by J. D. Robb
“I’ve urged Gannon to consider private security, and she appears to be amenable. We’ll keep a man on her as long as the budget allows. This perpetrator is very specific in his goal. Very specific in his targets. Both victims connected to Gannon. If he feels she’s in his way, or has information he wants, he won’t hesitate to try for her. At this point, we have nothing that leads to him but a fifty-year-old crime. Let’s get more.”
On the way back to the division, Eve watched idly as two plainclothes muscled along a restrained woman who weighed in at about three hundred pounds and was flinging out an impressive array of obscenities. Since both cops had facial cuts and bruises, Eve assumed the prisoner had flung more than curses before they’d cuffed her.
God, she loved the job.
“Peabody, my office.”
She led the way in, closed the door, which had Peabody sending it a puzzled look. Then she programmed two cups of coffee, gestured to a chair.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
“I know I didn’t handle the briefing very well. It threw me a minute, that’s all, to do the stand-up. I—”
“You did fine. You want to work on focusing on the data instead of yourself. Self-conscious cops don’t lead teams. Neither do cops who second-guess themselves every two minutes. You earned the shield, Peabody, now you have to use it. But that’s not what this is about.”
“The clothes are . . . ” She trailed off at Eve’s stony stare. “Self-conscious again. Putting it away. What is this about, then?”
“I work after shift a lot. Regularly. Go back out into the field to tug on a lead, work up various scenarios or do ’link or comp work in my home office. Bounce the case off Roarke. It’s how I work. Are you going to have a problem with me not hooking you in every time I do?”
“Well, no. Well . . . I guess I’m trying to find the partner rhythm. Maybe you are, too.”
“Maybe I am. It’s not because I’m flipping you off. Let’s get that clear. I live the job, Peabody. I breathe it and I eat it and I sleep with it. I don’t recommend it.”
“It works for you.”
“Yeah, it works for me. There are reasons it works for me. My reasons. They’re not yours.”
She looked down into her coffee and thought of the long line of victims, and they all led back to herself, a child, bleeding and broken in a freezing hotel room in Dallas.
“I can’t do this any other way. I won’t do this any other way. I need what this gives me. You don’t need the same thing. That doesn’t make you less of a cop. And when I go out on my own on something, I’m not thinking you’re less of a cop.”
“I can’t always put it away either.”
“None of us can. And those who can’t find a way to deal with that burnout get mean, get drunk or off themselves. You’ve got ways to deal. You’ve got family and outside interests. And shit, I’ll say it this once, you’ve got McNab.”
Peabody’s lips curved. “That must’ve hurt.”
“Some.”
“I love him. It’s weird, but I love him.”
Eve met her eyes, a brief but steady acknowledgment. “Yeah, I get that.”
“And it does make a difference. And I get what you’re saying, too. I can’t always put it away, but sometimes I have to. So I do. I probably won’t ever be able to spin it around in my head the way you do, but that’s okay. I’m probably still going to bitch some when I find out you went out without me.”
“Understood. We’re all right then?”
“We’re all right.”
“Then get out of my office so I can get some work done before we see Gannon.”
She wrangled for a consult with Mira and after some heated negotiations with the doctor’s admin, was given a thirty-minute during lunch break at Central’s infamous Eatery. Eve couldn’t figure out why anyone with Mira’s class would suffer the Eatery’s indignities, but she didn’t argue.
She managed, with considerable footwork, to delay her report to Commander Whitney until late that afternoon.
Another call included threats of doubtful anatomical possibility and a bribe of box seats at a Mets game. The combination netted her the promise from the chief lab tech of a full report on both cases by fourteen hundred.
Considering her ’link work a job well done, she grabbed her files, signaled Peabody and went into the field.
Peabody fisted her hands on her hips. “This is returning to the scene of the crime way, way after the fact.”
“We didn’t commit a crime, so technically we’re not returning.” Eve ignored the people who trooped or stalked around her as she stood at the corner of Fifth and Forty-seventh. “I just wanted a look at the place.”
