by J. D. Robb
She went back to the time line, tried to find a hole in it. Her ’link signaled, with an order to report to her commander.
To save time, she squeezed herself on an elevator. She rode up partway with cops, lawyers, and a small, long-eared dog.
“Eye wit,” the cop standing beside the dog told her.
“That so?”
“More like nose witness. Owner got himself mugged while he was walking Abe here. Claims Abe’ll ID the guy who mugged him by smell.” The cop shrugged. “We got three possibles, so, what the hell.”
“Yeah, good luck with that.”
Eve tried to work out how they expected to convince the PA to bring charges against a suspect on the nose of a dog as she covered the rest of the distance to her commander’s office.
“Go right in, Lieutenant.” The admin gestured. “They’re waiting for you.”
Commander Whitney sat at his desk, his back to the view of the city he’d protected and served more than half of his life. His face showed the years, but Eve had always felt it showed them in a way that mattered. Showed in the lines and grooves dug into his dark skin that he’d lived those years, and remembered them.
He wore his hair short, and though she suspected his wife would have preferred it otherwise, he let the salt sprinkle liberally over the pepper. He carried his big, wide build well, and held his command with a strong hand.
“Commander,” she began, then paused as the man sitting in the high-backed visitor’s chair facing the desk rose. “Chief Tibble.”
Not just the commander, she thought, reevaluating, but the Chief of Police.
“Lieutenant.” Whitney pointed to the second chair. “Have a seat.”
She obeyed, though she preferred standing, preferred giving her oral reports on her feet.
“Lieutenant.” Tibble took the jump, and made her wonder why, if this was his meet, she wasn’t sitting in The Tower. “I asked the commander to give me a few minutes with you here. Regarding the Anders investigation.”
“Yes, sir.”
He sat back. A lean man, he favored good suits, and—as she recalled—a good Scotch. Like Whitney, he’d come up through the ranks, and though he was now—essentially—a politician, the office hadn’t shoved the cop out of him.
“My reason for asking is somewhat personal.”
“Did you know Mr. Anders, sir?”
“No, I didn’t. My wife, however, is acquainted with his widow.”
Eve thought: Crap.
“They’ve served on several committees together. In any case, when my wife contacted Mrs. Anders to offer her condolences, Mrs. Anders expressed considerable concern over how the current media tone will affect not only her late husband’s reputation, the business, but the charitable programs associated with Anders Worldwide. I’m in the position of asking you to assist in damping down the media.”
“With all respect, Chief Tibble, how do you propose I do that? It’s not Code Blue, and if it was termed such at this point, if we instigated a media blackout now, it would only feed the beast.”
“I agree. Is there any area of your investigation at this point that would give them a different bone to gnaw on?”
“I believe the circumstances under which the victim was found was a setup. But if I toss that bone out, I would jeopardize the investigation, and alert the suspect to the line I’m pursuing.”
“You have a suspect?”
“I do. The widow.”
Tibble let out a sigh, tipped back his head and looked at the ceiling. “Hell. How—” He cut himself off. “Sorry, Jack, this is your area.”
“Lieutenant, explain how a woman who was several thousand miles away at the time of the murder heads the top of your list of suspects?”
“It’s not confirmed she was in St. Lucia, Commander. There was no video on the transmission from the house manager. I’ve sent that transmission and a sample of Mrs. Anders’s voice from an interview this morning to the lab for voice print comparison. Even if that confirms her alibi, she’s involved. She’s part of it. She’s lying, Commander. She’s lying,” she repeated, looking back at the chief. “She tells your wife she’s concerned about the fallout from the media. The fallout revealing her husband engaged in extramarital sex, which included bondage, scarfing, but the widow is the only person interviewed who confirms those allegations.”
“Arguably,” Whitney said, “the wife would know her husband’s sexual proclivities while others don’t.”
