by J. D. Robb
“He gave me some pointers when I was a rookie, helped out on legwork a couple of times, but no, I never worked with him directly.”
Whitney nodded, kept his eyes on hers. “He was partnered with Feeney, before your time. You were partnered with Feeney after Frank shifted from the streets to a desk.”
She began to get an uncomfortable feeling in the gut. Something here, she thought. Something’s off. “Yes, sir. This has hit Feeney pretty hard.”
“I’m aware of that, Dallas. Which is why Captain Feeney isn’t here this morning.” Whitney propped his elbows on his desk, linked his fingers, folded his fingers over. “We have a possible situation, Lieutenant. A delicate situation.”
“Regarding DS Wojinski?”
“The information I’m going to relay to you is confidential. Your aide can be apprised per your discretion, but no one else on the force. No one in the media. I am asking you, ordering you,” he corrected, “to essentially work alone on this matter.”
The discomfort in her stomach spread into little licks of fear as she thought of Feeney. “Understood.”
“There is some question regarding the circumstances of DS Wojinski’s death.”
“Question, Commander?”
“You’ll require some background data.” He laid his folded hands on the edge of the desk. “It has come to my attention that DS Wojinski was either pursuing an investigation of his own off the clock or involved with illegals.”
“Drugs? Frank? Nobody was cleaner than Frank.”
Whitney didn’t so much as blink. “On September twenty-second of this year, DS Wojinski was spotted by an undercover illegals detective allegedly conducting business in a suspected chemical distribution center. The Athame is a private club, religious in theme, which offers its members group and individual ritual services and is licensed for private sexual functions. The Illegals Division has had it under investigation for nearly two years. Frank was seen making a buy.”
When Eve said nothing, Whitney drew a long breath. “This situation was subsequently reported to me. I questioned Frank, and he was not forthcoming.” Whitney hesitated, then followed through. “Frankly, Dallas, the fact that he would neither confirm nor deny, refused to explain or discuss, seemed very out of character. And it worried me. I ordered him to submit to a physical, including a drug scan, advised him to take a week’s leave. He agreed to both. The scan was, at that point, clear. Due to his record and my personal knowledge and opinion of him, I did not mark the incident in his file, but sealed it.”
He rose then, turned to his window. “Perhaps that was a mistake. It’s possible if I had pursued the matter at that point, he would still be alive, and we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”
“You trusted your judgment and your man.”
Whitney turned back. His eyes were dark; they were intense but not cold, Eve thought. They felt. “Yes, I did. And now I have more data. The standard autopsy on DS Wojinski detected traces of digitalis and Zeus.”
“Zeus.” Now Eve rose. “Frank was not a user, Commander. Putting aside who and what he was, a chemical as powerful as Zeus shows. You see it in the eyes, in the personality shift. If he’d been using Zeus, every cop in his division would have known it. The drug scan would have picked it up. There has to be a mistake.”
She dug her hands into her pockets, willed herself not to pace. “Yeah, there are cops who use, and there are cops who figure their badges shield them from the law. But not Frank. No way was he dirty.”
“But the traces were there, Lieutenant. As well as traces of other chemicals, identified as designer clones. The combination of those chemicals resulted in cardiac arrest and death.”
“You suspect he OD’d, or self-terminated?” She shook her head. “That’s wrong.”
“I repeat, the traces were there.”
“Then there had to be a reason. Digitalis?” She frowned. “That’s heart medicine, isn’t it? You said he’d had a physical a couple of weeks ago. Why didn’t it show he had heart trouble?”
Whitney’s gaze remained level. “Frank’s closest friend on the force is the top E-detective in the city.”
“Feeney?” Eve took two strides forward before she could stop herself. “You think Feeney covered for him, doctored his records? Damn it, Commander.”
“It’s a possibility I can’t ignore,” Whitney said evenly. “Nor can you. Friendship can and does shadow judgment. I am trusting that your friendship with Feeney will not, in this case, shadow yours.”
He walked to the desk again, his position of authority. “These allegations and suspicions must be investigated and resolved.”
