by Robb, J. D.
“Yeah. That’s what he wants. Broken hearts, broken lives. He’s already forgotten her. Duran, too. That’s done, crossed off the list like a chore. Next? Fucker’s not going to get a next.”
Morris narrowed his eyes on Eve’s face. “You know who it is.”
“Yeah. I looked him in the eye today. You know what I saw in there, Morris?”
“What?”
“Not a damn thing. Behind the pretext they put on to mix with humanity, this kind is dead inside. She has more life in her than he does. It’s not even real revenge, not the kind you’d get bloody for. It’s more … It’s a fuck-you,” she realized. “Somebody cuts you off in traffic, you give them the finger, move on. Not this guy. Cut him off, he’ll run you over. That’s his fuck-you.”
Eve stepped back. “Yeah, I guess I just needed to see her again. Thanks for that.”
“Anything I can do that helps you take him down.”
Eve had barely gotten back in her car when Peabody tagged her ’link. She took it on the dash, headed toward home. “Dallas.”
“Wanted to update you asap,” Peabody began. “Good call, damn good call about the oops with Cosner Senior. He hadn’t gotten wind of our earlier visit. I say that with certainty because this took him by surprise. I know the angry to disappointed to exhausted dad look, and he ran the gamut while trying not to show it.”
“How much did you tell him?”
“Here’s the thing, after he got that the NYPSD had interviewed his son once, and wanted a follow-up, he stepped into his lawyer shoes. As his son’s legal counsel, he demanded to know, etc. I kept it close, but gave him enough to worry him. Added that we’d have the PA’s office there. He wants to speak to the prosecutor, made it clear he’d speak for his son, questions to be addressed to legal counsel, and all that. Ten tomorrow.”
“Good work, Peabody.”
“I know the dad look, right? He’s pissed, and a little scared.”
“Murder will do that. Tag Reo, tell her—”
“Already did. She’s talking to her boss now. She’ll tag you back.”
“Okay. I’ll get back to you.”
She ran through it in her head as she drove. She needed more on Whitt, needed to build a solid case. Cosner could be key. The right pressure, she mused, he’d crack. Loyalty only went so far, and if they could convince the father they had enough to tie his son up in a murder investigation, convince him they believed Whitt had called the shots …
He’d make a deal to keep his kid on-planet. Maybe cut it to twenty per count, served concurrently. She could live with that—if it helped put Whitt away for life.
Her ’link signaled again as she drove through her home gates. “Dallas.”
“Reo here. I just finished meeting with the boss. There’s a lot of it depends here, Dallas.”
“Whitt and Cosner, together, killed two people. No it depends about it.”
“You say it, I believe it.” Eve watched Reo with her stylishly curly blond mop and crisp white shirt program coffee from her office AC. “Proving it’s different.”
“He’ll break, Reo. Cosner will break. He’s weak, he’s lazy, he’s an addict. His family’s propping him up. Eventually that breaks, too.”
“His family’s firm isn’t peanuts. They’re top-of-the-line, and we don’t have enough to charge him.”
“We have enough to sweat him.”
“Maybe, but even if we loosen him up with enough sweat, there’s no way his father or whatever criminal attorneys they bring in will let him talk without a deal.”
Eve didn’t mention she’d already worked out a deal in her head. “For fuck’s sake, Reo.” She parked, slammed out of the car for show. “We don’t even have him in the box and you’re talking deal.”
“I’m talking reality,” Reo snapped back. “First one to flip gets the prize. It’s a classic for a reason. You believe Whitt’s the one running things, so figure out how much you want him.”
“I want them both.” Eve shoved open the front door.
“So let’s try to get them both. We start offering Cosner on-planet.”
Summerset’s eyebrows rose as Eve stormed down the foyer to the stairs.
“Maybe we should offer him some nice spa treatments while we’re at it, some freaking canapés.”