“Yeah, and that’s something she counted on. She’s wrong, Commander. I don’t have it solid yet, but I know she’s wrong. The staging’s wrong. It’s too elaborate, too…fussy,” she said for a lack of better. “Whoever did it knew the house, the security, knew Anders’s habits. There were little mistakes, but for the most part, it was well planned. Whoever did it wanted to humiliate him, to open him to the very media frenzy that’s happening. Mrs. Anders is an expert in PR. Just like she knows that if she plays this right, after the jokes about her die down, she’ll come out golden. Who gets the sympathy, the support, the understanding? She’ll be the victim, and she’ll be the one squaring her shoulders and going on.”
“Are you saying she did this for the publicity?” Whitney demanded.
“No, sir, but it’s a side benefit she’d be aware of, and will find a way to exploit.
“It wasn’t a stranger, Commander, it wasn’t a pro, and it wasn’t an accident. That leaves me with Ava Anders.”
“Then prove it,” Whitney told her.
“Yes, sir. I have Roarke on as expert consultant, analyzing all the financials, looking for any hidden accounts.”
“If anyone could find them.”
“Yes, sir,” she repeated. “I intend to run a deeper background check on Mrs. Anders, and interview her first husband, as well as other friends and associates of hers and the victim’s.”
She rose. “Regarding the media, Chief Tibble, Detective Peabody will be appearing on Now this evening. I can’t speak for Nadine Furst, but I do have knowledge she knew the victim and liked him. Respected him.”
“Why Peabody,” Whitney demanded, “and not you?”
“Because, Commander, she needs a shove into the deep end of the pool. And Nadine is very fond of Peabody. That doesn’t mean she won’t push or dig, but she won’t eat her alive. And, in my opinion, sir, Detective Peabody can and will handle herself.”
“If she fucks up, Lieutenant?” Tibble smiled. “You’ll be the one dealing with my wife.”
“So noted. Actually, it might be helpful for me to speak with her, if you don’t object.”
“Go right ahead. But fair warning. She’s feeling very protective of Mrs. Anders at the moment.”
Varying approaches on interviewing the wife of the Chief of Police occupied her mind all the way back to Homicide. Diplomacy could be key, and that particular key tended to go slippery in her fingers. But she’d hold it steady. Next came the trick of interviewing a cop’s wife—the top cop’s wife—without letting her suspect you suspected the woman she was “feeling very protective of.”
Just have to pull it off, Eve thought. That’s why they paid her the medium bucks.
“Lady! Yo, lady!”
It took her a minute, but she made the voice, and the small package it came from. Coffee-black skin, vivid green eyes, a curly high-top of hair. The boy hauled the same battered suitcase—approximately the size of Staten Island—he’d hauled in December when he’d been hustling the fake cashmere scarves inside it near the splatted body of a jumper on Broadway.
“Didn’t I tell you before I’m not a lady.”
“You’re a cop. I tracked you down, and I’ve been waiting here, and these other cops tried hassling me about why wasn’t I in school and that shit.”
“Why aren’t you in school and that shit?”
“’Cause I got business.” He shot a finger at her. “With you.”
“I’m not buying anything.”
“I gotta tip.”
“Yea
h? I’ve got one, too. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”
“Why not? You can’t chew it, you just spit it out anyway.”
That wasn’t stupid, Eve noted. “Okay, what’s your tip?”
“I’ll tell you, but I’m pretty thirsty.” He gave her the same grin he’d flashed the previous December.
“Do I look like a mark, shortie?”
“You look like the top bitch cop in New York City. That’s word on the street.”
“Yeah.” Maybe she could spare a minute, and the price of a Pepsi. “That is the correct word. Give me the tip, and if I like it, I’ll pop for a drink.”
“I know where there’s suspicious activity, and suspicious characters. I’m gonna take you.”
“Kid, you’re hard pressed to find anywhere in the city where there aren’t suspicious activities and suspicious characters.”
He shook his head in disgust. “You a cop or what?”
“We established that. And I’ve got cop work to do.”
“Same guy, same place, same times. Every day for five weeks. I seen it. Maybe they see me, too, but they don’t mind me ’cause I be a kid.”