“Got hit pretty hard in the Urban Wars,” Peabody commented. “Easy target, I guess. Conspicuous consumption. The haves and have-nots. All that fancy jewelry show-cased while the economy took a nosedive, illegals were sold on the street like soy dogs and guns were strapped on like fashion accessories.”
She edged closer to one of the displays. “Shiny.”
“So three guys walk in, do a little switch-and-grab with the fourth, and walk out with pockets full of diamonds. Nobody’s prepared for it as the inside guy’s long-term, trusted, considered above reproach.”
Eve studied the window displays as she spoke, and the people who stopped to huddle at them, dreaming over that shine. Gold and silver—metals; rubies and emeralds, and diamonds bright as the sun—stones. Since they couldn’t be consumed for fuel, didn’t keep you warm in the winter, it was tough for her to relate to the pull.
Yet she wore a circle of gold on her finger and a bright, glittering diamond on a chain under her shirt. Symbols, she thought. Just symbols. But she’d fight for them, wouldn’t she?
“Inside man has to walk out, too,” she went on, “practically on their heels, and go straight under. Finger’s going to point at him, he knows that going in. But he wants what he wants and he tosses everything else away for it. And gets taken out before he can pat himself on the back. Crew did him, so Crew had to know how to get to him. Not only his location, but how to lure him out.”
She looked up, as a tourist might, to the upper floors. No people glides on a building like this. There wouldn’t have been any early century either, she mused. It had been rehabbed and rebuilt after the wars but was, essentially, the same as the history image she’d studied.
And leading down from the corner it dominated were shop after shop, display after display of body adornments. This single crosstown block held millions in merchandise. It was a wonder it wasn’t hit on a daily basis.
“They didn’t even bother to take out the security cams,” she commented. “In and out and no sweat. But the cops would’ve ID’d them eventually. Every one of them had a sheet but the inside guy, and his gambling problem would’ve flagged him. So they were just going to stay under, keep the stones tucked away, wait for the air to cool. Then poof. You know why it might’ve worked?”
“The investigation would have focused, at least initially, on the inside man. They’d figure he cracked up, planned and executed. He’s gone, diamonds are gone. They move on him.”
“Yeah, while the rest of them scatter and wait it out. Crew was smart to eliminate him, but he went off when he didn’t dispose of the body. Smarter, much smarter to dump the guy in the river so the cops waste time and resources looking for a dead man. Didn’t think it through all the way, because he wanted what he wanted, too. Once he had it, he just wanted more. That’s why he ended up dying in prison. This guy, our guy, he’s a little smarter.”
She studied a group of three women who stopped by a display window to make ooohing noises and exclamations. Yeah, the stuff was shiny and sparkly. She wasn’t entirely sure why people wanted to shine and sparkle, but they did—and had since the dawn.
“But he’s just as obsessed,” Peabody commented. “Crew was obsessed with the diamonds, I think. That’s what I get from the book. He had to have all of them. He couldn�
�t settle for his cut, no matter what it took. I think this guy’s the same in that area. Obsessed. Even possessed, in a way. Like they were—the diamonds—cursed.”
“They’re carbon-based stones, Peabody. Inanimate objects.” Unconsciously she rubbed a finger over the tear-shaped diamond she wore on a chain under her shirt. “They don’t do anything but sit there.”
Peabody looked back in the window. “Shiny,” she said again with her eyes unfocused and her jaw slack.
Despite herself, Eve laughed. “Let’s get out of this heat and go see Gannon.”
Chapter 8
The Rembrandt, Eve discovered, was one of those small, exclusive, European-style hotels snuggled into New York almost like a secret. No sky-reaching towers or mile-wide lobby, no gilt-encased entrance. Instead it was a lovely old building she assumed had once been a high-dollar residence in a style that murmured elegant discretion.
Rather than her usual snarling match with a doorman, this one trotted over in his sedate navy blue uniform and cap to greet her with a respectful nod.
