’ll work.”
“The search warrant proved more problematic. However, given the scope of the investigation, and the crime, I was able to persuade the appropriate judge to sign off. If you agree, a team from HSO will assist whoever you send to Arkansas.”
“That works, too. I’ll get back to you on that. I’ve got some arranging of my own to do.” She clicked off, tagged Baxter.
“Get Trueheart, huddle with Teasdale. You’re going to join an HSO team in Arkansas on a search of Callaway’s parents’ house.”
“Arkansas? Barbecue!”
“Glad I can bring a smile to your face. Look for mementos of the Urbans, letters, journals, photos, discs. Religious stuff, political stuff—anything personal Callaway might have left there. Anything from when he was a kid. Schoolwork, music, books. See if there’s anything that shows he had an interest or aptitude for science.”
“I got it, Dallas. When do we leave?”
“Teasdale will let you know. And contact the locals, Baxter. HSO might shoulder them aside. Let’s reach out there, cop to cop.”
“Got that, too. Are we using Roarke’s transpo?”
“Forget it,” she said, and cut him off. “Peabody, contact Callaway.”
“Me?”
“Don’t squeak. Jesus. You tag him. The lieutenant would appreciate him coming down to Central, if he ha
s the time.”
“So I’m polite.”
“Polite, even deferential. We could use his help. He’s familiar with both attack locations, and knew several of the victims. You can let it slip we had a lead fizzle out, and we’re backtracking. He wants to be involved, he wants to know what’s going on and have some role in the investigation. I haven’t given him much chance. Now I am. He’s going to jump at it. He’ll make noises about his schedule,” she speculated, “but he’ll come in. When he does, we’ll take him in the conference room.”
“You want him to see the boards?”
“With a few adjustments. Ask him if he can come in about three, three-thirty.”
“After you’ve got his parents in.”
“And it’ll give him time to plan what he wants to say, how he wants to behave. It’ll also tip him away from any impulse he might have to hit some deli or sandwich shop at lunchtime.”
“Should I tag him now?”
“Yeah. We’re in the field, the lead went south. I’m on the ’link with the commander. No, the chief. Let’s take it to the top. We’re scrambling. We’re sweating. We don’t know when or where he’ll hit again.”
“Got it.”
Eve checked the time while Peabody made contact. She nodded at the frustration, and yes, deference in Peabody’s tone. Just the right notes.
By the time Peabody finished, Eve managed to squeeze into a street-level spot a half a block from Fisher’s apartment building.
“Just like you said,” Peabody reported. “His schedule’s very tight. Lots of work piled up. He’s taken on some of Joe’s outstanding projects. But, of course, he wants to do everything he can to help. He’ll be there.”
“Okay, we’re going to separate. Talk to the roommate, and whoever she gives you. I want a coworker she was friendly with, hung around with. Get the picture, like we got from the widow.”
“Okay. What are you doing?”
“I’m going back to Central, setting the stage. If you’re not back by the time the Callaways are in, sit tight. Just signal me, and I’ll let you know the play.
“Take the car.”
“Sorry.” Lips pursed, Peabody tapped at her right ear. “I think standing out in the wind before clogged up my ear. Did you say take the car?”
“Keep it up, you’ll be the one hoofing it.”
“I don’t wanna hoof it. But, Dallas, it’s really cold.”
“I have my magic coat.” She opened it enough for Peabody to see the lining.
“Sweet! Like the jacket. Oooh, let me—”
Before Peabody could get her fingers on it, Eve tugged the coat back into place, got out of the car. “If you get anything new, anything useful, pass it to me. Otherwise, just write it up.”
“You’re not really going to walk all the way back, are you?”
“I know how to ride a subway.”
Her coat billowed in the wind as she strode off, and she pulled out her ’link to contact Mira, give her the time, the setup.
“I’ll be there,” Mira assured her. “Do you intend to bring in Agent Teasdale?”
“Why?”
“She’s a steady, unshakable presence, and she’s another woman. He wouldn’t like being outnumbered by women, and at the same time would be supremely confident he can and will outwit and maneuver all of us.”
“That’s a point. I’ll ask if she wants in.” She hesitated at the steps down to the subway, considered the crowds, the noise, the smells. Considered the wind, the cold—and the fact a few thin flakes of snow began to fall.
Opted for the cold wind and the fifteen-minute walk. “I’m on my way in. You can observe with the Callaways if you’ve got time, then I’ll see you about three in the conference room.”
“Where are you?”
“Actually not far from the first crime scene.”
“On foot? It’s miserable out. Take a cab.”
“I feel like the walk. Later.”
People moved fast, heads down. Busy, busy. She smelled the smoky scent of soy dogs, the heady grease of fries, the bitter edge of take-out coffee. She spotted a girl in high boots, a puffy purple coat, and a rainbow of scarves walking a pair of big white dogs. Or they walked her as she trotted to keep up with their manic prance. A sidewalk sleeper bundled in so many layers only his narrowed eyes showed. He hunched on a threadbare blanket against a building and sported a sign announcing the end of days.