The hot licks in her stomach had grown and were burning like acid. “You want me to investigate fellow officers. One of which is dead, leaving a grieving family behind. The other of which was my trainer and is my friend.” She put her hands on the desk. “Is your friend.”
He’d expected the anger, accepted it. Just as he expected she would do the job. He wouldn’t accept less. “Would you prefer I gave this to someone who didn’t care?” His brow lifted on the question. “I want this done quietly, with each piece of evidence and all investigative records sealed for my eyes only. It may be necessary for you to speak with DS Wojinski’s family at some point. I trust you will do so discreetly and tactfully. There is no need to add to their grief.”
“And if I turn something up that smears a lifetime of public service?”
“That will be for me to deal with.”
She straightened. “It’s a hell of a thing you’re asking me to do.”
“Ordering you to do,” Whitney corrected. “That should make it easier, Lieutenant. On you.” He handed her two sealed discs. “View these on your home unit. Any and all transmissions on this matter are to be sent from your home unit to my home unit. Nothing is to go through Cop Central until I tell you differently. Dismissed.”
She turned on her heel, walked to the door. There she paused but didn’t look back. “I won’t roll over on Feeney. Damned if I will.”
Whitney watched her stride out, then closed his eyes. She would do what needed to be done, he knew. He only hoped it wasn’t more than she could live with.
Her temper was bubbling by the time she got back to her own office. Peabody sat in front of the monitor, smirking.
“Just about got it knocked. Your unit’s a real whiner, Dallas, but I’ve been slapping it into shape.”
“Disengage,” Eve snapped and grabbed up her jacket and bag. “Get your gear, Peabody.”
“We’ve got a case?” Revving up, Peabody jumped out of the chair and hustled after Eve. “What kind of case? Where are we going?” She broke into a trot to keep up. “Dallas? Lieutenant?”
Eve slapped the control on the elevator, and the single furious look she shot at Peabody was enough to stifle any further questions. Eve stepped into the elevator, shuffled into position with several noisy cops, and stood in stony silence.
“Hey, Dallas, how’s the newlywed? Why don’t you get your rich husband to buy the Eatery and stock some real food.”
She flicked a steely glare over her shoulder, stared into a face of a grinning cop. “Bite me, Carter.”
“Hey, I gave that a shot three years ago, and you nearly broke all my teeth. Holding out for a civilian,” he said when laughter erupted.
“Holding out for somebody who isn’t the major asshole of Robbery,” someone else put in.
“Better than being the minor one, Forenski. Hey, Peabody,” Carter continued. “Want me to bite you?”
“Is your dental plan up to date?”
“I’ll check on that and get back to you.” With a wink, Carter and several others piled out.
“Carter puts the moves on anything female,” Peabody said conversationally, worried that Eve continued to stare straight ahead. “Too bad he’s an asshole.” No response. “Ah, Forenski’s kind of cute,” Peabody continued. “He doesn’t have a steady personal partner, does he?”
“I don’t poke
into the private lives of fellow officers,” Eve snapped back, and strode out onto the garage level.
“You don’t mind poking into mine,” Peabody said under her breath. She waited while Eve uncoded her car locks, then climbed into the passenger seat. “Am I to log in destination, sir, or is it a surprise?” Then she blinked when Eve simply laid her head against the wheel. “Hey, are you all right? What’s going on, Dallas?”
“Log in home office.” Eve drew a breath, straightened. “I’ll fill you in on the way. All information you’re given and all records on the ensuing investigation are to be coded and sealed.” Eve maneuvered out of the garage and onto the street. “All said information and records are confidential. You are to report only to me or the commander.”
“Yes, sir.” Peabody swallowed the obstruction that had lodged in her throat. “It’s internal, isn’t it? It’s one of us.”
“Yeah. Goddamn it. It’s one of us.”
Her home unit didn’t have the eccentricities of her official computer. Roarke had seen to that. The data scrolled smoothly on-screen.
“Detective Marion Burns. She’s been undercover at The Athame for eight months, working as a bartender.” Eve pursed her lips. “Burns. I don’t know her.”