No, Eve thought, not stupid. Most people didn’t see kids. “What does this same guy do at the same place at the same times every day for five weeks that makes him a suspicious character involved in suspicious activity?”
“He goes in with a big old shopping bag heavy the way he carries it. And a couple minutes later, bop! he comes out again, and he’s got a different bag. It ain’t heavy either.” The kid adjusted the airboard slung at his back.
“Where is this den of iniquity?”
The kid’s brow furrowed like an elderly grandfather’s. “Ain’t no den. It’s a store. I’m gonna take you. It’s a good tip. I oughta get an orange fizzy.”
“You oughta get a kick in the ass.” But she pulled out credits, passed them over, jerked a thumb at Vending. While he plugged in credits, she considered. The kid was sharp enough, and had probably seen just what he said. Meaning the store was a front—or a beard—for passing off wallets, bags, and whatever else the street thief could lift from tourists and New Yorkers foolish enough to get their pockets picked.
The kid sucked on the fizzy. “We gotta get, so you can catch them.”
“Give me the location, and I’ll send cops over.”
“Uh-uh. I gotta show you. That’s the deal.”
“What deal? I didn’t make any damn deal. I don’t have time to go driving around, waiting for some pocket man to make his bag drop.”
The boy’s eyes were like glass, and just as sharp. “I guess you don’t be much of a cop.”
She could’ve stared him down, she was pretty sure of it. But he made her shoulder blades itch. “You’re a pain in the ass.” She checked the time, calculated. Odds were the drop spot was in Times Square where she’d had the misfortune of meeting the kid in the first place. She could swing by there on the way home. Maybe she’d get some damn work done at home without being interrupted every five minutes.
“Wait here,” she ordered. “If you’re not right here when I get back, I’ll hunt you down like a dog and stuff you inside that suitcase. Dig?”
“I gonna show you?”
“Yeah, you’re going to show me. Stay.” She strode into the bullpen. “Peabody, I have to make a run, semipersonal, then I’m going to work at home.”
“But—but—I have to leave for 75 in…in like any minute!”
“Do that, copy any new data, shoot it to my home office.”
“But…” On a run, Peabody rushed after Eve. “You’re not going with me?”
“Pull yourself together, Peabody.” Eve grabbed file discs, tossed them into her bag. “You’ve done on-air before.”
“Not like this. Dallas, you’ve gotta go with me. I can’t go there by myself. I’ll—”
“Jesus, how can people be worth all this? Take McNab. Tell his DS I cleared it.” Eve dragged on her coat. “And don’t fuck up.”
“You’re supposed to say break a leg!” Peabody called out as Eve stomped away.
“Fuck it up and I’ll break your damn leg myself.”
“Dallas.”
“What?” She rounded on Baxter with a snarl, then remembered. “Sorry. Any new leads?”
“No. Have you—”
“No, I haven’t had a chance to look at the file. Soon as I can, Baxter.” A headache brought on, she knew, by sheer irritation, began to pulse behind her eyes. “Let’s go, kid, and if you’re stringing me you’ll find out firsthand why the word is I’m top bitch cop.”
In the garage the kid shook his head sorrowfully at her vehicle. He climbed in, steadied the suitcase on his lap, took a long study of the dash, then turned those Venusian green eyes on her. “This ride is crap.”
“You got better?”
“I ain’t got ride, but I know crap. How come top bitch cop has a crap ride?”
“This is a question I ask myself daily. You got a name?”
“You got one?”
She had the oddest feeling she amused him. “Lieutenant Dallas.”
“What kinda name’s Loo-tenit?”
“It’s rank. It’s my rank.”
“I don’t got no rank, don’t got no ride.”
“Name, kid, or the adventure stops here.”
“Tiko.”
“Okay, Tiko, where are we going?”
He put on what Eve supposed was his enigmatic face. “Maybe we cruise over round Times Square.”
She drove out of the garage, wedged into traffic. “What’s in the case this time?”
“I got me the cashmere scarves and matching caps. How come you don’t wear no cap? Heat falls out the top of your head you don’t wear a cap.”
“How come you’re not wearing one?”
