The In Death Collection, Books 30-32

by J. D. Robb

She shook her head, smiled a little. “No. I already owe you three and a half.”

  “Friends don’t keep score. Not when it matters.” He put his huge hand over hers on the bar, patted it. “Want a pastry?”

  She laughed this time. “No, thanks. I’ve got to get back to the hard.”

  Peabody approached the little house in the Bronx with trepidation. She wasn’t afraid she’d walk away empty—though that was a possibility. She was more afraid she’d push the wrong way and break what she believed was a brittle hold on survival.

  She thought of her own mother, what it would be like for her to be told her daughter was dead. Dead because she’d made the choice to be a cop. Dead because she’d been ordered to put herself at risk, and had done so.

  Her mother was strong, Peabody thought, but it would put cracks in her. It would damage, and there would be fissures that would never fully close again.

  So she thought of her own mother as she knocked on the door of the little house in the Bronx.

  The woman who opened it was too thin—brittle again—with her hair pulled back in a tail. She wore cutoff sweats and a T-shirt and studied Peabody with annoyance out of shadowed eyes.

  “Mrs. Devin—”

  “I told you yesterday, when you got me on the ’link, I’ve got nothing to say to you. To any cop about Gail.”

  “Mrs. Devin, if you could just hear me out. You don’t have to say anything. Just hear me out. I wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t important.”

  “Important to who? You? I don’t care about what’s important to you. You’re cleaning up your files? That’s all she is to you, a file. Just a name in a file.”

  “No, ma’am, she’s not. No, ma’am.” The emotion in her heart, in her belly rang clearly in her voice. “I apologize more than I can say if I gave you that impression. I’ve gotten to know Gail a little. I know she liked to sing, and she had a strong alto. I know her father taught her to fish, and even though she didn’t really like it, she went with him because they liked the time together. I know you and she had a strong and loving relationship. I know even after she moved to Manhattan, the two of you got together every week. For girl time. Lunch, dinner, a vid, the salon, shopping. It didn’t matter.”

  Peabody’s stomach clenched as tears began to roll down the woman’s cheeks. But she didn’t stop. “She called you her best friend. You didn’t want her to be a cop, but you didn’t stand in her way. You were proud of her when she graduated from the Academy, with honors. When she made detective you had a party for her. She knew you were proud of her. I think it meant a lot to her to know you were.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Tears burned in Peabody’s eyes. She didn’t let them fall, but she wasn’t ashamed to let them show. Not here, not with a dead cop’s mother.

  “Because I have a mother, Mrs. Devin, and she didn’t really want me to be a cop. I know she’s proud of me, and it means a lot. I love her so much. And some days, because she lives out West, I miss her until it hurts.”

  “Why did you do it then, why did you leave her and do this?”

  “Because I’m a cop. It’s what I am as much as what I do. Gail was a cop. She was your daughter, and she loved you. She was a cop, and she tried to make things better.”

  “It killed her.”

  “I know.” Peabody let a little of the anger clutched inside her show, let it mix with the sympathy. “When I was coming here, I thought of my mom, and what it would do to her if she lost me. I wish, for her, I could be something else. But I can’t. You were proud of Gail. I would have been proud to know her.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Could I come in, please?”

  “Oh, what does it matter?”

  When the woman turned away, leaving the door open, Peabody stepped inside. She noted the clutter on a table—items that had obviously been on shelves, caught the scent of cleaner, polish.

  “I’m sorry I upset you so much yesterday. You didn’t get much sleep last night. Now a cleaning binge to help you work it off.” She tried a small smile. “My mom does the same.”

  It wasn’t quite true, as it was her father who used that route, but sticking with mothers seemed best—and not altogether a lie.

  “Ask what you want to ask and go. I want to get back to my housework.”

  Won’t have her long, Peabody calculated, and skipped over the groundwork she’d intended to lay. “Gail had a good record. Her evaluations from her supervisors were excellent. There were some notes in her file during the period she served under Lieutenant Renee Oberman that indicated she was having a difficult time.”

  “So what?” The resentment, the instinctive defense of her child charged out. “It’s difficult work, and she worked hard. Too hard. She barely did anything but work those last weeks.”

  “Did you see her during that period, during those last weeks?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Did she tell you why she was stressed, or what she was working on that was particularly difficult?”

  “No. We didn’t talk about her work. She knew I didn’t like it. Being proud of your child doesn’t mean you want to be reminded how dangerous the work is they’ve chosen. I know she was tense. On edge. She’d lost weight.”

  “You were worried about her.”

  “I asked her to take some time off. Said we’d take a little trip, a few days at the shore. She said she’d like that, could use that. But she had to finish something first. Finish something important, then she’d really want to get away for a while. It was work. If it had been a man, or anything else, she’d have told me.”

  “Is there anyone else she would have told?”

  “One of you. Cops talk to other cops.”

  Peabody nodded, felt it slipping away. “Did she keep a notebook, a diary, any sort of journal?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” Anger fired through grief again. “And if she had kept one, I wouldn’t let you see it. It would be personal. But she didn’t keep a diary. I have all of her things, and there’s nothing like that.”