“I do, slightly.” Peabody scooted her chair a bit closer to Eve’s. “I met her when I was…you know, during the Casto thing. She struck me as a solid, eyes-on-the-job sort. If memory serves, she’s third generation cop. Her mother’s still on the job. Captain, I think, in Bunko. Her grandfather went out line of duty during the Urban Wars. I don’t know why she’d have fingered DS Wojinski.”
“Maybe she reported what she saw, or maybe it’s something else. We’ll have to find out. Her report to Whitney’s pretty cut and dried. At one hundred thirty hours, September 22, 2058, she observed DS Wojinski seated at a private booth with known chemical dealer Selina Cross. Wojinski exchanged credits for a small package, which appeared to contain an illegal substance. The conversation and exchange lasted fifteen minutes, at which time Cross moved to another booth. Wojinski remained in the club another ten minutes, then left. Detective Burns tailed the subject for two blocks at which time he engaged a public transport.”
“So she never saw him use.”
“No. And she never saw him return to the club that night or on any subsequent night during her watch. Burns goes top of our list for questioning.”
“Yes, sir. Dallas, since Wojinski and Feeney were tight, wouldn’t it follow that Wojinski would have confided in him? Or failing that, that Feeney would have noticed…something.”
“I don’t know.” Eve rubbed her eyes. “The Athame. What the hell’s an athame?”
“I don’t know.” Peabody pulled out her palm PC and requested the data. “Athame, ceremonial knife, a ritual tool normally fashioned of steel. Traditionally the athame is not used for cutting, but for casting or banishing circles in earth religions.”
Peabody glanced up at Eve. “Witchcraft,” she continued. “That’s quite a coincidence.”
“I don’t think so.” She took the note from Alice out of her desk drawer, passed it to Peabody. “Frank’s granddaughter slipped this to me at the viewing. Turns out she works at some shop called Spirit Quest. Do you know it?”
“I know what it is.” Troubled now, Peabody set the note down. “Wiccans are peaceful, Dallas. And they use herbs, not chemicals. No true Wiccan’s going to buy, sell, or use Zeus.”
“How about digitalis?” Eve cocked her head. “That’s kind of an herb, isn’t it?”
“It’s distilled from foxglove. It’s been used medicinally for centuries.”
“It’s what, like a stimulant?”
“I don’t know that much about healing, but yeah, I’d think.”
“So’s Zeus. I wonder what kind of effect you’d get combining the two. Bad mix, wrong dosage, whatever, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d get heart failure.”
“You think Wojinski self-terminated?”
“The commander suspects it, and I’ve got questions,” Eve said impatiently. “I don’t have answers. But I’m going to get them.” She picked up the note. “We’ll start tonight, with Alice. I want you there at eleven, in civilian clothes. Try to look like a Free-Ager, Peabody, not a cop.”
Peabody winced. “I’ve got this dress my mother made for my last birthday. But I’ll get really pissed off if you laugh.”
“I’ll try to control myself. For now, let’s see what we can dig up on this Selina Cross and The Athame Club.”
Five minutes later, Eve was smiling grimly at her machine. “Interesting. Our Selina’s been around. Spent some time in a cage. Just look at this yellow sheet, Peabody. Soliciting sex without a license, ’43, ’44. Assault charge also in ’44, subsequently dropped. Ran into Bunko in ’47, running a medium scam. What the hell do people want to talk to the dead for, anyway? Suspected of animal mutilations, ’49. Not enough evidence for arrest. Manufacturing and distribution of illegals. That’s what tagged her and put her away from ’50 to ’51. All small-time shit, though. But here in ’55, she was brought in and questioned in connection with the ritual slaying of a minor. Her alibi held.”
“Illegals has had her under observation since she was sprung in ’51,” Peabody added.
“But they haven’t brought her in.”
“Like you said, she’s small-time. They must be looking for a bigger fish.”
