The In Death Collection, Books 26-29

by J. D. Robb

  He turned back. “But you don’t think so.”

  “Morris, I know people in relationships do strange things. They say too much, don’t say enough.” Take me, she thought. Had she told Roarke she intended to contact Webster?

  “Or it could be, especially since our relationship had become very serious, I might have asked questions. Ones she didn’t want to answer. It’s not that she’d been involved with someone before, neither of us were children. But she’d been involved with Alex Ricker.”

  “Yes.”

  “The son of a known criminal, a known killer. One who, when they were involved, was still at large. Still in power. How likely is it that Alex Ricker is uninvolved, unconnected to his father’s activities? But she, a police official, became involved with him.”

  “He’s never been arrested or charged with any crime.”

  “Dallas.”

  “Okay, yeah, it’s dicey, it’s tricky. It’s sticky. I’m a police official, Morris, and I not only got involved with a man cops all over the planet—and off it—gave the hard eye to, I married him.”

  “One forgets,” he murmured. He came back to sit, to pick up his coffee again. “It would’ve caused some friction for her on the job. As it did for you.” When she said nothing, Morris lowered the mug. “Was she investigated?”

  “I’m going to find that out. But . . .” Truth, she reminded herself. That was the deal here. “She kept it to herself. From Ricker’s statement, from what I’ve gotten out of Atlanta, and out of her squad here, nobody knew she’d had a personal relationship with him.”

  “I see.”

  Worse, Eve realized, worse for him that the relationship with Alex had been important enough for her to have kept it a secret.

  “It could’ve been for a lot of reasons. The simplest is she wanted to keep her personal life off the job.”

  “No, you’re trying to comfort me again, to spare me. I know how the grapevine works. Everyone in my house, in hers, I’d wager nearly every cop, clerk, drone, and tech in Central knows Ammy and I were involved. Keeping it quiet had to be deliberate, and because of who he was. And to keep it quiet for that long? That’s serious.”

  He paused a moment, and his brows drew together. “You’re going to find out. You mean you’re going to talk to IAB?”

  “It’s necessary.”

  “If they didn’t know, they will now. After you talk to them.”

  “I can’t go around it. I’ll be as careful as I can, but—”

  “Give me a minute.” He stared down into his coffee. “Max Ricker carried cops in his pockets like other men carry loose credits. You’re wondering now if his son had Ammy in his.”

  “I have to ask. I have to look at it. If I factor it out, push it off to spare her rep, maybe her killer slips through the gap. That’s not going to happen. Not even for you.”

  “I knew her. I know how she thought, how she felt, how she slept and ate and lived. I’d have known if she was dirty. I know how she defined her work and how she felt about doing it.”

  “You didn’t know about Alex Ricker.”

  He stared. She watched the shutter come down, the one that shut her out as a friend, as a cop, as a colleague. “No, I didn’t.” He got back up onto his feet, spoke stiffly. “Thank you for keeping me informed.”

  She got to hers before he could get to the door of her office. “Morris, I can’t and won’t apologize for doing my job, but I can be sorry that the way I need to do it causes you pain. Just like I’m sorry to have to say this. Stay away from Alex Ricker. If I don’t have your word you’ll keep clear, make no contact with him, I’ll put a tail on you. I won’t let you impede the investigation.”

  “You have my word.” He went out and closed the door behind him.

  Alone, Eve sat at her desk, dropped her head into her hands. Friendships, she thought, were so damn complicated, so bound with sharp edges that could jab a hole through you at any given point.

  Why did people always get tangled up with other people? Why put ourselves through this shit?

  She had to consider the possibility Coltraine had been dirty. Wasn’t that hard enough? Did she have to carry the guilt for hurting Morris along with it?

  Crap. Yeah, she did. No way out of it.

  She wanted to ignore the knock on her door, really wanted just to wallow for a while in a little stew of self-pity. But duty won.

  “What? What the fuck do you want?”

  The door eased open a few inches, and Peabody peered in. “Ah. Are you okay?”

