by J. D. Robb
“Depends.” As she began to waken fully, Nadine’s senses sharpened. “You have something for me.”
“Prosecuting Attorney Cicely Towers was murdered about thirty hours ago.” Ignoring Nadine’s yelp, Eve continued briskly, “Her throat was slashed, and her body was discovered on the sidewalk of Hundred and forty-fourth between Ninth and Tenth.”
“Towers. Jesus wept. I had a one-on-one with her two months ago after the DeBlass case. Hundred and forty-fourth?” The wheels were already turning. “Mugging?”
“No. She still had her jewelry and credit tokens. A mugging in that neighborhood wouldn’t have left her shoes behind.”
“No.” Nadine closed her eyes a moment. “Damn. She was a hell of a woman. You’re primary?”
“Right the first time.”
“Okay.” Nadine let out a long breath. “So, why is the primary on what has to be the top case in the country contacting me?”
“The devil you know, Nadine. Your illustrious associate Morse is drooling down my neck.”
“Asshole,” Nadine muttered, tamping out the cigarette in quick, jerky bumps. “That’s why I didn’t get word of it. He’d have blocked me out.”
“You play square with me, Nadine, I play square with you.”
Nadine’s eyes sharpened, her nostrils all but quivered. “Exclusive?”
“We’ll discuss terms when you get back. Make it fast.”
“I’m practically on planet.”
Eve smiled at the blank screen. That ought to stick in your greedy craw, C. J., she mused. She was humming as she pushed away from her desk. She had people to see.
By nine A.M., Eve was cooling her heels in the plush living area of George Hammett’s uptown apartment. His taste ran to the dramatic, she noted. Huge squares of crimson and white tiles were cool under her boots. The tinkling music of water striking rock sang from the audio of the hologram sweeping an entire wall with an image of the tropics. The silver cushions of the long, low sofa glittered, and when she pushed a finger into one, it gave like silken flesh.
She decided she’d continue to stand.
Objets d’art were placed selectively around the room. A carved tower that resembled the ruins of some ancient castle, the mask of a woman’s face embedded in translucent rose-colored glass, what appeared to be a bottle that flashed with vivid, changing colors with the heat of her hand.
When Hammett entered from an adjoining room, Eve concluded that he was every bit as dramatic as his surroundings.
He looked pale, heavy eyed, but it only increased his stunning looks. He was tall and elegantly slim. His face was poetically hollowed at the cheeks. Unlike many of his contemporaries—Eve knew him to be in his sixties—he had opted to let his hair gray naturally. An excellent choice for him, she thought, as his thick lion’s mane was as gleaming a silver as one of Roarke’s Georgian candlesticks.
His eyes were the same striking color, though they were dulled now with what might have been grief or weariness.
He crossed to her, cupped her hand in both of his. “Eve.” When his lips brushed her cheek, she winced. He was making the connection personal. She thought they both knew it.
“George,” she began, subtly drawing back. “I appreciate your time.”
“Nonsense. I’m sorry I had to keep you waiting. A call I had to complete.” He gestured toward the sofa, the sleeves of his casual shirt billowing with the movement. Eve resigned herself to sitting on it. “What can I offer you?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Coffee.” He smiled a little. “I recall you’re very fond of it. I have some of Roarke’s blend.” He pressed a button on the arm of the sofa. A small screen popped up. “A pot of Argentine Gold,” he ordered, “two cups.” Then, with that faint and sober smile still on his lips, he turned back to her. “It’ll help me relax,” he explained. “I’m not surprised to find you here this morning, Eve. Or perhaps I should be calling you Lieutenant Dallas, under the circumstances.”
“Then you understand why I’m here.”
“Of course. Cicely. I can’t get used to it.” His cream-over-cream voice shook a little. “I’ve heard it countless times on the news. I’ve spoken with her children and with Marco. But I can’t seem to take in the fact that she’s gone.”
“You saw her the night she was killed.”
