by J. D. Robb
“She’s a good cop,” Whitney agreed.
“I agree. I have a request, Commander.”
Five minutes later, when Peabody stepped into her crammed office, Eve was tipped back in her chair, scanning the data on her monitor. “I’ve got court in an hour,” Eve said without preliminary. “On the Salvatori case. What do you know about that, Peabody?”
“Vito Salvatori is being tried for multiple murder, with the added circumstance of torture. He is an alleged distributor of illegal substances and stands accused of the murder of three other known dealers of Zeus and TRL. The victims were burned alive in a small rooming house on the Lower East Side last winter—after their eyes and tongues were cut out. You were primary.”
Peabody recited the data matter-of-factly while she stood at attention in her shipshape uniform.
“Very good, Officer. Did you read my arrest report on the case?”
“Yes, Lieutenant, I did.”
Eve nodded. An airbus boomed by the window, spewing noise and displacing air. “Then you know that before I restrained Salvatori, I broke his left arm at the elbow, his jaw, and relieved him of several teeth. His lawyers are going to try to fry me for excessive force.”
“They’ll have a rough time of that, sir, as he was trying to burn down the building around you when you cornered him. If you hadn’t restrained him in whatever manner was possible, he’d have been fried. So to speak.”
“Okay, Peabody. I’ve got this and several others to go over before the week’s up. I need all the cases on my court schedule downloaded and condensed. You can meet me with the requested data in thirty minutes, east exit.”
“Sir. I’m on assignment. Detective Crouch has me chasing down vehicle registrations.” Only the faintest sneer in her voice indicated Peabody’s feeling about Crouch and the garbage assignment.
“I’ll handle Crouch. The commander’s cleared my request. You’re assigned to me. So pass off whatever grunt work that’s been dumped on you and get your ass in gear.”
Peabody blinked. “Assigned to you, sir?”
“Your hearing go bad while I was away?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Have you got a thing for Crouch?” It delighted Eve to see Peabody’s serious mouth drop open.
“Are you kidding? He’s—” She caught herself, stiffened up. “He’s hardly my type, Lieutenant. I believe I’ve learned my lesson about romantic attachments on the job.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over that one, Peabody. I liked Casto, too. You did a hell of a job on that one.”
It helped to hear it, but the wound was still raw. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Which is why you are now assigned to me as my permanent aide. You want a detective shield, Officer?”
Peabody knew what she was being given: the opportunity, the gift out of nowhere. She closed her eyes a moment until she had her voice under control. “Yes, sir, I do.”
“Good. You’ll work your ass off for it. Get the data I requested, and let’s move.”
“Right away.” At the door, Peabody paused, turned back. “I’m very grateful for the chance you’re giving me.”
“Don’t be. You earned it. And if you screw up, I’ll bust you down to traffic.” Eve smiled thinly. “Air traffic.”
Court testimony was part of the job, and so, Eve reminded herself, were high-class weasels like S. T. Fitzhugh, attorney for the defense. He was slick and he was savvy, a man who defended the lowest of lowlifes—as long as their credits held out. His success in assisting drug lords, murderers, and molesters into slithering out of the grip of the law was such that he could easily afford the cream-colored suits and hand-tooled shoes he affected.
He made a dashing figure in the courtroom, his melted-chocolate skin a fine contrast to the soft colors and fabrics he habitually wore. His long, aesthetic face was smooth as the silk of his jacket, thanks to the three-times-weekly treatments at Adonis, the city’s top enhancement salon for men. His figure was trim—narrow at the hips, broad at the shoulders—and his voice was the deep, rich baritone of an opera singer.
He courted the press, socialized with the criminal elite, owned his own Jet Star.
It was one of Eve’s small pleasures to despise him.
“Let me try to get a clear picture, Lieutenant.” Fitzhugh lifted his hands, bringing his thumbs together to form a bracket. “A clear picture of the circumstances that led to you attacking my client in his place of business.”
The prosecuting attorney objected. Fitzhugh graciously rephrased. “You did, Lieutenant Dallas, cause my client great bodily harm on the night in question.”