  There it was, Eve supposed. There was the answer to why people got tangled with people. Because when you were down, when you were wallowing, someone you mattered to would ask if you were okay.

  “No. Really not. Come in. Shut the door.” When she had, Eve blew out a breath and shook it off. “EDD?”

  “There’s nothing off on her home or work units. Nothing off on her house or office ’links. Nothing referencing an appointment or meet for the night she died. Her date books check out. The only one we haven’t been able to pin down, so far, is a notation for AR, the day before her murder. It’s listed under personal. No address, no number, with the additional notation of a-slash-s, which corresponds with ‘after shift’ in her other notes.”

  “I’ve got that one. Sit down. AR is Alex Ricker.”

  “Alex . . . as in Max Ricker?”

  “As in his only son. Here’s the deal.”

  Though she kept silent during Eve’s recap, various expressions raced over Peabody’s face, and Eve could read them perfectly. They ranged from Holy Shit to Poor Morris to What Now.

  “You told him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Peabody nodded. “Well, you had to.”

  “I didn’t tell him about Ricker’s lame alibi, because he didn’t ask. I didn’t tell him it was pretty damn clear to me Ricker still has feelings for Coltraine. Even without that, it was bad enough. I need you to get a warrant to search Alex Ricker’s penthouse, and to confiscate and search his electronics. He’ll be expecting it. He’ll have covered himself, if need be. But we’re pretty damn smart around here. We can see what’s under the covers if we look hard enough. We’ve got to check his idiot alibi. See who’s clear to sweep around Times Square with a picture. Sports bars are the focus. We’ll take over there once I’m finished up and able to get back out in the field.”

  Eve rubbed her eyes. “Now I’ve got to twist Webster into meeting me somewhere away from here, where we’re not going to run into other cops or anybody else.”

  “Lets you see how it was for her. I mean different reasons and all, but it’s stressful trying to arrange to see somebody on the down-low. I can’t imagine doing it for almost two years. Either she really loved him or the sex was, like, stupendously mag.”

  “Or she liked the thrill, and the profit.”

  “Oh, right.” Peabody’s face fell. “It’s hard to go there.”

  “Tell me. But I’m going, and . . . I’ve just thought of the perfect place.” She swiveled to her ’link. “Shut the door on your way out. No point in advertising I’m calling the Rat Squad.”

  The Down and Dirty was a sex and strip joint where the patrons downed the throat-searing, stomach-burning adult beverages, and liked it. For those who could pay the freight, private rooms offered a cot and a lock, and an area in which to perform whatever natural or unnatural acts they chose.

  Privacy booths were often choked with smoke while illegals were passed around like candy corn. At night, the stage generally held a band of some sort, in various stages of undress and with questionable talents. Dancers with the same qualifications usually joined them—as did patrons who might be influenced by those adult beverages and/or illegals.

  Violence was known to break out—suddenly and gleefully—which was part of the appeal to some. Odd and unattractive substances stuck to the floor, and the food was utter crap.

  Eve’s bachelor party had been held there, during which she’d caught a murderer. Good times.
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  The man behind the bar towered up to about six and a half feet of muscle. His black skin gleamed against an open leather vest and body ink. His shaven head shone like a dark moon as he mopped the bartop and the holoband beat out a jungle rhythm for a trio of impressively built and talentless dancers.

  Crowds didn’t pack into the club this time of day, but a few men huddled at tables sucking brews, apparently content to watch the clumsy footwork since it was attached to naked tits.

  Two of them scanned her as she strode by, then hunched down to make themselves, she supposed, disappear. The guy behind the bar gave her a good, long stare. Bared his teeth.

  “Hey, skinny white girl.”

  “Hey, big black guy.”

  His wide, homely face broke into a grin. He reached across the bar with arms as long as Fifth Avenue, lifted her off her feet, and slapped his mouth noisily to hers.

  “Come on” was all she could say.

  “Can’t help it. I missed seeing your face, plus I thought about you just this morning. How about that?”

  “Yeah, how about that. How’s it going, Crack?”

