Treachery in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “He won’t betray her,” Mira put in.

  “He won’t have to. She’ll betray him. They’ll get their collar, and Garnet will get more justice than he deserves. I’ve got to go be visible. I’ll keep in contact via ’link. Peabody, give me two minutes, then head to the bullpen. I want you at your desk until end of shift.”

  “We’re moving close to that now.”

  “Two minutes,” Eve repeated, but when she got to the door, Roarke put a hand on her arm. “I’ve really got to get going on this. Timing’s crucial.”

  “They don’t need me here. I’d prefer to be in the garage.”

  “I need you here because whatever they can do you can do faster.” Now she put a hand on his. “I’m going to be covered in the garage. I trust my men, every one of them.”

  “Yours against hers.” Oh yes, he understood his wife, his cop. “Another form of you against her.”

  “Maybe. It makes a point. It makes the kind of point that will resonate in the department, in the media. That’s a matter of politics and morale, and those things matter. But it matters, too, that we show, without a shadow, not only that she gave the orders, but the ones under her had no compunction following them.”

  “You’re very cool for someone who just heard her own death warrant.”

  “Because my men are better than hers. In every possible way. If you trust me, you trust them.”

  He touched her cheek. “The drinks are on me, for the house, when this is over and done.”

  “Free drinks? That guarantees no-fail. I’ll keep in touch.”

  She walked out, picked up her pace. Cop in a hurry, she thought. Records to check. When she stepped into the bullpen, Jacobson hailed her.

  “Lieutenant, can I have a minute?”

  “Do I look like I’ve got a minute?” Then she cursed, shrugged. “My office.” She strode in, waited for him to follow, then shut the door.

  “Okay, I interrupted you. Why am I interrupting you?”

  “Long story, full details to follow,” Eve told him. “For now ...” She turned to her computer, called up pictures and data on Marcell, Palmer. “These two men are planning to ambush me in the garage in a couple hours. Their orders are to stun me, toss me in my own vehicle, take me to my crime scene and kill me very dead.”

  As Jacobson studied the images, his eyes went hard as stone. “Is that fucking so?”

  “It is.”

  “They’re soon going to be having a really bad day.”

  “Yes, they are. Lieutenant Renee Oberman gave them that order, and has ordered this man—Tulis—to keep an eye on me, and this one, Armand,” she added as she brought the next image up, “to hack my comp, to provide their cover re garage security.”

  He looked at her then. She could still see that stone, but with it a kind of grief. “How many are in it, Dallas?”

  “One’s too many, and there are a lot more than one. Your focus will be on Palmer and Marcell, and not to alert Tulis. The e-boys will take care of Armand. Others are being or will be dealt with.”

  “How do you want it done?”

  His words to her echoed Marcell’s to Renee, she realized. And what a world of difference in meaning.

  She told him how she wanted it done.

  When he went out, she texted Peabody, updated the e-team. When her ’link signaled, she saw Louise on the readout.

  “Is she alive?”

  “She is,” Louise told her, and those pretty hazel eyes drooped with fatigue. “And her chances of staying that way are good. They’re finishing up the ortho work—that was the most extensive damage—then we’ll move her to recovery and onto ICU. Her recovery will depend, to a large extent on—well—how strong is Strong. The PT is going to be extensive, long, and painful.

  “Now tell me why Peabody’s asked nobody tell her family.”

  “I’ll get to that, but I need you to inform someone else, but with a few variations. You kept her alive through this part, Louise. Help me keep her alive through the next.”

  Over the next hour, Eve learned she didn’t much care for running an op via ’link. She preferred looking into the eyes of the men she coordinated, seeing in their faces their determination, their humor, their willingness to put it all on the line.

  When the end of shift came and went, she started counting down the clock.

  Step One, she thought. Louise.

  Renee, her face covered with weariness and worry, hurried toward the surgical desk. “I’m Lieutenant Oberman,” she told the nurse in charge. “I’m here to check on one of my people, Lilah Strong.”