  “You have her things?” A little bubble of excitement, of hope opened in Peabody’s throat. “Can I see them?”

  “Why should I—”

  “Please, Mrs. Devin. I can’t explain everything, but I promise you I want to do right by Gail. I swear to you, that’s my only purpose in being here, in asking you.”

  “You’re like a dog with a bone.” The woman turned her back, strode through the living area to a dining nook, through that to a room off a kitchen that gleamed and smelled of lemon.

  It was like a small bedroom without the bed. Clothes hung neatly in the closet—Peabody imagined more were neatly folded in the small dresser. Pieces of Gail Devin sat here and there. Whatnot boxes, scarves, a bright pink vase. Photos, framed posters, a Little League trophy, a fishing rod.

  A slim case held discs. Music discs, music vids, Peabody noted. All arranged by category, alphabetized.

  She got a little buzz.

  “That’s a nice collection.”

  “It was how she relaxed, let loose.”

  I know her now, Peabody thought. She was smart and determined. A good cop. Where would a smart, determined, and good cop hide a record she wanted to keep handy, keep safe?

  “Mrs. Devin, I have to ask you to let me borrow Gail’s music collection.”

  Hot pink color stained cheeks already wet with tears. “Do you think I’d hand over what was Gail’s, one of her most important things, to a stranger?”

  “She’s not a stranger to me.” Peabody looked in Mrs. Devin’s eyes and repeated, “I want to do right by Gail. If she were standing in front of my mother, I know she’d do the same for me.”

  On her way back to Manhattan, Peabody had to pull over, rest her head on the wheel.

  “Please, God,” she murmured. “Let me find something. Don’t let me have done this to that poor woman for nothing.”


  18

  EVE HAD A SHORT WINDOW TO CHECK IN WITH her own men, so she hit the bullpen between meetings. After a quick scan, she gestured to Trueheart.

  “My office.”

  She went in, grabbed coffee, downed half of it.

  “Where’s Baxter?” she asked when Trueheart stepped in.

  “He’s working a wit in the lounge, Lieutenant. I’m verifying some information via ’link. We’re—”

  “Is there a reason I need to know what you’re working on?” she interrupted. “Any humps, bumps, problems, questions?”

  “No, sir. Not at this time.”

  “Good. Is there anything anybody’s got going that requires me? You pay attention, Trueheart,” she said when he hesitated. “You know what’s moving out there. I don’t have time for a rundown unless I need a rundown.”

  “Um, no, sir. I don’t think your attention’s required on anything current.”

  “Get the word out. If I’m needed leave a memo. If it’s urgent, contact via ’link.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She eased down on the corner of her desk, a deliberate move to take some of the formal out of the exchange. “What’s the buzz out there, Trueheart?”

  He looked at her, spiffy in his uniform. “Sir?”

  “Jesus, Trueheart. I know damn well Baxter’s clipped some of the green off of you, and as I said previous, you pay attention. You know what the talk is. Let’s hear it.”

  “Well, um. Everybody knows something’s going on, and it’s more than the dead junkie. Word’s out one of Lieutenant Oberman’s men went down, at the same scene.”

  “And being cops they’re speculating,” Eve added. “And laying money on various scenarios.”

  He flushed a little. “It’s very possible, Lieutenant.”

  “Get the word out I consider speculation the natural order of things, and would be shocked, Officer, shocked and appalled to discover gambling was going on in my bullpen.”

  He gave her a sober nod, spoiled a little by his struggle to control a grin. “Yes, sir, Lieutenant.”

  “I can be contacted, but only on urgent matters, for the next two hours. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Alone, she stood a moment, finishing her coffee and studying her board. When her ’link signaled, she saw Peabody on the display.

  “Dallas.”

  “I think I might have something,” Peabody began.

  Eve switched her to privacy mode and took the communication on the way to Whitney’s office.

  Whitney opened the door personally. There were new lines dug into his face, she noted, more gray threaded through his hair than there had been even a few days before.

  Command, she thought, could be a harsh master.

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Sir.”

  He gestured her into his office with its wide windows to the city he was sworn to protect.

  Commander Marcus Oberman stood in front of one of them—tall, sturdy in his serious gray suit and steel blue tie. He’d let his hair go white, kept it shorn short, military style. Command had left its mark on him as well, but he remained a handsome man, striking and fit at eighty-six.

  “Commander Oberman,” Whitney said, “Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “Lieutenant.” Oberman extended his hand. “I appreciate you taking the time to come in to meet with me. I understand the value of your time.”

  “It’s an honor, Commander.”

  “And for me. You have an impressive reputation. Your commander speaks highly of you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Can we sit?” Oberman asked, deferring to Whitney.

  “Please.” Whitney gestured to chairs.

  Oberman took one. “You were barely out of the Academy when I retired from this office,” Oberman began, “but I’ve followed some of your investigations in the media, and heard the buzz at the trough where we old warhorses gather.”

  He smiled when he said it, the bright blue eyes he’d passed to his daughter friendly on hers. But Eve felt herself being summed up.

  She had no quibble with that, as she did the same with him.

