Connections in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel

by J. D. Robb

  “My client, in fact, had no connection to the deceased and therefore would have no cause to order his murder. However, my client believes he may have some information that may help the police identify the individual who did, in fact, kill Mr. Pickering. He will offer that information in exchange for immunity on the lesser charges of assault, illegal possession, possession of—”

  “Stop talking.”

  Quentin’s mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Stop talking.” Time, Eve decided, to wipe some of that green away. “If your murderous fuck of a client thinks he can try to toss this off on Marcus Jones, you’re wasting my time, my partner’s time. And if you actually believe your scum of a client, you’re going to last about six months as a PD.”

  “Speaking to me or about my client in such a way—”

  “Stop talking,” Eve repeated. “They rolled on you, Bolt. Snapper, Ticker—if we’re going to use your lame gang names. They rolled, then folded you up and rolled some more.”

  Bolt leaned to his attorney, spoke low in his ear. Quentin nodded, cleared his throat. “My client and I are fully aware police officers are allowed to lie and mislead during an interview. Now, though my client is barely acquainted with the individuals you named, he did see them briefly at or about the time of Lyle Pickering’s murder when they joined, for a short time, a casual game of basketball at a location known as the lot.”

  “That’s interesting. Isn’t that interesting, Peabody?”

  “I’m riveted. I mean, sure, his lame-ass alibis both stated they were playing when he joined, but it’s easy to mix up little details like that when you’re lying.”

  “It’s always the little things,” Eve agreed. “And speaking of little things, I bet Washington, Chesterfield—and we need to add Aimes in here—didn’t mention to your client the little things they took from the Pickering apartment after they carried out his orders and pumped a killing dose of Go into Pickering.”

  “There’s no evidence my client—”

  Eve rolled over him like his fellow gang members rolled on Jorgenson. “Like the shiny red purse from the vic’s sister’s closet we found in Aimes’s pigsty of a room. And you know what? It had earrings inside with blood traces from where they’d been ripped out of earlobes. Dinnie Duff’s blood, as it happened.”

  “My client’s hardly responsible for or connected to—”

  “Not finished,” Eve said, and had to admit she enjoyed interrupting him again. “Washington had a pair of earrings, too.” She shoved a photo from her file onto the table. “Taken from Rochelle Pickering’s bedroom. He had them in his pocket, Bolt. I mean, Jesus, can’t you find anybody smarter? Not Chesterfield, that’s for sure, as he traded this bracelet—also from Rochelle Pickering’s bedroom—for sex, and had on his person at the time of his arrest, this brooch, taken from Rochelle Pickering’s bedroom. The asshole was wearing shoes he stole from Pickering’s closet.”

  “If this is true, it has nothing to do with my client.”

  “I bet it pisses him off,” Eve said, watching the muscles in Bolt’s jaw tighten. “I mean, Jesus, they had one job. You sent three of them—four when you include Duff—to kill one guy. Get in, do it, plant the illegals, get out. But they had to take some shiny things.”

  “Actually, Lieutenant, he gave them two jobs that day. After Lyle, he ordered them to kill Dinnie Duff.”

  “That’s true. Two jobs in one day. It’s practically asking them to multitask. They screwed that up, too, ripping off her earrings, leaving hair and fiber on her body when they raped her. Now, we get the motive there. A junkie like Duff could blab, and doing her, leaving her in the neutral zone stirs up trouble with the Dragons. But I don’t get the motive on Pickering. Why him, Bolt?”

  “My client maintains, and will continue to maintain, his innocence in these matters.”

  “Then I guess he maintains same for the murder of Barry Aimes, and the subsequent transporting of his body into Chinatown. You know, Bolt, I figured you for the bright one of the group, because Washington and Chesterfield barely have half a brain between them, but using your cousin’s van to haul the body to the alley behind Ho’s family restaurant?”

  As if in pity, Eve shook her head. “We’re processing it now. Found it exactly where Chesterfield said we would.”

  Fury rippled over Bolt’s face, but he again leaned to his attorney. This time it took a little longer.