He glanced back at Salvatori, who had costumed himself for the occasion in a simple black suit. Following his attorney’s advice, he had skipped his last three months of cosmetic and youth restoration treatments. There was gray in his hair, a sag to his face and body. He looked old, defenseless.
The jury would make the comparison, Eve imagined, between the young, fit cop and the delicate old man.
“Mr. Salvatori resisted arrest and attempted to ignite an accelerant. It was necessary to restrain him.”
“To restrain him?” Slowly, Fitzhugh walked back, passing the recorder droid, moving down the jury box, drawing one of the six automated cameras with him as he laid a supporting hand on Salvatori’s thin shoulder. “You had to restrain him, and that restraint resulted in a fractured jaw and a shattered arm.”
Eve flicked a glance toward the jury. Several members of the panel were looking entirely too sympathetic. “That’s correct. Mr. Salvatori refused my request to exit the building—and to put down the cleaver and acetylene torch in his possession.”
“You were armed, Lieutenant?”
“I was.”
“And you carry the standard weapon issued to members of the NYPSD?”
“I do.”
“If, as you claim, Mr. Salvatori was armed and resisting, why did you fail to administer the accepted stun?”
“I missed. Mr. Salvatori was feeling pretty spry that night.”
“I see. In your ten years on the police force, Lieutenant, how many times have you found it necessary to employ maximum force? To terminate?”
Eve ignored the jitter in her stomach. “Three times.”
“Three?” Fitzhugh let the word hang, let the jury study the woman in the witness chair. A woman who had killed. “Isn’t that a rather high ratio? Wouldn’t you say that percentage indicates a predilection for violence?”
The PA surged to his feet, objecting bitterly, going into the standard line that the witness was not on trial. But of course she was, Eve thought. Cops were always on trial.
“Mr. Salvatori was armed,” Eve began coolly. “I had a warrant for his arrest in the torture murders of three people. The three people whose eyes and tongues were cut out before they were set on fire and for which crime Mr. Salvatori now stands accused in this courtroom. He refused to cooperate by flinging a cleaver at my head, which threw my aim off. He then charged, knocking me to the ground. I believe his words were, ‘I’m going to cut out your cop-bitch heart,’ at which time we engaged in hand to hand. At that time I broke his jaw, knocked out several of his teeth, and when he swung the torch in my direction, I broke his goddamn arm.”
“And you enjoyed that, Lieutenant?”
She met Fitzhugh’s eyes straight on. “No, sir, I didn’t. But I enjoyed staying alive.”
“Slime,” Eve muttered as she climbed into her vehicle.
“He won’t get Salvatori off.” Peabody settled in and, to take the edge off the furnace heat trapped inside, fiddled with the temperature control unit. “The evidence is too clear cut. And you didn’t let him shake you.”
“Yes, I did.” Eve scooped a hand through her hair, then headed into late-afternoon midtown traffic. The streets were choked enough to make her grit her teeth, but overhead, the sky was crisscrossed with airbuses, tourist vans, and midday commuters. “We limp along, getting pricks like Salvatori off the str
eet, and men like Fitzhugh make fortunes slipping them back out.” She jerked a shoulder. “Sometimes it pisses me off.”
“Whoever slips them back out, we still limp along and slap them back in again.”
With a half laugh, Eve glanced at her companion. “You’re an optimist, Peabody. I wonder how long that’ll last. I’m going to make a detour before we log back on,” she said, changing direction on impulse. “I want to get the air of that courtroom out of my lungs.”
“Lieutenant? You didn’t need me in court today. Why was I there?”
“If you’re going after that detective shield, Peabody, you need to see what you’re up against. It’s not just killers and thieves and chemi-heads. It’s the lawyers.”
It didn’t surprise her to find the streets clogged and parking nonexistent. Philosophically, Eve nosed into an illegal zone, flipped the on-duty light on.
As she stepped out of the car, she gave a hustler on a glide-board a mild stare. He grinned, winked cheekily, then zoomed away toward more conducive surroundings.
“This area’s loaded with hustlers and dealers and off-license hookers,” Eve said conversationally. “That’s why I love it.” She opened the door to the Down and Dirty Club, stepped inside to air thick with the sour smells of cheap liquor and bad food.
