by J. D. Robb
“Roarke.” Her voice was husky with passion, her breath already quickening again. “Give yourself to me. Go under for me.”
Love swamped him; more than need, it gushed through him, took his air, his heart, his thoughts. And with his eyes on hers, still and always on hers, he let himself drown.
The hour had to end. But she wouldn’t feel guilty for taking it. Dry, dressed, standing in her office, she fully intended to brief Roarke and scan his readout of the security system at Purgatory.
Feeney would take a closer look at it, she thought, and coordinate with Roarke on that end. She’d station herself in Control, where she could oversee the club, monitor the moves, supervise all members of the team.
And be ready for any move Ricker might make.
“He knew my father.”
She blurted it out without realizing it was there, weighing on the center of her mind.
Roarke, about to explain the readout on-screen, turned, stared at her. She didn’t have to say a name, didn’t have to say anything. He knew by her face.
“You’re sure of it?”
“I had a flashback last night . . . this morning,” she corrected, feeling ridiculously unsteady. “Something tripped it, I guess, in the data I was studying, and I was back, just back.”
“Sit down and tell me.”
“I can’t sit.”
“All right. Just tell me.”
“I was in bed. In my room. I had a room. I don’t think I always had one—I know I didn’t always. But I think there was some money to spare. I think it was Ricker’s money. It was dark, and I was listening because he was drinking in the next room, and I was praying he would keep drinking. He was talking to somebody about a deal. I didn’t understand. I didn’t care. Because as long as he kept talking, kept drinking, he wouldn’t come in. It was Ricker. He called him by name.”
It was hard. She hadn’t expected it to be so hard to say it all, when the image of it was still so brutally clear in her mind. “Ricker was telling him what would happen if he screwed up the deal. Illegals, I think. It doesn’t matter. I recognized his voice. I mean, having the flashback, I remembered. I don’t know if I’d ever heard it before that night. I don’t remember.”
“Did you see him? Did he see you?”
“No, but he knew about me. My father said something about me when he was trying to get more money for the deal. So, he knew, and after he left, my father came in. He was mad. Scared and mad. He knocked me around a little, then he told me to pack. We were going to head south, he said. He had money, and I think the illegals, or some of them. I don’t remember any more, except it was in New York. I’m sure we were in New York. And I think, I think we ended up in Dallas. After the money ran out, we were in Dallas. There wasn’t any more money because we just had that horrible room, and hardly any food, and he didn’t have enough to get drunk enough in Dallas. God.”
“Eve.” He was beside her now, his hands running up and down her arms. “Stay here. Stay with me.”
“I am. I will. It spooked me, that’s all.”
“I know.” He gathered her in for a moment. And realized on the heels of the flashback she’d been called to The Tower.
Ambushed.
“I’m sorry.” He turned her lips into her hair.
“It’s a circle, a circle. Link to link. Ricker to my father, my father to me. Ricker to you. You to me. I don’t believe in stuff like that. But here I am.”
“They won’t touch you through me.” He tipped her head back. “They’ll never get through me to hurt you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know, but it’s a fact all the same. We’ll break the circle. We’ll do that together. I’m more inclined to believe in such things as fate.”
“Only when your Irish comes out.” She managed a smile but moved away. “Could he know about me? Could he have connected me from all those years ago?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“If he’d tried to track my father, could he have found out who I am? Is it possible to dig up the data on me from before?”
“Eve, you’re asking me to speculate—”
“Could you?” she interrupted, facing him again. “If you wanted the information, could you find it?”
She didn’t want comfort, he knew, but facts. “Given the time, yes. But I have considerably more to work with than he would.”
“But he could? He has the capabilities? Particularly if he’d begun to track my father when he was double-crossed.”
“It’s possible. I don’t believe he’d have wasted his time keeping track of an eight-year-old girl who was sucked into the system.”
“But he knew, when I went to see him, that I had been in the system. He knew where I’d been found, and in what condition.”
“Because he researched Lieutenant Eve Dallas. Not because he’d been keeping tabs on a young, abused girl.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. It hardly matters, anyway.” She paused by her desk, lifted a small carved box he’d given her for odds and ends. “You could find the data?”
“Yes, I could find it, if that’s what you want.”
“No.” She set the box down again. “It’s not what I want. What I want is here. There’s nothing back there I need to know. I shouldn’t have let it get to me the way it did. I didn’t realize it had.”
She sighed, and this time she did smile when she turned. “I was too mad at you to think about it. We’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do in a short amount of time. You might as well come with me for now.”
“I thought you wanted to go over the security.”
“I do, but back at Central. I only set up this meet here so I could yell at you in private.”
“Isn’t that odd? I agreed to the meet here so I could yell at you in private.”
“Shows how screwed up we are.”
“On the contrary.” He held out a hand for hers. “I’d say it shows we’re incredibly well suited for each other.”
As trying to squeeze more than two people into Eve’s cramped office violated several laws of physics, she held the briefing in the conference room.