“That would be my take. We’ll see what Marion has to say. Look here, it says Selina Cross owns The Athame Club, free and clear.” Eve pursed her lips. “Now, where would a small-time dealer get the credit power to buy and run a club? She’s a front. I wonder if Illegals knows for who. Let’s take a look at her. Computer, display image of subject, Cross, Selina.”
“Whew.” Peabody gave a little shudder as the image floated on-screen. “Spooky.”
“Not a face you’d forget,” Eve murmured.
It was sharp and narrow, the lips full and vibrant red, the eyes black as onyx. There was beauty there, in the balance of features, the white, smooth skin, but it was cold. And as Peabody had observed, spooky. Her hair was as dark as her eyes, parted perfectly in the center, and it hung straight. There was a small tattoo over her left eyebrow.
“What’s that symbol?” Eve wondered. “Zoom and enhance segment twenty to twenty-two, thirty percent.”
“A pentagram.” Peabody’s voice quivered, causing Eve to glance over curiously. “Inverted. She’s not Wiccan, Dallas.” Peabody cleared her throat. “She’s a Satanist.”
Eve didn’t believe in such things—the white or the black of it. But she was prepared to believe others did. And more inclined to believe that some used that misguided faith to exploit.
“Be careful what you discount, Eve.”
Distracted, she glanced over. Roarke had insisted on driving. She couldn’t complain as any one of his vehicles beat the hell out of hers.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, when certain beliefs and traditions survive for centuries, there’s a reason for it.”
“Sure there is, human beings are, and always have been, gullible. And there are, and always have been, individuals who know how to exploit that gullibility. I’m going to find out if someone exploited Frank’s.”
She had told Roarke everything, and had justified it professionally by telling herself since she couldn’t tap Feeney for his computer expertise, she could, and would, tap Roarke for his.
“You’re a good cop and a sensible woman. Often, you’re too good a cop and too sensible a woman.” He stopped for traffic, turned to her. “I’m asking you to be particularly careful when delving into an area such as this.”
His face was in shadows, and his voice much too serious. “You mean witches and devil worshipers? Come on, Roarke, we’re into the second millennium here. Satanists, for Christ’s sake!” She pushed her hair back from her face. “What the hell do they think they’d do with him if he existed and they managed to get his attention?”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Roarke said quietly and turned west toward the Aquarian Club.
“Devils exist.” Eve frowned as he slid his vehicle up to a second-level spot on the street. “And they’re flesh and blood, they walk on two legs. You and I have seen plenty of them.”
She got out, took the ramp down to street level. It was breezy, and the freshening wind had cleared the smells and smoke away. Overhead, the sky was a thick black, unrelieved by moon or stars. Crisscrossing beams from sluggish air traffic flickered, chased by the muffled grumble of engines.
Here on the street was an arty, up-market part of town where even the glida grill on the corner was spotless, and its menu ran to fresh hybrid fruit rather than smoked soydogs. Most of the street vendors had closed up for the night, but during the day, they would unfold their carts and discretely hawk offerings of handmade jewelry, hooked rugs and tapestries, herbal baths, and teas.
Panhandlers in this area would likely be polite, their licenses clearly displayed. And they would probably spend their daily earnings on a meal rather than a chemical high.
The crime rate was low, the rents murderous, and the median age of its residents and merchants carelessly young.
She would have hated to live there.
“We’re early,” she murmured, scanning the street as a matter of habit. Then her mouth curved into a smirk. “Look at that, will you? The Psychic Deli. I guess you go in, order the veggie hash, and they claim they knew you were going to do that. Pasta salad and palm readings. They’re open.” On impulse, she turned to Roarke. She wanted something that would turn her sour mood. “You game?”
“You want your palm read?”
“What the hell.” She grabbed his hand. “It’ll put me in the groove for investigating Satanic chemi-dealers. Maybe they’ll cut us a deal and do yours for half price.”
“No.”
“You never know unless you ask.”
“I’m not having mine read.”
“Coward,” she muttered and tugged him through the door.
“I prefer the word careful.”
She had to admit, it smelled wonderful. There was none of the usual overlay of onion and heavy sauces. Instead, there was a light fragrance of spice and flowers that meshed perfectly with the airy music.