As she stomped up the steps, still bitching, Summerset smiled at her back. Then looked down at the cat. “The lieutenant’s in a much better frame of mind this evening.”
As if in agreement, Galahad trotted upstairs after her.
Satisfied Reo’s outline of a potential deal aligned with hers, Eve headed to the bedroom. She wanted out of the suit.
From his perch on the bed, Galahad watched her dig out a sweatshirt—black—trousers—black—ancient high-tops—black.
“It’s, what, monochromatic, right?”
She sat on the side of the bed a moment to give the cat a rub. “It’s turning, pal, I can feel it turning. We just have to lock it down before he kills somebody else. The snotty, smug son of a bitch.”
After giving Galahad one last pat, she rose, started for the office. The cat beat her there, whizzed through the door, and leaped on her sleep chair.
And Roarke stepped out of his adjoining office.
“Hey. You’re here.”
“I am.” He walked to her, kissed her. “As are you. I thought as much when I heard the thunder of cat feet.”
“Not exactly light on them, is he? You’re working from home?”
“Just finished, actually, and the timing’s rather exquisite.” He strolled over, opened the wall panel, chose wine, two glasses.
“I’m not finished working,” she began, but he handed her a glass, took her free hand.
“No doubt, but, again, timing. We need to take advantage of it.”
“Where are we going?” she asked as he drew her out of the room.
“For a bit of a walk before the sun goes down and takes the warmth of the day with it. And how was your day, Lieutenant?”
She could spare time for a walk, she decided, especially since he seemed seriously pleased about something. It was probably part of the Marriage Rules not to stomp on your spouse’s seriously pleased before you even found out what it was.
“Productive,” she told him. “I was going to tap you, if you have room for it, to make the rest of my day even more productive.”
“Sounds interesting.” He went out a door on the second floor, crossed over a terrace where somebody had placed pots of sassy-looking flowers, down stone steps.
To another terrace with tables, chairs, benches, big urns with exotic-looking viny things spilling out.
Who thought of all that? she wondered. The viny things, the sassy things, the happy pink and white and yellow and purple things poking up out of the ground as if they’d just decided to bloom there?
She supposed Roarke had final say on all of it.
And it felt good to be outside, she had to admit it. The air definitely felt like spring—a stroke instead of a bite. Smelled like it, too, sort of green and fresh and promising.
Trees and shrubs had begun to bud or unfurl. She heard birdsong instead of traffic. It didn’t take her long to relax, or to figure out where he was headed.
“Did they finish the pond?”
He smiled. “You’ll soon see. We’ll supply the finishing touch ourselves.”
They wandered through a grove of fruit trees—she remembered the peaches from the previous summer, how they’d smelled, tasted. How they’d looked out and discussed adding a pond, a bench for them to sit on.
And there it was, tranquil and lovely through the greening trees. Naturally, being Roarke’s, the reality leaped well over her initial mental image.
“Jeez, you got a waterfall.”
“A small one. It adds to it, doesn’t it?” He drew her along to that music of water striking water as it spilled over stone rises into a pool where water lilies floated serenely.
Around the stone walls of the pool da
nced budding shrubs and little trees, lush grasses. She could smell them, and the water, the rich, thick mulch that gave way to pavers in that same natural stone gray. Pavers, she noted, that had been etched with the same Celtic design as their wedding rings.
Jesus, the man knew how to get to her.
The bench stood on the pavers, the perfect spot to look over the pond, its magical little falls of water, the castle of a house in the distance, the grove of budding trees.
“I thought it was going to be a hole in the ground filled with water.”
“We wanted to do a bit better than that.”
“It’s…” She could only shake her head. “It’s great. It’s like it was always here.”
“We wanted organic as well.”
“Well, it works. I can’t say I ever pictured myself sitting beside a pond drinking wine, but this works.” She frowned, pointed. “What’s all that?”
“The finishing touch.”