“Sold it.” He grinned at her. “I’m a selling fool.”
“As a selling fool, Tiko, why did you haul yourself and that case all the way down to Central to tell me about the drop?”
“I didn’t drop nothing.”
Not as streetwise as he appeared, she decided. “About the suspicious activities.”
“I don’t like suspicious activities round my yard. I got business. Somebody steals wallets and shit, then people don’t have the money to buy my scarves and caps and pretty soon in good weather my one hundred percent silk scarves and ties.”
Since it made perfect sense, Eve nodded. “Okay, why not tell one of the uniforms on the beat?”
“Why do that when I gotta line on the top bitch?”
Tough to find a hole in his logic, Eve decided. “You got digs, Tiko?”
“I got digs, don’t you worry. Maybe you turn on Forty-fourth, and dump the ride there. Anybody knows anything sees this crap ride, makes it for a cop’s.”
Once again, he had it nailed. She cut over, shoving her way crosstown. Maybe the kid was lucky, but she scored a second-level street spot between Seventh and Eighth.
“You got your weapon and shit, right?” he asked as they started to hoof it through the throng and east toward Broadway.
“I got my weapon and shit. Is this place on the west or east side of Broadway?”
“East. I got my yard on the west side, work it from Forty-second right on up to Forty-seventh. But I can stay mostly round Forty-fourth. Place is ’tween Forty-third and Forty-fourth, right on Broadway. He gonna be coming along pretty soon now.”
“Here’s how it’s going to work. You’re going to go on ahead, set up in your usual spot. I’ll come along, take a look at your merchandise. You see this guy, you point him out—without pointing, get me? I’ll take it from there.”
Excitement danced in his eyes. “Like I’m undercover.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Scram.”
He scrammed, short, sturdy legs pumping, huge suitcase bumping. Eve pulled out her communicator and called for a couple of uniforms. When Eve turned the corner onto Broadway, Tiko had his convertible case unfolded and set on its tripod legs. It didn’
t surprise her in the least to see he already had a couple of customers.
Broadway’s perpetual party rocked with its flashing lights, skyscraping screens, and billboards. Whole platoons of teenagers filled the sidewalks, zipping on airboards, cruising on skates, or clomping on the current trend of three-inch, gel-soled boots. On their corners, the carts did business zippily, passing out dogs, pretzels, kabobs, scoops of fries or hash, and all manner of liquid refreshment.
Tourists gawked at the colors, the ad blimps, the arcades, and the sex shops, which also did business zippily. Most of those tourists, in Eve’s opinion, might have been wearing a neon sign with a blinking arrow pointing at their pockets.
PICK ME.
She sidled up to Tiko’s table, and he gave her an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle. “Hundred percent cashmere. Scarves and caps. Got a special price today you buy a set.”
“What’s so special about it?”
He grinned. “Hundred for the set. Usually it cost you $125. Charge you five times that easy in the store. This here striped one—He’s coming now.” Tiko dropped his voice to a dramatic whisper, as if his words might carry through the avalanche of noise and across the street. “Red shopping bag. See him—”
“Don’t point.”
Eve glanced casually over her shoulder. She saw the red bag, and the tall, gangly man in a gray field jacket and black watch cap.
“You gotta go get him. Hundred dollars for the set,” Tiko said to a woman who stopped to browse his stock. “Today only. You go on and get him.”
Where the hell were her uniforms? “I got cops coming.”
“You a cop.”
“I’ll take these,” the woman said, digging out her wallet.
Tiko grabbed a clear plastic bag. “He’s gonna go in!”
“I’m Homicide. Is there a dead body in there?”
“How do I know?” He managed to bag the cap and scarf, take the money, make change, and stare holes through Eve.
“Crap. You stay here. You stay exactly here.”
To keep from drawing attention, she crossed at the light, kicked it up to a weaving sprint, ignored the curses from people she bumped aside. She kept the bagman in her crosshairs, and was less than three yards behind him when he turned into a storefront offering New York City souvenirs, including T-shirts at three for $49.95.