“Time’s short,” she began when her team was seated. “As the homicide cases and the matter of Max Ricker have dovetailed, we’ll be pursuing them both on parallel lines. Lab results, data searches, and probability scans regarding the homicides are in your reports. I haven’t requested a warrant but will do so, with an obligatory DNA test, if the suspect refuses to come in on his own volition. Peabody and I will pick him up, quietly, after the briefing.”
“Probability’s low,” Feeney pointed out, frowning at the printout in his file.
“It’ll get higher, and his DNA will match that of the fingernail found on the Bayliss crime scene. Due to Sergeant Clooney’s years of service to the department, his exemplary record, his emotional state, and the circumstances that built and were built around him, I prefer to bring him in personally, and hope to persuade him to make a full statement. Dr. Mira is on call to counsel him and offer testing.”
“The media’s going to rock and roll over this.”
Eve gave McNab a nod of acknowledgment. “We can and we will spin the media.” She’d already decided to contact Nadine Furst. “A veteran officer with a perfect service record whose son—only son—follows in his footsteps. A father’s pride. A son’s dedication. Because of that dedication, because of that honor to the badge in a squad where a few cops—and let’s keep it at a few for public record—are corrupt, the son is targeted.”
“Proving that—” Feeney began.
“We don’t have to prove it,” she interrupted. “It just has to be said to be believed. Ricker,” she continued. “He was behind it. I don’t question that. Moreover, Clooney didn’t. His son was clean, intended to stay clean. He moved up the ranks to detective. He couldn’t be bought. He was assigned in the early stages of the Ricker op, I have that from Martinez’s notes. Just a peg in the board, but a good cop. A hereditary cop
. Put this together,” she suggested and rested a hip on the conference table.
“He’s straight, he’s young, and he’s smart. He’s ambitious. The Ricker task force is a good break for him, and he’s going to make the most of it. He pushes, he digs. Ricker’s sources in the squad relay that information. They’re nervous. Ricker decides to make an example. One night, the good cop stops off in his neighborhood 24/7. He habitually swung by there on his way home after his shift. A robbery’s in progress. Look at the report: That location hasn’t been hit before or since, but it was being hit that night, at just the right time. The good cop goes in and is killed. The proprietor makes a frantic emergency call, but it takes a squad car ten full minutes to arrive on-scene. And the med-techs, due to what’s reported to be a technical delay, don’t arrive for ten more. The kid bleeds to death on the floor. Sacrificed.”
She waited a beat, knowing any cop in the room would see it as clearly as she did. “The squad car was manned by two men, and their names were on the list Vernon gave me this morning. Ricker’s men. They let him die, one of their own. And the signal was sent: This is what happens if you cross me.”
“Okay, it plays,” Feeney agreed. “But if Clooney’s following the same dots, why didn’t he hit the cops in the squad car?”
“He did. One of them transferred to Philadelphia three months ago. He was hanged in his bedroom. Ruling was self-termination, but I think the PPSD will reopen that case. Thirty credits were scattered on the bed. The other drowned, slipped in a bathtub while on vacation in Florida. Ruled accidental. The coins were found there, too.”
“He’s been eliminating them for months.” Peabody blew out a breath. “Just ticking them off, and going on with business.”
“Until Kohli. Kohli snapped him. He liked Kohli, knew his family, felt close to him. More, his son and Kohli were friends, and when Ricker, through IAB, planted Kohli, spread rumors that he was on the take, it was like losing his son all over again. The eliminations became more violent, more personal, and more symbolic. Blood on the badge. He can’t stop. What he does now he does in his son’s memory. In his son’s honor. But knowing he killed an innocent man, a good cop, is breaking him down. That’s Ricker’s angle. He can sit back and watch us destroy each other from within.”
“He’s not that clever, not anymore.” Roarke spoke up. “He wouldn’t understand a man like Clooney, or that kind of love and grief. Luck,” he said. “He put the pieces on the tray, and luck, or if you prefer, love, linked them.”
“That may be, but putting the pieces on the tray is enough to fry him. Which brings us to the second avenue of this investigation. As you are now aware, Roarke has been enlisted as temporary civilian liaison on the matter of Max Ricker. Peabody, are you familiar with the street name for civilian liaison?”
Peabody squirmed. “Yes, sir.” When Eve merely waited, Peabody winced. “Um. . . weasel, Lieutenant. The street name’s weasel.”
“I imagine,” Roarke said, “that weasels are adept at catching rats.”
“Good one.” Feeney leaned over and slapped Roarke on the back. “Damn good one.”
“We have a very big rat for you.” She straightened, jammed her hands in her pockets, and outlined the plan for the rest of the team.
There was no doubt who was in command here, Roarke thought as he watched her. Who was in control. She left no angle unexplored, no corner unswept. She prowled the room, thinking on her feet, and her voice was clipped.
In some past life she’d have been wearing a general’s braiding. Or armor.
And this woman, this warrior, had trembled in his arms. That was the power between them. The miracle of it.
“Roarke?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
Something in his eyes had her heart stuttering a bit. She clamped down on it, frowned at him. “I’ll leave you to go over the security with Feeney and McNab. I don’t want any holes in it. Not a single pinprick.”
“There won’t be any.”