She wondered if he heard any coins or credits thunk into his cup with such depressing billing.
She stopped, hunkered down. “If the world’s ending, what do you need money for?”
“Gotta eat, don’t I? Gotta eat. I got a beggar’s license inside my coat.”
“Which coat?” She dug in her pocket, tossed in some change though she figured he’d spend it on brew rather than a bowl of soup. “This your usual spot?”
“No. Buncha people killed right down there. People come to look, maybe they spare some change. Like you. ’Cept cops don’t usually spare some change.”
“Cops don’t usually have it to spare.” She got up, walked on. She passed the bar, resisted the urge to go in. Nothing new to see, she thought. But the sleeper was right. She watched a few people take pictures of the front, a couple more try to see in the window over the door.
Bloody murder always drew a crowd.
She snagged fries and a tube of Pepsi at the next cart—who could resist that smell? And ate her way back to Central as the thin, pretty flakes of snow turned to a bitter, wetter sleet.
She stopped by the bullpen first, noted Baxter’s and Trueheart’s absence, Jenkinson’s and Reineke’s empty desks. She walked over to Sanchez.
“Looks lonely in here.”
“Baxter and Trueheart headed out. Arkansas. Reineke and Jenkinson just left, going to tug a few lines.”
“You and Carmichael are picking up a lot of slack. Anything you need?”
“We’ve got it, LT.”
“Let me know if that changes.”
“The Stewart deal—brother of a vic? He’s wrong, but it’s not connected. We’re sniffing him down on embezzlement, and maybe doing the missing accountant. He looks good for both. Thing is, the sister’s death triggers an automatic inventory of the trust. Last thing he’d want. We don’t like him for the bar.”
“Then get him on the rest.”
“It’s looking good. I heard you were bringing the suspect in.”
“You heard right. With any luck we can close this up, get back to what passes for normal.”
He’d only been assigned to her for a few months, but he’d slipped right into the rhythm. She considered, angled her head.
“I bet you know who’s stealing my candy.”
He gave her a blank cop’s stare. “What candy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.”
She went to her office, ditched her coat, sat to write up her report. While she had time, she walked out, into the conference room.
She turned the boards around, gathered the copies she wanted, began to arrange them. Connected some, wrote in time frames. Kept it all loose, a little scattered, a little vague.
Except for the board of vics. That one she covered with the images of the dead.
She studied the table, noted no one had tossed the box Feeney’d brought in that morning—though she didn’t see even a single crumb inside.
That was fine. She left it there, tossed some files on the table, programmed shitty coffee, poured half of it out, set the mug on the table.
She hunted up more debris.
“Lieutenant, I heard you were back in the house.”
“Yeah.” She glanced over as Teasdale came in, noted the agent’s slight frown at the conference table.
“It’s like a play. It should look a little disorganized, and like we’re spending lots of time here.”
“It does. You changed the board.”
“I’m bringing Callaway in here, make him feel like he’s a kind of consultant. Thi
s is what I want him to see.”
“Hmmm.” Lips pursed now, Teasdale walked forward. “All of the victims. Yes, that will please him. And only a handful of those we’ve connected to them—including himself. He’ll enjoy that as well. The time line isn’t quite right.”
“No, it’s not. And there’s no mention of Red Horse or Menzini. I’m saving those for a nice surprise. You want in?”
“On the ‘consult.’ Yes, I do, thank you. The Callaways are en route. They’re slightly behind schedule, but should be here by thirteen-fifteen.”
“Let’s go to my office, get some decent coffee, and I’ll bring you up to date.”
In her office, Eve programmed two cups, offered one. “Peabody’s in the field, talking to Fisher’s roommate and whoever else she can dig up. We—”
“Oh.” After a sip, Teasdale blinked, breathed out. Sipped again. “This isn’t what I’m used to.”
Eve remembered her own reaction the first time she’d tasted Roarke’s blend. “Nice, huh?”
“It’s … very. May I sit? I feel this should be savored rather than gulped.”
“Take the desk chair; the other one’s crap.” Eve settled for a corner of the desk. “Peabody and I talked to Elaine Cattery,” Eve began, and ran it through.
“So, he remains in pattern,” Teasdale observed. “If he knew Vann had sent food, he’d be compelled to do the same. And more. Something bigger, or more expensive.”
“You’re right. Competition, standing out. Which makes me think Vann didn’t tell him, and that makes me think more of Vann. He just did the good deed, and wasn’t looking for acknowledgment.”
“Callaway must have acknowledgment. The lack, or perceived lack of it, burns in him. I believe, after a time, he’ll contact you or the media. It won’t be enough as it is.”
“Probably. But I don’t want to give him that chance. I want to shut him down today.”
“You believe you’ll get him to confess.”
“That’s the plan.”
Maybe it was the coffee, but Teasdale leaned back in the chair, crossed her legs. Seemed to relax. “I believe his sense of self-preservation will be stronger than his need for acknowledgment.”