A muscle in his cheek jerked. “Yes. We had dinner. We often did when our schedules allowed. Once a week at least. More, if we could manage it. We were close.”
He paused as a small server droid glided in with the coffee. Hammett poured it himself, concentrating on the small task almost fiercely. “How close?” he murmured, and Eve saw his hand wasn’t quite steady as he lifted his cup. “Intimate. We’d been lovers, exclusive lovers, for several years. I loved her very much.”
“You maintained separate residences.”
“Yes, she—we both preferred it that way. Our tastes, aesthetically speaking, were very different, and the simple truth was we both liked our independence and personal space. We enjoyed each other more, I think, by keeping a certain distance.” He took a long breath. “But it was no secret that we had a relationship, at least not among our families and friends.” He let the breath out. “Publicly, we both preferred to keep our private lives private. I don’t expect that will be possible now.”
“I doubt it.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What should matter is finding out who did this to her. I just can’t seem to work myself up about it. Nothing can change the fact that she’s gone. Cicely was,” he said slowly, “the most admirable woman I’ve ever known.”
Every instinct, human and cop, told her this was a man in deep mourning, but she knew that even killers mourned their dead. “I need you to tell me what time you last saw her. George, I’m recording this.”
“Yes, of course. It was about ten o’clock. We had dinner at Robert’s on East Twelfth. We shared a cab after. I dropped her off first. About ten,” he repeated. “I know I got in about quarter after because I had several messages waiting.”
“Was that your usual routine?”
“What? Oh.” He snapped himself back from some inner world. “We really didn’t have one. Often we’d come back here, or go to her apartment. Now and again, when we felt adventurous, we’d take a suite at the Palace for a night.” He broke off, and his eyes were suddenly blank and devastated as he shoved off the soft, silver sofa. “Oh God. My God.”
“I’m sorry.” Useless, she knew, against grief. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m starting to believe it,” he said in a voice thick and low. “It’s worse, I realize, when you begin to believe it. She laughed when she got out of the cab, and she blew me a kiss from her fingertips. She had such beautiful hands. And I went home, and forgot about her because I had messages waiting. I was in bed by midnight, took a mild tranq because I had an early meeting. While I was in bed, safe, she was lying dead in the rain. I don’t know if I can bear that.” He turned back, his already pale face bloodless now. “I don’t know if I can bear it.”
She couldn’t help him. Even though his pain was so tangible she could feel it herself, she couldn’t help him. “I wish I could do this later, give you time, but I just can’t. As far as we know, you’re the last person who saw her alive.”
“Except her killer.” He drew himself up. “Unless, of course, I killed her.”
“It would be best for everyone if I ruled that out quickly.”
“Yes, naturally, it would—Lieutenant.”
She accepted the bitterness in his voice and did her job. “If you could give me the name of the cab company so that I can verify your movements.”
“The restaurant called for one. I believe it was a Rapid.”
“Did you see or speak with anyone between the hours of midnight and two A.M.?”
“I told you, I took a pill and was in bed by midnight. Alone.”
She could verify that with the building security discs, though she had reason to know
such things could be doctored. “Can you tell me her mood when you left her?”
“She was a bit distracted, the case she was prosecuting. Optimistic about it. We talked a bit about her children, her daughter in particular. Mirina’s planning on getting married next fall. Cicely was pleased with the idea, and excited because Mirina wanted a big wedding with all the old-fashioned trimmings.”
“Did she mention anything that was worrying her? Anything or anyone she was concerned about?”
“Nothing that would apply to this. The right wedding gown, flowers. Her hopes that she could swing the maximum sentence in the case.”
“Did she mention any threats, any unusual transmissions, messages, contacts?”
“No.” He put a hand over his eyes briefly, let it drop to his side. “Don’t you think I’d have told you if I had the slightest inkling of why this happened?”
“Why would she have gone to the Upper West Side at that time of night?”
“I have no idea.”
“Was she in the habit of meeting snitches, sources?”