  “Lieutenant?” Louise, still in her scrubs, stepped over. “I’m Doctor Dimatto, one of the surgical team. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “Is she out of surgery?”

  “Yes.” Louise kept walking. “Why don’t we go in here and sit down?”

  “Oh God. She didn’t make it? I was told she was very badly injured, but I’d hoped.”

  “She came through very well.” Louise gestured Renee into a small office, shut the door. “Her age and physical condition were on her side. There’s no reason she shouldn’t make a full recovery.”

  “Thank God.” Renee closed her eyes, sat. “We’ve all been so concerned. I’d hoped to get here sooner, but . . . doesn’t matter. Can I see her?”

  “I’m sorry. She can’t have any visitors at this time. Not even family. There’s a serious risk of infection, so we’ve had to quarantine her. In any case, she’s in an induced coma. She did suffer very severe trauma, and we want to give her body time to heal. We have her in the East Wing, on the eighth floor. It’s quiet and closed off from the rest of the wing. Infection is her enemy at this point.”

  “I understand. But is someone with her? If she wakes up—”

  “We hope to try to bring her out of the coma in about twenty-four hours. Meanwhile an ICU nurse will check her vitals and progress every thirty minutes. Rest, quiet are what she needs most now. She should be able to have visitors by this time tomorrow, or the following morning.”

  “Her room number? I want to tell her squad mates. And send flowers when she can have them.”

  “Of course. She’s in Eight-C. I’d be happy to contact you when she’s cleared for visitors.”

  “I’d appreciate that very much.” Renee rose. “Thank you for all you’ve done. Believe me, Detective Strong’s recovery is of deep concern to me.”

  “I understand. I’ll walk you to the elevator.”

  Louise walked her out, waited until the elevator door closed, then took out her ’link. “All right,” she told Eve, “I’ve finished my mix of lies and truth to this Lieutenant Oberman. If you’re done with me, I’d like to go check on my patient.”

  “Thanks, Louise.” Eve clicked off, updated her team. And thought: Step Two. Renee to Freeman.

  With a cat-smile of satisfaction, Renee slid into her car. When she was a block away from the hospital, she engaged her unregistered’link. “She’s in Eight-C, East Wing. Quarantined, checked every thirty by an ICU nurse. Critical condition, induced coma, outlook optimistic.”

  “Not for long.”

  “Finish what Bix started, and take her out quick and quiet, Freeman. I want it to look like complications from her injuries.”

  “I’ve got something with me. I’ve already scoped out the locker room. I can get in as a medical, add this juice to her IV. She’ll just go under. Like putting a sick dog to sleep.”

  “Get it done, then get over to Five-O. I want everybody alibied, just in case.”

  “Just need to set up a distraction so I can ghost in there. If I can work it fast enough, I could come back, help out with Dallas.”

  “No, do what I’m telling you to do. Nothing more, nothing less. Marcell and Palmer have Dallas. They should move on her soon. Contact me when it’s done. Text only. I don’t want to take a ’link call when I’m with my father.”

  “Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

  Whatever you say, Eve thought, foll
owing the conversation through her feed. Add another count of conspiracy to murder on your plate, Renee. “You copy that, Dallas?” Feeney asked in her ear.

  “Every word. I’m going to shut down here, start the next phase.”

  “Keep your ass covered, Lieutenant.” Roarke’s voice sounded in her ear now. “I’m fond of it.”

  “So am I.”

  She shut down her comp, rolled her shoulders. Now, she got to play. Step Three, Dallas to garage.

  “On the move,” she said into her mic.

  She walked out of her office, through the bullpen, where Carmichael and two uniforms glanced up.

  “Good night, LT.”

  “Good night, Detective. Officers.”

  She took the glides, giving Carmichael and the uniforms time to move into position, time for her shadow to report she was on the way.

  She switched to an elevator for the ride underground, listened to Feeney.

  “They tweaked the other cars, so they’ll stop two floors above your level. Anybody planning on coming down to yours will have to wait or take the stairs. We got the source. Roarke’s redirecting the glitch. Armand’s going to expect to be blind, to hold until Marcell or Palmer gives him the clear. But we’ll have you here.”