  “Be up, be down. Mostly be up these days. I went by the park this morning, like I do once in a while, to take a look at the tree you had planted for my baby girl. My baby sister. It’s greening up. Makes me feel good to see how it’s getting green.”

  His expression changed from pleasant to dangerous, like a flick of a switch, when someone dared to approach the bar for service while he was otherwise engaged.

  The customer slunk away.

  They called him Crack, it was well known, for his habit of cracking skulls together—be they employee or patron—if their behavior displeased him.

  “Whatchu doing in my place?”

  “I’ve got a meet, and I wanted to have it in private.”

  “You want a room?”

  “Not that kind of private.”

  “Good to hear. I like your man. I hope he be up.”

  “Roarke being up is never a problem.”

  Crack’s laughter was like a thunderclap.

  “Anyway, I thought I could take the meet here, and not run into another cop. If that’s not a problem for you.”

  “You want, I’ll kick these assholes out of here, close the place down, and you can have it to yourself as long as you want.”

  “Just a table, thanks.”

  “Drink?”

  “Do I look suicidal?”

  “Got some bottled water in the back.” His gaze tracked away from her. “You don’t wanna see other cops, you got a problem, ’cause one of your kind just came in.”

  She nodded, spotting Webster. “It’s okay. That’s my meet.”

  “Take any table you want.”

  “Thanks.” She walked toward Webster, then gestured toward a corner table, and kept walking.

  It was always a little awkward, dealing with him, she admitted. Not because she’d bounced with him once, when they’d both been detectives working Homicide. But because he’d taken the bounce a lot more seriously than she had.

  More awkward yet as, years after, he’d lost his mind apparently and put a move on her. One Roarke had walked in on even as she’d been deflecting it. The two of them had gone at each other like a couple of crazed wolves, wrecked her home office and caused each other considerable bodily damage before Roarke had knocked Webster unconscious.

  They’d come to terms, she reminded herself. She and Roarke, Roarke and Webster, she and Webster, whatever.

  Still. Awkward. And that was before you added the sticky layer of Internal Affairs.

  Webster, a good-looking man with sharp eyes, scanned the room, then sat—like Eve—with his back to the wall. “Interesting choice of venue.”

  “Works for me. I appreciate you meeting me.”

  “Aren’t we polite?”

  “Don’t start with me.”

  He shrugged, leaned back. “Can we get coffee in this place?” “Sure. If you’ve got a death wish.”

  He smiled at her. “Does Roarke know you’re meeting me in a sex joint?”

  “Webster, I’d as soon nobody knows I’m meeting IAB anywhere, anytime.”

  And leaning against the wall, his back went up. “We’ve all got a job to do, Dallas. If you didn’t need IAB, we wouldn’t be here.”

  Since he had a point, she didn’t argue. “I need to know if IAB has any connection to or any interest in my investigation of Detective Amaryllis Coltraine’s murder.”

  “Why would you ask?”

  “Yes or no, Webster.”

  “Have you uncovered any evidence or are you pursuing any line of investigation that indicates there is or should be IAB involvement?”

  She leaned forward. “Fuck that. A cop’s dead. Try to care a little.”

  He mirrored her move. “Fuck that. If I didn’t care I wouldn’t be IAB.”

  “Give me a yes or no to my question, I’ll give you a yes or no to yours.”

  He leaned back again, studying her. Calculating, she knew, how to handle it. “Yes.”

  The knot in her belly twisted, but she nodded. “Yes. I need to know if she was dirty, Webster.”

  “Can’t tell you. Can’t tell you,” he repeated, pointing a warning finger when her eyes fired, “because I don’t know.”

  “Tell me what you do know. Quid pro quo,” she added. “I’ll reciprocate, with the stipulation we both keep this conversation off our records, unless both agree otherwise.”

  “I can do that. You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t already made the connection between Coltraine and Alex Ricker. Is he a suspect?”

  “He is. I don’t have enough, or much of anything on him. But I’m looking. IAB’s been on her since Atlanta, then?”