He opened his mouth then closed it again. “I don’t know,” he murmured, struck by it. “I wouldn’t have thought . . . but she was so stubborn, so sure of herself.”
“Her relationship with her former husband. How would you describe it?”
“Friendly. A bit reserved, but amiable. They were both devoted to the children and that united them. He was a little annoyed when we became intimate, but . . .” Hammett broke off, stared at Eve. “You can’t possibly think . . .” With what might have been a laugh, he covered his face. “Marco Angelini skulking around that neighborhood with a knife, plotting to kill his ex? No, Lieutenant.” He dropped his hands again. “Marco has his flaws, but he’d never hurt Cicely. And the sight of blood would offend his sense of propriety. He’s much too cold, much too conservative to resort to violence. And he’d have no reason, no possible motive for wishing her harm.”
That, Eve thought, was for her to decide.
She tripped from one world to another by leaving Hammett’s apartment and going to the West End. Here she would find no silvery cushions, no tinkling waterfalls. Instead there were cracked sidewalks, ignored by the latest spruce-up-the-city campaign, graffiti-laced buildings that invited the onlookers to fuck all manner of man and beast. Storefronts were covered by security grills, which were so much cheaper and less effective than the force fields employed in the posher areas.
She wouldn’t have been surprised to see a few rodents overlooked by the feline droids that roamed the alleyways.
Of the two-legged rodents, she saw plenty. One chemi-head grinned at her toothily and rubbed his crotch proudly. A street hawker sized her up quickly and accurately as cop, ducked his head under the wreath of feathers he sported around his magenta hair, and scurried off to safer pastures.
A selected list of drugs were still illegal. Some cops actually bothered to pay attention.
At the moment, Eve wasn’t one of them. Unless a little arm twisting helped her get answers.
The rain had washed most of the blood away. The sweepers from the department would have sucked up anything in the immediate area that could be sifted through for evidence. But she stood for a moment over the spot where Towers had died, and she had no trouble envisioning the scene.
Now, she needed to work backward. Had she stood here, Eve wondered, facing her killer? Most likely. Did she see the knife before it sliced across her throat? Possibly. But not quickly enough to react with anything more than a jerk, a gasp.
Lifting her gaze, Eve scanned the street. Her skin prickled, but she ignored the stares of those leaning against the buildings or loitering around rusting cars.
Cicely Towers had come uptown. Not by cab. There was, to date, no record of a pickup or drop-off from any of the official companies. Eve doubted she would have been foolish enough to try a gypsy.
The subway, she deduced. It was fast and, with the scanners and droid cops, safe as a church, at least until you hit the street. Eve spotted the signal for the underground less than half a block away.
The subway, she decided. Maybe she was in a hurry? Annoyed to be dragged out on a wet night. Sure of herself, as Hammett had said. She wouldn’t have been afraid.
She marched up the stairs to the street in her power suit, her expensive shoes. She—
Stopping, Eve narrowed her eyes. No umbrella? Where was her damn umbrella? A meticulous woman, a practical, organized woman didn’t go out in the rain without protection.Briskly, Eve pulled out her recorder and muttered a note to herself to check on it.
Was the killer waiting for her on the street? In a room? She studied the disintegrating brick of the unrehabbed buildings. A bar? One of the flesh clubs?
“Hey, white girl.”
Brows knit, Eve turned at the interruption. The man was tall as a house and from the deepness of his complexion, a full black. He sported, as many did in this part of town, feathers in his hair. His cheek tattoo was vivid green and in the shape of a grinning human skull. He wore an open red vest and matching pants snug enough to show the bulge of his cock.
“Hey, black boy,” she said in the same casually insulting tone.
He flashed a wide, dazzling grin at her from an unbelievably ugly face. “You looking for action?” He jerked his head toward the garish sign of the all-nude club across the street. “You a little skinny, but they be hiring. Don’t get many white as you. Mostly mixed.” He chucked her under the chin with fingers the width of soy wieners. “I be the bouncer, put in a word for you.”
“Now why would you do that?”