  She nodded, and she walked into the garage when the doors opened.

  They couldn’t move on her until she’d reached her vehicle, uncoded the locks. Then they’d hit her from behind. If she was wrong about any of it, she’d take a hit.

  Hell, she’d probably take one anyway.

  Her bootsteps echoed as she strode to her car, entered the code.

  From behind, she thought again when she heard the faint, faint sound. Window going down, vehicle behind and just to the right.

  It happened fast. It happened smooth, and exactly as she’d hoped.

  Her men poured out from everywhere, weapons drawn. Now voices as well as bootsteps echoed. She took the hit—probably as much reflex as intent on the shooter’s part—and felt the spread of heat, the faint but annoying sting through the protective vest under her jacket.

  Her own weapon was out as she pivoted and saw Jacobson stick his right in Marcell’s ear.

  “Drop the fucking weapon, you fucking motherfucker or I’ll fucking scramble your fucking brains. Hands up! Hands where I can fucking see them, you fucking cocksucker. You fucking breathe wrong, you fucking blink wrong, and I will fuck you up.”

  While Reineke and Peabody dragged Palmer out the other side, Eve stepped back, let Jacobson deal with Marcell.

  “That was some very creative and varied use of the word fuck, Detective.”

  “Fucker.” Jacobson snarled it as he shoved Marcell to the ground. “On your fucking face, you fucking shit coward. Stream my lieutenant in the fucking back? Fuck you.”

  There was a distinctive snap followed by a scream.

  “I seem to have misjudged my step, Lieutenant, and stepped on one of this motherfucker’s fingers. I believe it’s broken.”

  “Could’ve happened to anyone.” She crouched down as Jacobson yanked Marcell’s hands behind his back and restrained them. “Your own partner. Detective Jacobson has already eloquently expressed my feelings. I can’t think of anything else to say to a cop who would take part in murdering his own partner.”

  “I want a deal.” Sweat poured down Marcell’s face as she stripped him of his badge, his com, his ’link—and the disposable.

  “I bet you do.” I’ll see you in hell first, Eve thought. “You’ll roll on Renee for me, Marcell? Roll like a good dog? Get him out of my sight. Both of them, separate cages, no contact. Read them their rights. Get a medical to treat this asshole’s finger.” She rose, made herself take a calming breath, then looked at her men, made eye contact with each and every one.

  “Thank you. Good work.” She leaned back against her car as her men hauled Marcell and Palmer away, and Peabody joined her.

  “Are you okay?” Peabody asked her. “I hear a stun stream can hurt through a vest.”

  “He had it on high. That’ll add a punch—through a vest and right into the charges against him. Feeney, get your team to take Armand. We’re clear here.”

  “They’re moving in now.”

  “Copy that. Time for Marcell to give his boss an update.”

  “We’ll do that here,” Roarke told her.

  “We’ll be heading up then. Let’s put the rest in play.”

  Step Four, she thought. Freeman.

  In the scrubs and ID he’d lifted from a locker, Freeman slipped up the stairs to the eighth floor. He prided himself on his ability to blend in, considered himself a human chameleon.

  He eased the door open, scanned right and left, then slid into the corridor and into the room across it.

  Machines beeped and hummed, monitoring whatever poor bastard lay in the bed. Staying out of the range of the camera, he slithered against the wall until he could aim the jammer he carried.

  Even as the alarm sounded he was out and into the next room before the ICU team came running. He repeated the process, grinning as the medicals ran by. He hit a third for good measure, then made the dash to 8-C.

  By the time they determined it was an electronic glitch, rebooted, did whatever they did for the poor bastards in beds, he’d have done what he’d come to do and be gone.

  He moved into 8-C. They kept the lights dim, he noted. Rest and quiet was the order of the day. Well, she’d get plenty of both where he was sending her. He moved to the bed, pulled out the vial in his pocket.