Privacy rooms lining one wall were open, airing out the musky stink of stale sex.
It was a joint—one that enjoyed being seamy and just skirted the edge of health and decency laws. A holographic band had the stage and was playing listlessly for the smattering of disinterested customers.
Mavis Freestone was in an isolation booth in the back, her hair a purple fountain, two scraps of glowing silver cloth strategically draped over her small, sassy body. The way her mouth was moving, her hips swiveling, Eve was certain she was rehearsing one of her more interesting vocals.
Eve stepped up to the glass, waiting until Mavis’s rolling eyes circled around and landed on her. Mavis’s mouth, the same searing purple as her hair, rounded into a huge circle of delight. She did a fast boogie, then shoved the door open. An ear-shattering blast of screaming guitars burst out of the booth with her.
Mavis launched herself into Eve’s arms, and though she was shouting, Eve caught only every other word over the thundering music.
“What?” Laughing, Eve slammed the door shut, shook the echo out of her head. “Christ, Mavis, what was that?”
“My new number. It’s going to knock them unconscious.”
“I believe it.”
“You’re back.” Mavis gave Eve two smacking and unavoidable kisses. “Let’s sit down. Let’s have a drink. Tell me every detail. Leave nothing out. Hey, Peabody. Man, aren’t you steaming in that uniform?”
She dragged Eve to a sticky table, punched up the menu. “What do you want? It’s on me. Crack pays me pretty solid for the couple gigs a week I do here. He’s going to be dredged that he missed you. Oh, I’m so glad to see you. You look terrific. You look happy. Doesn’t she look terrific, Peabody? Sex is so, like, therapeutic, right?”
Eve laughed again, knowing she’d come just for this. Mindless entertainment. “Just a couple of fizz waters, Mavis. We’re on duty.”
“Oh, like somebody in here’s going to report you. Unbutton that uniform some, Peabody. I’m getting hot just looking at you. How was Paris? How was the island? How was the resort? Did he fuck your brains out everywhere?”
“Beautiful, wonderful, interesting, and yeah, he did. How’s Leonardo?”
Mavis’s eyes went dreamy. She smiled and poked a silver-tipped nail onto the menu board. “He’s terrific. Cohabitating’s better than I thought it would be. He designed this costume for me.”
Eve studied the thin silver straps that almost covered Mavis’s tidy apple breasts. “Is that what you call it?”
“I’ve got this new number, see. Oh, I’ve got so much to tell you.” She snagged the fizz water when it plopped through the slot. “I don’t know where to start. There’s this guy, this music engineer. I’m working with him. We’re doing a disc, Eve—full treatment. He’s sure he can peddle it. He’s great, Jess Barrow. He was blazing a couple years back with his own stuff. Maybe you heard of him.”
“No.” Eve knew that, for a woman who’d lived on the streets a large portion of her life, Mavis remained stunningly naive about certain matters. “How much are you paying him?”
“It’s not like that.” Mavis’s lips moved into a pout. “I’ve got to dish up the recording fee, sure. That’s the way it works; and if we hit, he takes sixty percent for the first three years. After that we renegotiate.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Peabody commented. She’d unfastened her collar button—a tribute to her fondness for Mavis. “He had a couple of major hits a couple years ago, and he was hooked up with Cassandra.” At Eve’s arched brow, she shrugged. “The singer, you know.”
“You a music lover, Peabody? You never fail to amaze me.”
“I like to listen to tunes,” Peabody muttered into her bubbly water. “Like anyone.”
“Well, the Cassandra connection’s dumped,” Mavis said cheerfully. “He’s been looking for a new vocalist. And that’s me.”
Eve wondered what else he might be looking for. “What does Leonardo think?”
“He thinks it’s mag. You’ve got to come to the studio, Eve, catch us in action. Jess is a certified genius.”
She intended to catch them in action. The list of people Eve loved was very short. And Mavis was on it.
She waited until she was back in the car with Peabody, heading to Cop Central. “Run a make on Jess Barrow, Peabody.”