He led her around behind and to the side of the bench where a small tree, its trailing branches fat with pink buds, waited beside a hole in the ground. With it, a couple of shovels leaned against a wheelbarrow full of mulch, another filled with rich brown soil. A bucket held work gloves, small spades.
“They didn’t get to plant this?”
“They’re not planting this. We are.”
She shot him a look that fell between shocked and amused. “We are?”
“That we are.” He set his glass, the bottle on the bench, took her glass and did the same. “Think of the satisfaction as we watch it grow over the years, bloom every spring.”
“Think of the guilt when it dies because we killed it.”
“We won’t be killing it.” He took gloves out of the bucket, handed her a pair. “I have very specific instructions on the process. The landscape crew dug the hole as, though I’ve dug a few holes in my time, literally and metaphorically, the head landscaper didn’t trust me on it. And made that one clear.”
She had to laugh. “He’s still employed?”
“He is, as I have to respect a man who stands his ground. So.” Roarke pulled on his gloves. “Into the hole with it, Lieutenant.”
“Just … put it in there?”
“That would be the first step.”
She looked at him as they maneuvered the tree to the hole. “This is why you changed out of your suit.”
“And how handy it is you did the same. There now, you hold it up there, let’s keep it straight, while I shovel some dirt around the root ball.”
“Okay. How do I know it’s straight?”
“You’ve eyes in your head, don’t you? They’ve mixed peat in with the soil—I did have a bit of a go at that, under supervision.”
It smelled, well, earthy, she supposed, as he shoveled the mix from the barrow into the hole. It was a pretty good look for him, too, she thought, the shoveling.
“She’ll hold now. Do your share.”
“I thought I was.”
“Get your shovel.”
Fully amused now, she did. Maybe she did get some satisfaction out of dumping dirt in a hole. Who knew? But the air, the scents, the light, the physicality all worked. Until, well, son of a gun, they had a tree in the ground.
“Now, we’re to take the small spades, tamp the dirt down. Lightly, I’m cautioned, against the roots.”
That required hands and knees, which was surprisingly okay. She wouldn’t want to make a living at it, or even a habit, but as that finishing touch, it was really okay.
“How do we know if it’s enough?” she wondered.
“It feels like it is, so we’ll go with that.” He pushed up, picked up a large silver container with a spout.
“What’s that?”
“Haven’t you ever seen a watering can?”
“Probably. Sure. It’s big.”
“It’s got some weight.” He planted his feet, poured water around the tree. “We put in underground irrigation, but I’m told we water it well at planting.”
She sat back on her heels a moment, then pushed up herself. “I’ll do this side.”
Into it now, she thought as she let the water flow. Christ, next thing she’d want to name the damn tree.
“Is that it? Did we do it?”
“Mulch,” he said, jerked a thumb toward the wheelbarrow.
She traded the watering can for the shovel. “How much?”
“A good couple inches all around, I’m told.”
So they dumped mulch, smoothed, dumped and smoothed.
Then they stepped back, studied.
“We planted a tree.”
“And a lovely one at that. Wait.” He dug out his ’link, shifted her, slid an arm around her. “We’ll document it.”
“You never do that. You don’t take ’link shots.”
“How often do we plant a tree in the yard?”
“That would be … once.”
“There you have it. Smile.”
How could she help it?
He took the shot, pocketed the ’link. “We’ve earned that wine.” He unfolded one of his tools, used the corkscrew to open the bottle. Eve held the glasses while he poured.
Then they sat hip-to-hip on the bench with the young tree beside them and looked over the pond.
“So.” He kissed the top of her head. “Tell me what I can do to make the evening productive.”
“Not yet,” she decided. She put murder aside, tipped her head to his shoulder. “Let’s just be here for a few minutes.”
So they sat, drank wine while the water spilled, the lilies floated, and the shadows lengthened toward dusk.
By the time they went back inside, her mind felt sharp and clear and ready to reengage. Plus, she realized she wanted food.