“Welcome to the Rembrandt. Will you be checking in, madam?”
“No.” She flashed her badge, but his polite manner took some of the fun out of it. “I’m here to see a guest.”
“Shall I arrange parking for you during your visit?”
“No, you should leave this vehicle exactly where I’ve put it.”
“Of course,” he said without a wince or a gasp, and sucked the rest of the wind from her sails. “Enjoy your visit at the Rembrandt, Lieutenant. My name’s Malcolm if you need any assistance while you’re here.”
“Yeah. Well. Thanks.” His manner took her off-guard enough to have her break her own firm policy. She pulled out ten credits and handed it to him.
“Thank you very much.” He was at the door before her, sweeping it open.
The lobby was small and furnished like someone’s very tasteful parlor with deeply cushioned chairs and gleaming wood, glossy marble, paintings that might have been original work. There were flowers, but rather than the twenty-foot arrangements Eve often found a little scary, there were small, attractive bouquets arranged on various tables.
Instead of a check-in counter with a platoon of uniformed, toothy clerks, there was a woman at an antique desk.
With security in mind, Eve scanned the area and spotted four discreetly placed cameras. So that was something.
“Welcome to the Rembrandt.” The woman, slender, dressed in pale peach, with her short shock of hair streaked blond and black, rose. “How may I assist you?”
“I’m here to see Samantha Gannon. What room is she in?”
“One moment.” The woman sat back down, scanned the screen on her desk unit. She looked up at Eve with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. We have no guest by that name.”
The words were hardly out of her mouth when two men stepped out of a side door. Eve tagged them as security, and noted by stance that they were armed.
“Good. I’m on the job.” She directed this to the men as she held up her right hand. “Dallas, Lieutenant, Homicide. My partner. Peabody, Detective. IDs coming.”
She reached for her badge with two fingers and kept her eyes on the security team. “Your security’s better than it looks at first glance.”
“We’re very protective of our guests,” the woman answered, and took Eve’s badge to scan it, then Peabody’s. “These are in order,” she said, and nodded to the two men. “Ms. Gannon is expecting you. I’ll just ring her room and let her know you’re here.”
“Fine. What do they load you with?” Eve nodded toward security, and one of them flipped aside his jacket to reveal a multi-action, mid-range hand stunner in a quick-release side holster. “That oughta do it.”
“Ms. Gannon’s ready for you, Lieutenant. She’s on four. Your officer is in the alcove by the elevator. He’ll show you her room.”
“Appreciate it.” She walked to the two-bank elevator with Peabody. “She showed sense picking a place like this. Solid security, probably the kind of service that gives you everything you want five minutes before you ask for it.”
They stepped on, and Peabody ordered the fourth floor. “How much you think it costs for a night here?”
“I don’t know that stuff. I don’t know why people don’t just stay home in the first place. No matter how snazzy the joint, there’s always some stranger next door when you’re in a hotel. Probably another one over your head, the other under your feet. Then there’s bell service and housekeeping and other people coming in and out all the damn time.”
“You sure know how to take the romance out of it.”
The uniform was waiting when they stepped off. “Lieutenant.” He hesitated, looked pained.
“You’ve got a problem asking me for an ID check, Officer? How do you know I didn’t get on at two, blast Dallas and Peabody between the eyes, dump their lifeless bodies and ride the rest of the way up intending to blast you, then get to the subject?”
“Yes, sir.” He took their IDs, used his hand scanner. “She’s in four-oh-four, Lieutenant.”
“Anyone attempt entrance since your shift began?”
“Both housekeeping and room service, both ordered by subject, both checked before given access. And Roarke, who was cleared at lobby level, by subject and by myself.”
“Roarke.”
“Yes, sir. He’s been with subject for the past fifteen minutes.”
“Hmm. Stand down, Officer. Take ten.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Are you going to be pissed at him?” Peabody asked. “Roarke, I mean.”