  “The bureau down there got a tip she was involved with Ricker.”

  “A tip?” Eve prompted.

  “Some photos of Coltraine and Ricker—hand-holding, lip-locking—landed on IAB’s desk.”

  “Handy. Somebody wanted her roasted.”

  “Probably. It doesn’t change the picture. IAB got the package about nine months before she requested transfer. They followed through on it, confirmed. While each maintained a separate residence, they essentially lived together in a third—a condo in Atlanta in a building owned by Max Ricker. Private entrance, private elevator, private garage. She could come and go with little risk of being seen. They also spent time together when she was off the roll. She traveled with him to Paris, London, Rome. He bought her jewelry, high-ticket items.”

  “No high-ticket items in her place,” Eve put in. “No evidence she kept a lockbox anywhere.”

  “She gave it all back when they split.”

  “How do you know? You had her surveilled? You had the place wired?”

  “I can’t confirm or deny. I’m telling you what I know.”

  “If all this was going on, why didn’t IAB pull her in?”

  “Contrary to popular belief, we don’t go after cops for the fun of it. Alex Ricker? No criminal, no evidence of criminal. No evidence Coltraine was on the take or passing police info to him. Hypothetically, if the place was wired, Alex Ricker and his old man are the types who have places swept regularly.”

  “And who are smart enough not to discuss anything incriminating unless they’re sure it’s safe.”

  “They got bits and pieces.”

  “Did she meet Ricker?” Eve demanded “Max Ricker? Have any dealings with him?”

  “Nothing came up. Then again, like I said, she and Ricker’s boy, Alex, traveled. So they could have. But those bits and pieces included the boy making it clear he didn’t want to discuss Daddy. So they didn’t. Upshot is, things got rocky in paradise, seriously rocky after Daddy went down.”

  “When we took him down,” Eve murmured.

  “Yeah. She started spending more time at her own place. They argued a few times when there were eyes on them. Then it shut down. Few weeks later, she put in for the transfer to New York.”

  “That’s
when you guys took over.”

  “We kept an eye on her. Nothing close. Maybe if we had, she’d be alive. The fact is, we looked, couldn’t find, and put her on the outer rung. Nothing we picked up since she transferred indicates any contact with Ricker—Max or Alex.”

  “Alex Ricker’s in New York. She met with him the day before she was murdered.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “I just said we’d bumped her down.” Frustration pumped out of him. “We don’t crucify cops, goddamn it. She’d screwed around with the son of a known bad guy, but nobody can pin anything on the son. It smelled, sure, but nobody found anything to pin on her either. She came here, by all appearances kept her nose clean. We weren’t dogging her. I wish we had been. I don’t like dirty cops, Dallas, but I sure as hell hate dead ones.”

  “Okay, fine. Throttle back, Webster.”

  “Fuck that, too. Are you looking at jealous former lover here? He does her or has her done because she walked away, and she’s heating sheets with Morris?”

  Eve lifted her eyebrows.

  “Christ, everyfuckingbody knows Morris had a thing going with her. I’m goddamn sorry for him.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She did her own throttling back because she knew that as truth. “Yeah, it could play that way. The problem is, he has a really crappy alibi. If he’s a bad guy, he’s a really smart one, so why doesn’t he have a solid alibi?”

  “Sometimes the crappy ones are more believable.”

  “Yeah, I’ve gone there, too. He was still in love with her, at least part of the way. Still stuck on her.”

  Webster twisted his lips into a pained smile. “I know how that goes.”

  Eve eased back, cursed herself for walking straight into it. “Come on.”

  “I’ve recovered,” he said easily. “But I do know how it goes. It pisses you off, and pushes at you. I never wanted to kill you though.”

  “Whoever did her wanted it. Planned it. You can’t tell me either way, if she was dirty or not.”

  “No. You can’t tell me either. You can’t give her the benefit of the doubt. Whatever you want to say about IAB, you know you have to look at her for being on the take, or at least under the influence of her feelings for the guy. You have to follow the line.”