  “My client relates that if his cousin’s vehicle was used in the commission of a crime, numerous people knew where said vehicle was kept.”

  “Yeah? How many of them had the access code to the garage where it was kept, or the codes to the van itself? How do you explain your client’s prints on and in the van?”

  This time when Bolt leaned toward Quentin, Eve rolled her eyes.

  “For Christ’s sake, just say it. Do you want to be in the box all day?”

  “My client assists his cousin on a part-time basis in his delivery service, therefore his fingerprints could certainly be in and on said vehicle. Lieutenant, you have nothing but circumstantial evidence and supposition in regards to my client. I believe it’s time to conclude this interview.”

  “Do you? Well, let’s do one more thing. Peabody, cue it up and roll it out.”

  21

  Eve just sat back and enjoyed while Peabody ran portions of the interviews. Washington implicating Jorgenson, Chesterfield confirming the implication.

  Back and forth, back and forth.

  When Quentin tried to interrupt, Eve just pointed at him. “Stop talking.”

  She ended the screening after Chesterfield stated Jorgenson brought the van to the lot where they’d lured Aimes with the idea of getting high and shooting baskets.

  Me and Snap can’t drive, don’t know how, so Bolt, he drives, then me and Snapper, we carry Fist down the alley and shove him behind the recycler. After, Bolt takes the van back so his cousin don’t know nothing, then we go change ’cause we’re bloody. And I traded that bracelet thing to Yolanda, got a BJ.

  Then we go get some eats.

  Eve signaled Peabody, then turned to Jorgenson. “Yeah, slitting throats and trying to incite gang wars sparks up the appetite. I’ve got cops at the diner now, talking to the staff. We’ll nail you there, with the assholes you enlisted. Oh, and just another small detail. I guess you haven’t helped out in your cousin’s business in the last few weeks. He installed a security cam over the door.”

  Eve circled a finger in the air, then pointed it at Jorgenson. “Gotcha.”

  “I need to consult with my client.”

  “Bet you do. Dallas and Peabody exiting Interview. Record off.”

  At the door, Eve looked back at Jorgenson with a smile that could have sliced bone.

  “Check in with the sweepers,” Eve ordered once they were outside the Interview room. “I’ll tag Officers Carmichael and Shelby.”

  “On it. I’m getting a fizzy—need a boost. Do you want a Pepsi?”

  Eve only nodded. “Officer Carmichael.”

  As she listened to him her smile turned to one of pure satisfaction.

  She took it with her into Observation, where Reo sat, coffee in hand, watching the screen split into various interviews. She muted the sound.

  “You just missed Mira. She’ll be back. We both agree you’ve got Jorgenson on the ropes. And she didn’t see the last few minutes.”

  “I got more. I’ve got witnesses at the diner where he had ‘eats’ with Washington and Chesterfield after dumping Aimes and ditching the bloody clothes.”

  “You’ve got someone who puts all three of them there, together?”

  “Two someones. My cops tracked down the cook and a waitress from the night shift. Both state all three came in, together, right about three-thirty. That works, given the time the witness from across the alley thinks she heard voices. Add the time for them to get the van back to the cousin’s garage, change, for that idiot Chesterfield to trade the stolen bracelet for a quick BJ
. Yeah, it works. And the waitress states Jorgenson paid for all three, said it was for doing what had to be done.”

  “That should put him on the mat. Not out, but down. His lawyer’s going to want to deal. Call me in if and when he does. I’ll enjoy shattering his dreams.”

  Peabody came in. “Hey, Reo.”

  “Sit,” Eve ordered. “Put the knee up.”

  “I will, for a minute, while I tell you…” She sat, breathed slowly in and out as she lifted her foot onto a chair Reo moved over for her. “The sweepers are still processing, but they’ve got Jorgenson’s prints as reported earlier. Driver’s door, cargo doors, the wheel. No surprise there, or finding the other two idiots’ prints. The new is they’ve picked up some blood in the cargo area. Not readily visible—laying the body on plastic was, at least, semi-smart. But it didn’t catch it all. They’re taking samples, doing an on-site comparison.