“I’ll get dinner,” she began, but he trailed a finger down the dent in her chin.
“Update your board, as your mind’s back on it. I’ll get the meal.”
Well, the man knew her. Even though it meant pizza was off the menu, she did want to update her board, and have her thoughts lined up for when they sat down together.
Not pizza, but whatever he brought out as she worked smelled really good.
“How was your meeting with Grange?”
“I’ll start there, work my way through.” She walked to the table. Some sort of chicken with the herby rice she preferred to the white stuff, and a pile of mixed-up veggies. She could live with it.
“Grange,” she said, and began.
At one point, Roarke had to stop her. “Peabody? Our Peabody went at her?”
“Like a jungle cat on a snake. I had to stop her because I really think she was just getting started. Clearly, Grange isn’t used to someone saying fuck you. Or if they do, she’s used to crushing them like a bug.”
Enjoying the replay, Eve scooped up some of the herby stuff. “She also, clearly, expected me to take the polite and apologetic route, since I told Peabody to take a walk. Oh, and the suit, the outfit.” Eve ate more chicken, enjoyed the subtle bite of whatever it had been cooked in. “You were right about that.”
“Good.”
“So she wasn’t prepared for me to go at her—or to point out the photo of Whitt’s daddy and her on her wall. They’ve definitely tangoed.”
“Is that right?”
“Bank on it. From there we got a completely different vibe from Kendel Hayward.”
Roarke listened, shared bread with her, filled her water glass, as she’d go back to work.
“So the bad girl from high school found her way,” he concluded. “Most do.”
“She credits her parents for stepping in—stepping on her, and hard. They’re divorced, and he’s running some tropical dive shop, but she spoke of them as a unit.”
“To her, they are. Her parents.”
“Yeah, it seemed … healthy. Of everyone we talked to today, there are two I felt were honest, didn’t hold back. That would be Hayward, and your Rodriges.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
�
��Move to Marshall Cosner and Stephen Whitt? Good thing they can afford lots of pants because the ones they had on were on fire before we were done.”
As she ran through the interviews, Roarke thought it a kind of expert play-by-play, the sort that put the listener into the game so clearly he could hear the tones, see the movements.
He nodded, and sat back with his wine.
“So Whitt’s your man.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I could hear it. How much of a dupe do you figure Cosner is?”
“I figure he looks to Whitt—and has for years—to lead the way. He gets off on the violence, no question, but he’s no planner. Miguel said he thought they’d kill him, and I think, even then, if Whitt had said to Cosner, ‘Hey, pal, pick up that rock over there and bash this asshole’s head in with it,’ that’s just what Cosner would have done.”
She nudged her plate aside. “He’d have felt a little queasy about it when the high wore off, when he was alone, but he’d have justified it. Guy deserved it; besides, Steve told me to. Miguel also said he thought Grange knew. She knew who’d tuned him up, and she covered. It’s how she operates.”
“You’ll take her down as well.”
“It’s going to be a pleasure.” Picking up her water glass, she toasted. “A really serious pleasure. I may not be able to put her in a cage, but when all this comes out, she won’t be able to get a job cleaning toilets in a school much less running one.”
“It sounds like the punishment you’re aiming for fits the crime.”
There she shook her head. “I wish it could be more, because she and Whitt, they’re the same. Power over the weak and vulnerable is what fuels them. She may not be involved, directly, in the murders, but she helped create them.”
“What will I do to help you take them down?”
“I’m doing a follow-up with Cosner—with his legal team headed, most likely, by his father—in the morning. We made sure Daddy got wind of the cops looking at his boy.”
“Forewarned?”
“Not exactly. I think in this case, Peabody and I called it right. The father knows the son is a fuckup. They’ve been through the cycle, covered for him, given him busywork to try to keep him straight. This? Murder? It’s going to be a bridge too far. What does that mean?”