“Out of the goodness of my heart, and five percent of your tips, honeypot. A long white girl like you make plenty jiggling her stuff.”
“I appreciate the thought, but I’ve got a job.” Almost with regret, she pulled out her badge.
He whistled through his teeth. “Now how come I don’t be seeing that? White girl, you just don’t smell like cop.”
“Must be the new soap I’m using. Got a name?”
“They just call me Crack. That’s the sound it makes when I bust heads.” He grinned again, and illustrated by bringing his two huge hands together. “Crack! Get it?”
“I’m catching on. Were you on the door night before last, Crack?”
“Now, I’m sorry to say I was otherwise engaged, and missed all the excitement. That be my night off, and I spent it catching up on cultural events.”
“And those events were?”
“Vampire flick festival down to Grammercy, with my current young nibble. I sure do enjoy watching them bloodsuckers. But I hear we had ourselves a show right here. Got ourselves a dead lawyer. Big, important, fancy one, too. White girl, wasn’t she? Just like you, honeypot.”
“That’s right. What else do you hear?”
“Me?” He trailed a finger down the front of his vest. The nail on his index finger was sharpened to a lethal point and painted black. “I’m too dignified to listen to street talk.”
“I bet you are.” Understanding the rules, Eve slipped a hundred-credit token from her pocket. “How about I buy a little of that dignity?”
“Well, the price, she looks right.” His big hand enveloped the tokens and made them disappear. “I hear she was hanging around in the Five Moons ’long about midnight, give or take. Like she was hanging for somebody, somebody who don’t show. Then she ditched.”
He glanced down at the sidewalk. “Didn’t go far though, did she?”
“No, she didn’t. Did she ask for anyone?”
“Not so’s I heard.”
“Anyone see her with anyone?”
“Bad night. People stay off the street mostly. Some chemi-heads maybe wander, but business going to be slow.”
“You know anyone around here who likes to cut?”
“Plenty carry blades and stickers, white girl.” His eyes rolled in amusement. “Why you going to carry if you ain’t going to use?”
“Anybody just likes to cut,” she repeated.
“Somebody who doesn’t care about making a score.”
His grin spread again. The skull on his cheek seemed to nod with the movement. “Everybody cares about making a score. Ain’t you trying to?”
She accepted that. “Who do you know around here who’s out of a cage recently?”
His laugh was like mortar fire. “Better if you ask don’t I know anybody who ain’t. And your money’s done.”
“All right.” To his disappointment, she took a card rather than more tokens out of her pocket. “There may be more if you hear anything I can use.”
“Keep it in mind. You decide you want to earn a little extra shaking those little white tits, you let Crack know.” With this, he loped across the street with the surprising grace of an enormous black gazelle.
Eve turned and went in to try her luck at the Five Moons.
The dive might have seen better days, but she doubted it. It was strictly a drinking establishment: no dancers, no screens, no videos booths. The clientele who patronized the Five Moons weren’t there to socialize. From the smell that slapped Eve the moment she stepped through the door, burning off stomach lining was the order of the day.
Even at this hour, the small, square room was well populated. Silent drinkers stood at stingy pedestals knocking back their poison of choice. Others huddled by the bar, closer to the bottles. Eve rated a few glances as she crossed the sticky floor, then people got back to the business of serious drinking.
The bartender was a droid, as most were, but she doubted this one had been programmed to listen cheerfully to the customers’ hard luck stories. More likely an arm breaker, she mused, sizing it up as she sidled up to the bar. The manufacturers had given him the tilted eye, golden-skinned appearance of a mixed race. Unlike most of the drinkers, the droid didn’t sport feathers or beads, but a plain white smock over a wrestler’s body.
Droids couldn’t be bribed, she thought with some regret. And threats had to be both clever and logical.
“Drink?” the droid demanded. His voice had a ping to it, a slight echo that indicated overdue maintenance problems.
“No.” Eve wanted to keep her health. She showed her badge and had several customers shifting toward corners. “There was a murder two nights ago.”