  “Should’ve kept your nose out of our business, stupid bitch.”

  Baxter stepped out of the shadows, put his weapon to Freeman’s head.

  “Who’s the bitch now?” Baxter said as Trueheart stepped between Freeman and Strong. “Who’s the bitch now?”

  Freeman’s secured,” Eve reported.

  “They’ve got Runch,” Peabody told her. “And the accountant, Tulis, Addams. They’re rounding up her people like ducks in a pond.”

  “With Janburry and Delfino spending some quality time with Bix, I’d say it’s time for the finale.”

  Renee sat in her father’s study, loving him with every inhale. Hating him with every exhale.

  “You don’t know what it’s like working Illegals today,” she insisted, but kept her tone, her face respectful. “I can’t afford to throw a man to the rats because of a slip. And at first, that’s what I thought was happening with Bill Garnet.”

  “Renee, when one of your men uses the very thing you’re fighting against, you have to take action. You’re responsible for the code of your squad.”

  Go ahead, she thought, give me the lecture on Marcus Oberman’s standards . I’ve heard it all before.

  “I know that perfectly well. Loyalty is vital, you know that, too. I spoke with Garnet, kept it out of his file, but I ordered him to get into a program. It wasn’t until a few days ago that I began to suspect him and one of my other detectives . . . Dad, I have reason to believe two of my people were using my CI to obtain product—for use and profit. I have reason to believe they killed my CI before he could contact me.”

  “Bix.”

  “No, not Bix. Garnet was using Bix for cover. I think he might have tried to set Bix up for the fall. Lilah Strong.” She rose to pace. “She must have realized I was getting close. It must be why she tried to run today. Two of my people, Dad, betraying their squad, the department, me. Their badges.”

  She willed tears to sparkle in her eyes. “It’s my fault.”

  “Fault and responsibility aren’t always the same. Renee, if you believed this, if you had any evidence, why didn’t you so inform Lieutenant Dallas?”

  “I did.” She spun around. “Just today. She brushed me off, just brushed me off. She’s so focused on Bix—and me. She’s so damn self-righteous.”

  “She’s a good cop, Renee.”

  She’s a dead cop now, Renee thought. “Better than me, I suppose.”

  “That’s not what I said, or meant. Y
ou need to take this information to your commander. You should already have done so. You need to contact him and request a meeting, with Dallas included, and give them everything you know, everything you have on this.”

  “I wanted to be sure before I ... I’ve been working it on my own. My responsibility,” she reminded him, since it was one of his favorite words.

  “Dad, I think they got in deeper than Keener. He was just a weasel. I think they moved up, and it got Garnet killed. I have a line on that. I wanted to follow it through. I know it’s Dallas’s case, but for God’s sake, Dad—Garnet, Strong, even Keener, they’re mine, and I wanted to handle it.”

  “I understand that. Command can be lonely, Renee, and it can be hard. But you’re part of a whole, part of a system. You can’t step outside that whole, that system, for your own needs. You owe it to your men to show them true leadership. Two of your people went bad. Now show the rest there’s no tolerance, no half measures.”

  “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I’ll contact the commander, request the meeting.”

  “Do you want me to be there?”

  She shook her head. “I need to do this on my own. I shouldn’t have brought you into it. I need to go, need to put my thoughts together. Thank you for hearing me out. I’ll make this right.”

  “I trust you will.”

  “I trust you will,” she muttered as she slammed her car door. It was just like him to lecture and pontificate, to give her that disapproving look because she hadn’t followed straight down the Saint Oberman path.

  He’d never know just how far she’d strayed, or how wide she’d beaten her own path. But now he was, again, a useful tool.

  When they found Dallas’s body, when Strong expired from her injuries, and she told Whitney what she wanted him to believe, dear Dad would confirm she’d told him all of it. That she had pointed Dallas toward Strong and been rebuffed.

  It was all falling neatly into place.

  She took out her ’link, pleased to see a trans from Freeman. Within seconds, though, she’d jerked her vehicle to the side of the road to read the text again.