“I don’t know yet.” Eve rang the bell and was satisfied by the slight wait that told her Samantha made use of the security peep.
There were circles under Samantha’s eyes, and a pallor that spoke of sleepless nights. She appeared to have dressed carefully though, in dark pants and a white tailored shirt. There were tiny square hoops at her ears and a thin matching bracelet on her wrist.
“Lieutenant. Detective. I think you know each other,” she added, gesturing to where Roarke sat, sipping what smelled like excellent coffee. “I didn’t put it together. You, my publisher. I knew the connection, of course, but with everything . . . with everything, it just didn’t input.”
“You get around,” Eve said to Roarke.
“As much as possible. I wanted to check on one of our valued authors, and convince her to accept security. I believe you recommended private security in this matter, Lieutenant.”
“I did.” Eve nodded. “It’s a good idea. If he’s providing it,” she told Samantha, “you’ll have the best.”
“I didn’t take any convincing. I want to live a long and happy life, and I’ll take whatever help I can get to make sure of it. Do you want coffee? Anything?”
“It’s real coffee?”
“She has a weakness.” Roarke smiled. “She married me for the coffee.”
Some of the bloom came back into Samantha’s cheeks. “I could write a hell of a book about the two of you. Glamour, sex, murder, the cop and the gazillionaire.”
“No,” they said together, and Roarke laughed.
“I don’t think so. I’ll deal with the coffee, Samantha. Why don’t you sit down? You’re tired.”
“And it shows.” Samantha sat, sighed and let Roarke go into the kitchen area for more coffee and cups. “I can’t sleep. I can work. I can put my head into the work, but when I stop, I can’t sleep. I want to be home, and I can’t stand the thought of being home. I’m tired of myself. I’m alive, I’m well and whole, and others aren’t, and I keep spiraling into self-pity anyway.”
“You should give yourself a break.”
“Dallas is right,” Peabody put in. “You were up and running a couple of weeks, come home to something that would put a lot of people under. You’ve been hit with everything all at once. A little self-pity doesn’t hurt. You should take a tranq and check out for eight or ten hours.”
“I hate tranqs.”
“There you take hands with the lieutenant.” Roarke came in with a tray. “She won’t take them voluntarily either.” He set the coffee down. “Do you want me out of your way?”
Eve studied him. “You’re not in it yet. I’ll let you know when you are.”
“You never fail.”
“Samantha, why did you leave out Alex Crew’s family connections in your book?”
“Connections?” Samantha leaned forward for her coffee and, Eve noted, avoided eye contact.
“Specifically Crew’s ex-wife and son. You give considerable details regarding Myers’s family and what they dealt with after his death. You speak at great length of William Young and your own family. And though you feature Crew prominently, there’s no mention of a wife or a child.”
“How do you know he had a wife and child?”
“I’m asking the questions. You didn’t miss those details in your research. Why aren’t they in the book?”
“You put me in a difficult position.” Samantha held the coffee, stirring, stirring, long after the minute sprinkle of sugar she’d added would have dissolved. “I made a promise. I couldn’t and wouldn’t have written the book without my family’s blessing. Most specifically without my grandparents’ permission. And I promised them I’d leave Crew’s son out of it.”
As if realizing what her hand was doing, she tapped the spoon on the rim of her cup, then set it aside. “He was only a little boy when this happened. My grandmother felt—still feels—that his mother was trying to protect him from Crew. Hide him from Crew.”
“Why did she think that?”
After setting her untasted coffee down, Samantha dragged her fingers through her hair. “I’m not free to talk about it. I swore I wouldn’t write about it, or talk about it in interviews. No.” She held up her hands before Eve could speak. “I know what you’re going to say, and you’re absolutely right. These are not ordinary circumstances. This is murder.”
“Then answer the question.”
“I need to make a call. I need to speak with my grandmother, which is going to start another round of demands, debates and worry with her and my grandfather. Another reason I’m not sleeping.”