Without surprise, Peabody took out her diary, plugged in the order. “Mavis isn’t going to like that.”
“She doesn’t have to know, does she.”
Eve veered around a glide-cart offering frozen fruit on a stick, then swung onto Tenth where automated jackhammers were tearing up the street again. Overhead, an ad blimp hawked a shoppers’ special at Bloomingdale’s. Preseason sale on winter coats in the men’s, women’s, and unisex department, twenty percent off. Such a deal.
She spotted the man in the trench coat shambling toward a trio of girls and sighed.
“Shit. There’s Clevis.”
“Clevis?”
“This is his turf,” Eve said simply as she pulled into a loading zone. “I used to do this drag when I was in uniform. He’s been around for years. Come on, Peabody, let’s spare the little children.”
She stepped onto the sidewalk, skirting a pair of men arguing over baseball. From the smell of them, she judged they’d been standing in the heat arguing for much too long. She shouted once, but the jackhammers swallowed her voice. Resigned, she picked up her pace and intercepted Clevis before he reached the unsuspecting, pink-cheeked girls.
“Hey, Clevis.”
He blinked at her through the pale lenses of sunscreens. His hair was sandy blond and curly around a face as innocent as a cherub’s. He was eighty, if he was a day. “Dallas. Hey, Dallas. I haven’t seen you in a big blue moon.” He flashed big white teeth as he sized up Peabody. “Who’s this?”
“Peabody, this is Clevis. Clevis, you aren’t going to bother those little girls, are you?”
“No, shit, uh-uh. I wasn’t going to bother them.” He wiggled his brows. “I was just going to show ’em, is all.”
“You don’t want to do that, Clevis. You ought to get inside, out of this heat.”
“I like it hot.” He wheezed out a chuckle. “There they go,” he said with a sigh, as the trio of girls ran laughing across the street. “Guess I won’t be able to show ’em today. I’ll show you.”
“Clevis, don’t—” Then Eve huffed out a breath. He’d already pulled his trench coat apart. Under it, he was naked but for a bright blue bow tied celebrationally around his withered cock. “Very nice, Clevis. That’s a good color for you. Matches your eyes.” She put a companionable hand on his shoulder. “Let’s take a ride, okay?”
“Okeedoke
e. Do you like blue, Peabody?”
Peabody nodded solemnly as she opened the back door of the unit, helped him inside. “Blue’s my favorite color.” She shut the door of the vehicle, met Eve’s laughing eyes. “Welcome back, Lieutenant.”
“It’s good to be back, Peabody. All in all, it’s good to be back.”
It was also good to be home. Eve drove through the high, iron gates that guarded the towering fortress. It was less of a shock now, to glide along the curving drive through those well-tended lawns and flowering trees toward the elegant stone and glass house where she now lived.
The contrast of where she worked and where she lived no longer seemed quite so jarring. It was quiet here—the kind of quiet in a massive city only the very rich could afford. She could hear birdsong, see the sky, smell the sweet aroma of freshly shorn grass. Minutes away, only minutes, was the teeming, noisy, sweating mass of New York.
Here, she supposed, was sanctuary. As much for Roarke as for herself.
Two lost souls. He’d once called them that. She wondered if they’d stopped being lost when they’d found each other.
She left her car at the front entrance, knowing its battered body and tasteless shape would offend Summerset, Roarke’s poker-backed butler. It was a simple matter to switch it to automatic, send it around the house and into the slot reserved for her unit in the garage, but she enjoyed her petty needling when it came to Summerset.
She opened the door and found him standing in the grand foyer with a sniff in his nose and a sneer on his lips.
“Lieutenant, your vehicle is unsightly.”
“Hey, it’s city property.” She reached down to pick up the fat, odd-eyed cat who’d come to greet her. “You don’t want it there, move it yourself.”
She heard a trill of laughter float down the hall, lifted a brow. “Company?”
“Indeed.” With his disapproving eye, Summerset scanned her wilted shirt and slacks, skimmed over the weapon harness still strapped to her side. “I suggest you bathe and change before meeting your guests.”
“I suggest you kiss my ass,” she said cheerfully and strolled by him.