  “Oh, and the cousin’s pissed. He claims he cut Jorgenson off over the winter because he knew Jorgenson was stealing from him, suspected he took the van out for joyrides, or to have sex. It’s why he installed the door cam.”

  “Why didn’t he change the damn code on the garage?”

  “He did, and that seemed to solve things. He caught Jorgenson trying to get in once on the feed, then that was it. He hardly checked the feed the last couple weeks, because no more trouble. Until he found out this morning Jorgenson threatened one of his drivers into giving him the code just a few days ago. She was too scared to tell him what happened, then let it all out when the cops came to the office.”

  “He planned it out. One of the three was always going to die.”

  “I think I see X’s in his eyes,” Reo commented.

  Eve cracked the tube, drank, paced. “He’d have been smarter to do it all himself. Get Duff to let him in, deal with Pickering—though he wouldn’t have taken Pickering out easy, and that’s one reason. But he does that, does Duff, and if he needs more, he pulls out somebody like Aimes, does what he does. But he draws in three morons. Because he wants a following, he wants to be in charge. He goes low there because he can manipulate them. Once they kill for him, he’s got them. And once they kill the weakest among them, they’re sealed. That’s how he saw it. You get the war started, whatever else it takes, and use it to take Jones out, one way or the other, and step in.”

  She drank again, gestured with the tube. “He sincerely believed they’d go down for him. They’d never flip. That’s his arrogance, his own sense of self-importance. One flips because he thinks it makes them all heroes, because being a killer is a badge of honor.”

  “And he believes, probably sincerely,” Peabody added, “that Jorgenson feels exactly the same.”

  “You got that. The second flips because he’s not just stupid but scared. Take away his high, his gang buddies, he breaks down.”

  “I’ll put in,” Reo commented, “it strikes me Jorgenson lacks leadership qualities.”

  “You’ve got that right. We’re going to hit him with Jones,” Eve told Peabody. “The skimming, the partnership with Cohen, the whole ball. He won’t take it well.”

  “You know, you need to start stocking popcorn around here.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Eve turned to the door as a uniform opened it.

  “Sir, Jorgenson’s lawyer’s ready to resume.”

  “Thank you, Officer. Come on, Peabody, let’s finish this fucker.”

  Eve stepped into Interview, resumed the record, sat.

  “Lieutenant, my client believes he may have some information that will apply to your investigation and perhaps aid you in it.”

  “We’re all ears, right, Peabody?”

  “We got four of them.”

  “In sharing this information, I’ve advised my client he may be in some legal jeopardy, despite acting without prior knowledge of any crime. We require assurances my client won’t be prosecuted for these actions without knowledge, or the subsequent knowledge afforded during this interview, which has led my client to believe he has salient information.”

  “That’s a lot of words to say you want to cut a deal.”

  “Lieutenant, since hearing the statements made by Washington and Chesterfield, and becoming aware they not only committed three murders but have attempted to implicate him, my client wishes to cooperate with the police in these matters.”

  “Lots of words to say your client’s found himself in a hard corner and wants to try to slither his way out.”

  The PD sent Eve what she supposed he thought was a stern look. “You’re required to inform the prosecutor’s office that my client has information that may help in your investigation and in the subsequent prosecution of charged parties.”

  “Words, words.” Eve rose, went to the door. “Officer, would you inform APA Cher Reo we have a suspect who’s looking to deal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Eve sat again, hooked an arm over the back of her chair, and met Jorgenson’s stare with one of her own.

  He looked away first.

  As the uniform let Reo in, Eve spoke for the record. “Reo, APA Cher, entering Interview.”

  “Paul Quentin.” The public defender extended a hand. “Attorney for Mr. Jorgenson.”

  “Tough for you.” But Reo shook his hand before taking a seat. “So?”

  Quentin repeated his pitch, almost verbatim, while Reo sat, folded her hands.

  “How about the short answer? No deal.”

  “Ms. Reo, I don’t doubt the prosecutor wants convictions on these murders. My client has information that will aid you in achieving that.”