“Make sure of it. I’m calling Martinez in on this for the bust. And she’ll get the collar when it goes down. Any objections?” She waited, got none. “Peabody, you’re with me.”
She started out, glanced back. Roarke was still watching her, the faintest of smiles on that killer mouth, the faintest glint in those wild blue eyes.
“Jesus, he makes your mouth water.”
“Sir?”
“Nothing.” Mortified, she strode out. “Nothing. Has my unit been repaired or replaced?”
“Dallas, that’s so sweet. I didn’t know you believed in fairy tales.”
“Damn it. We’ll steal one from somewhere.” Then she began to grin. “I’ll just take Roarke’s.”
“Oh, tell me it’s the XX. The 6000. It’s my favorite.”
“How the hell are we going to bring in a suspect in a two-seater? It’s some snazzy sedan type today. I’ve got the code. Won’t he be surprised when he goes down and finds it gone. I think—”
Distracted, she nearly walked into Webster. “Lieutenant, a minute of your time.”
“I’m low on minutes, walk and talk.”
“You’re going for Clooney.”
“Goddamn it.” Though he’d kept his voice low, she whipped her head around to be sure no one had heard. “What makes you think that?”
“I still have my sources.” His face was grave, and his voice remained quiet. “You left the breadcrumbs. I can still follow the trail.”
“Have you been in my files?”
“Dallas.” He laid a hand on her arm, felt the tremor of temper. “I’m deep in this. Part of what I did, following orders, may have sparked what’s gone down. I did the internal run on Clooney’s son. I feel responsible. Let me go with you to pick him up.”
She angled her head. “Someone in IAB’s dirty, in Ricker’s pocket. How do I know it’s not you?”
His hand dropped away. “You don’t.” He let out a breath. “You can’t. Okay.” He stepped back, started to turn.
“Hold on. Peabody.” She gestured, moved a few steps away. “Do you have a problem on staying with the briefing, finishing the paperwork?”
Peabody glanced back at Webster, who was standing with his hands in his pockets and a miserable look on his face. “No, sir.”
“All right. Set up an interview room, block observation. I don’t want anybody nosing in while I’m talking to Clooney. Let’s give him what dignity we can.”
“I’ll take care of it. Good luck.”
“Yeah.” She walked back to Webster. “Let’s go.”
He blinked, then took in a breath. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re along for ballast.”
chapter twenty-one
Peabody dawdled. She procrastinated. She fiddled. Then when she couldn’t avoid it any longer, she went back into the conference room.
Some complex schematic was on the wall screen, and Feeney was whistling at it as though it were the image of a naked and nubile woman.
“Hey, She-Body. What’s up?” McNab asked.
“Just a change of plans. I’m going to sit in on the security briefing.”
“Dallas isn’t going for Clooney?” Feeney asked.
“Yeah, yeah, she’s going.” As if it was vitally important, she selected a chair, brushed off the seat, settled into it.
“Alone?” Roarke’s voice made her want to cringe, but she looked up over his shoulder, shrugged her own. “No, no, she’s got somebody. Um, you’ll have to explain the system to me in English. I only speak pidgin tech-speak.”
“Who’s with her?” Roarke asked, though he already knew. It was just like her.
“With her? Oh, ah, hmmm. Webster.”
Silence fell, a clatter of broken bricks. Peabody folded her hands in her pockets and prepared for the explosion to follow.
“I see.” When Roarke simply turned back to the screen and continued, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or scared to death.
Webster resisted, barely, making som
e smart comment about the sleek luxury car and instead settled in to enjoy the ride.
Or tried to, but his nerves were jumping.
“Okay, let’s just get this out of the way. I’m not Ricker’s man in IAB. I guess I figured there had to be one, but I don’t have a line on it. I will have. I’m going to make a point of it.”
“Webster, if I thought you were hooked to Ricker, you’d still be back at Central, crawling over the floor trying to find what was left of your teeth.”
It made him smile. “That means a lot to me.”
“Yeah, yeah, save it.”
“So . . . I went into your files. You can kick me about that later if you want. I had your code and password. Bayliss dug it out. I didn’t have any right to and blah, blah, but I did it. I followed your line on Clooney. It was good work.”
“You expect me to blush and say aw, shucks? You try that crap again, and I’ll have you up, toothless, before the review board.”
“Fair enough. You didn’t get a warrant.”
“That’s right.”
“What you got’s thin, but it spreads enough that a judge would’ve issued.”
“I don’t want a warrant. He’s entitled to a little consideration.”
“Bayliss hated cops like you.” Webster looked out at New York, the jam of it, crowded, colorful, arrogant. “I’d forgotten what it was like to work this way. It’s not something I’m going to forget again.”
“Then listen up, here’s how we do it. Clooney’s living on the West Side. It’s an apartment. He moved out of his house in the burbs a couple months after his son died. Hang a busted marriage on Ricker while you’re at it.”
“It’s the middle of shift. He’s not going to be home.”
“You didn’t finish his file. It’s his day off. If he’s not there, we knock on doors until somebody tells us where he might be. And we go find him, or we wait. I do the talking. He’s going to come in voluntarily. That’s the way we’re going to make it happen.”
“Dallas, he’s killed three cops.”