  “Of course, now with the success of Nadine Furst’s book, your work on the Icove case is well documented. It’s been good for the department, wouldn’t you agree, Jack, the interest in that case? How it was pursued, investigated, and closed?”

  “I would.”

  “From what I’m told and, observed, Lieutenant, you’ve butted heads with fellow officers during the course of investigations.”

  “I’m sure that’s accurate, Commander.”

  His smile widened. “If you’re not butting heads now and then, you’re not doing the job—in my opinion.”

  He leaned back in the chair. Taking the formal out, Eve judged, as she had with Trueheart.

  “It takes confidence, even bullheadedness, as well as training, talent, dedication to stick with the job, and to move up the ranks. I understand you and my daughter are butting heads at the moment.”

  “I regret if Lieutenant Oberman sees it that way.”

  He nodded, his gaze pinned on hers. Still cop’s eyes, Eve thought. Shrewd, probing, the sort that could peel away the layers and expose what was hiding beneath.

  “Your commander will attest to the fact I don’t make a habit of interfering with departmental business. I no longer have the chair, and hold nothing but respect for the man who does.”

  “Yes, sir, as do I.”

  “But a father is a father, Lieutenant, and from that job no man retires. I expect you and Lieutenant Oberman would have some certain friction between you as you are different types, have different work styles. But you’re both still ranked officers of the NYPSD.”

  “Absolutely understood, Commander.”

  “I hadn’t intended to become involved in this situation, in any way.” He lifted his hands, spread them. “Even when I had the chair, I believed my officers should settle their own differences.”

  Daddy refusing to grease the wheels? Eve thought. That had to chap Renee’s ass. “Yes, sir. I agree.”

  “I reconsidered this only after learning early this morning that one of my daughter’s men had gone down. The officer who was at the center of the friction.”

  “It’s very regrettable Detective Garnet lost his life, sir.”

  “Every man lost can and does affect us all, but most particularly his commanding officers. You’ve lost men under your command, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.” She could list their names. She knew their faces.

  “It’s my hope, Lieutenant, that given these new and tragic circumstances, you will agree to expunge the mark you placed on the fallen officer’s record. Deservedly placed,” he added. “But I would reach out to you now on this, for Lieutenant Oberman and her man.”

  “No, sir. I regret I’m unable to accommodate you on this matter.”

  He sat back, obviously taken by surprise. “It’s so important to you, Lieutenant, that this rip stands? On a dead man?”

  “Dead or alive, he earned it. I apologize to the father, sir, but hope the commander who held this chair, and who served this department honorably for more years than I’ve been alive, will accept my stand when I say Detective Garnet’s lieutenant, present throughout that incident, did not intervene. Did not control the situation.”

  “Are you directing the rip at Garnet or his lieutenant?”

  “I’m not in the position to discipline his lieutenant. Respectfully, sir, I will not expunge his suspension. And in fact have already begun procedures that will result, I believe, in his expulsion from the force. Posthumously.”

  “That is a harsh stance. A harsh line.”

  “Yes, sir, it is. You may not be aware, Commander, that last evening Detective Garnet came to my home, did in fact lie in wait at my home. He attempted to assault me. Did, in fact, make physical contact. Did, in fact, draw his weapon.”

  “No.” Oberman’s face went to
stone. “I was not aware. I was not apprised.”

  “The incident is on record, sir, and was reported immediately after it occurred. I believe Lieutenant Oberman will have been made aware of it.”

  She waited just a beat to let that little gem shine.

  “Detective Garnet’s death is regrettable, Commander, but it is my opinion he didn’t deserve his rank, his badge. I will continue to do whatever I can to see he’s stripped of them. His death doesn’t make him any less of a bad cop.”

  “No, it does not. I withdraw my request, Lieutenant Dallas. And I apologize for making it.”

  “No apology necessary, sir.”

  Eve rose as he did.

  “I’ll let you, both of you, get back to your work. Thank you, Commander Whitney, for giving me the time. And you, Lieutenant.”

  “It was an honor to meet you, sir.”

  As Whitney led Oberman to the door, the former commander paused, turned back to Eve. “Do you believe Garnet’s death comes out of the murder of this Keener?”

  “I’m not working Garnet’s case, sir, but am cooperating and will continue to cooperate fully with the officers assigned to that investigation.”

  “I see.” He looked at her for a long moment, then walked out without another word.

  “He’s embarrassed.” Whitney closed the door. “Angry and embarrassed to have put himself in this position. And there’s a place in him now, twisting inside as he wonders, worries, considers what position his daughter might be in.”

  “Yes, sir,” Eve agreed. “It’s going to be worse for him, and soon.”

  And as Whitney walked to the window to look out at his city, Eve understood he, too, was angry and embarrassed.

  “All the years he gave this job, this city. All the years he sat in command. All the work he put into helping rebuild and reform this department after the Urbans? And his name will always carry this.”

  “Her name.”

  Whitney shook his head as he turned back. “You don’t have children, Dallas. It will always be his name. And it will always be his shame.”

  She waited until Whitney returned to his desk, sat heavily behind it.

  “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

  “So given.”