  “Both Washington and Chesterfield have tendered full confessions for their parts in the murders, and in doing so, both—independently—implicated your client in those murders. No deal.”

  “My client maintains that his actions were done without prior knowledge of these crimes. Furthermore, he has information that will aid your investigation, your convictions of the perpetrators, and assist you in identifying others involved.”

  “Others. Now that’s interesting.”

  “It’s bullshit, Reo,” Eve said.

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. Here’s what we’ll do. If your client provides true and salient information that leads to the arrest of others involved in the murders of Pickering, Duff, Aimes, we’ll talk deal.”

  “Immunity from all charges.”

  “Your green’s showing, Mr. Quentin. You need to rub that off. Give me a nibble,” she said directly to Jorgenson, “then we can talk—maybe—accessory after the fact on Barry Aimes—we know you provided the van and, in fact, drove same to transport the body of Barry Aimes. We could plead that down to five to ten.”

  “Is actually doing your job too much of a stretch for you, Reo?”

  Reo turned her head, gave Eve a cool glance. “This is my job. Offer me something, Mr. Jorgenson, and I’ll talk to my boss.”

  When Quentin began to speak, Reo shot a finger at him.

  “He tells me. His words, not through your filter.”

  “They came to me.” Jorgenson shrugged. “Had blood all over them.”

  “Who?”

  “Snapper and Ticker. They came to me, and they said how they got jumped by Dragons, and Fan Ho killed Fist.”

  “That contradicts the statements they’ve given—independently—in their confessions.”

  “I’m saying what they told me. They said how they heard Slice was making a deal with Ho, to keep things down after Dinnie. And they didn’t like it, got talking trash. They figured Slice put the Dragons on them. So they had the idea to get Fist over to Ho’s place, prove the Dragons did him. All I did was get the van and drive it.”

  “Rather than report a murder to the police, you helped transport a body from the killing scene to Chinatown?”

  “Bangers don’t go to cops.” He spoke defiantly. “We take care of our own.”

  “Uh-huh. And didn’t it strike you as odd that neither of these men who survived an attack that killed Aimes had no
injuries?”

  “They had blood on them.”

  “Aimes’s blood.”

  He shrugged. “How’m I to know? Blood’s blood.”

  “And bullshit’s bullshit. You went out for a big breakfast after disposing of the body, and both the other men had changed clothes—no blood showing. Yet you still failed to question the fact they had no injuries. Aimes’s throat was sliced ear to ear, and showed no other injuries.”

  “I’m saying what they said, can you latch on? I figure they were working with Slice. Setting me up.”

  “Because?”

  “Because he knows I’m smarter, stronger, and I’m going to take over.”

  “You.” Laughing, Eve straightened in her chair. “You think you’re smarter than Jones. Jones, who’s been skimming off the gang’s pool for over three years? Jones, who freaking owns the building you flop in—the one you pay rent to flop in.”

  “You’re a fucking liar.”

  “Mr. Jorgenson,” Quentin warned. “Please don’t speak.”

  “Samuel Cohen. You know that name. You probably couldn’t reach him to rep you here, probably figured he was too busy trying to rep a bunch of Bangers to get back to you. The two of them? They’ve been milking you and the rest. Buying real estate, for God’s sake. Sure Jones wanted to keep it down—he didn’t want the cops getting too close to his bank accounts. He’s got a couple million socked away. And all that real estate with Cohen.

  “And what does Cohen do? He comes along giving you some ideas once Jones backs off his percentage of the illegals, the protection racket, the sex workers. I bet he fed your delusions of grandeur.”

  Eve rose, circled the table, leaned down. “You can take him down? Is that what Cohen told you? I’ll help you. Give me a cut when you’re in charge, and I’ll be your consigliere. Something like that? Don’t worry, he didn’t bump you back because he’s working to cut Jones a deal in this. He’s trying to cut one for himself, with the feds. Tax evasion, fraud, all kinds of goodies. And rolling on you? It’s just part of the negotiation.”

  “They’re dead. They’re dead men.”