by J. D. Robb
“Lieutenant.”
Eve turned at the hand on her arm and looked into Jenna Franco’s eyes. She didn’t see grief in them, but she saw plenty of annoyance. She didn’t mask it as smoothly as Peachtree.
“Deputy Mayor.”
“I need to speak with you. Privately.”
“I have something to do first. You’ll have to wait.”
She tugged her arm free, turned her back. It was petty, she knew. But since she had a damn good idea what the private chat was going to entail, she doubted she and Jenna Franco were going to waste much time on the amenities.
Eve braced herself before approaching Colleen Halloway. She would probably be in her forties, maybe fifties, Eve calculated, but looked younger. Grief had given her skin a kind of translucence that added a youthful fragility against the unrelieved black of her mourning.
“Lieutenant.”
It was Anna Whitney who spoke first. Eve had often found herself on the commander’s wife’s wrong side. But at the moment there was none of the usual hint of impatience or irritation on her face.
And to Eve’s surprise, Anna took her hand and squeezed it.
“Mrs. Whitney.”
“Detective Halloway’s mother has been hoping to speak with you.” Her voice was low, her back turned slightly so that the words were for Eve alone. “Do you know the one thing more difficult than being married to a cop, Lieutenant?”
“No. I always figured that was the short straw.”
The faintest smile ghosted around Anna’s mouth. “There’s one shorter yet. That’s giving birth to one. Be careful with her.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Colleen?” With a natural gentleness Eve admired, Anna draped an arm over the woman’s shoulders. “This is Lieutenant Dallas. Lieutenant, Kevin’s mother.”
“Mrs. Halloway. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Lieutenant Dallas.” Colleen gripped Eve’s hand. It was stronger, firmer than Eve had expected. “Thank you so much for coming. I wonder—there’s a small privacy room upstairs. I wonder if you could spare a few minutes? I’d like to speak with you.”
“All right.”
She led Eve out of the dim parlor, up a set of stairs. Cops had spilled out, crowded there as well. But they stepped aside, eyes lowered respectfully as Colleen passed.
“My husband would like to meet you as well. And Lily. But I asked them if I could have this time alone with you. They understood.”
She opened a door, walked into a small sitting room. More flowers, soft fabrics just a little overdone in style, just a little too dark in their wine-red tones.
“These places are so horribly depressing, aren’t they? I wonder why they don’t let in the light.” Colleen walked to the window, threw open the heavy drapes, and let in the sun. “I suppose a lot of people find comfort in the shadows.
“Do you?” she asked Eve, then shook her head. “My thoughts are rambling. Please, sit down.”
Colleen took a chair, sat with her back very straight. “I’ve seen you on-screen. You always seem so competent, even when it’s coverage of one of those social functions you attend with your husband. He’s terribly handsome, isn’t he?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It was kind of him to come as well. To make the time, to speak to me, my husband, Lily. Very kind. Kevin spoke of you occasionally. You never worked with him, though, did you?”
“Not directly, no. But I often depend on EDD in my work. Hall . . . Kevin was a valued member of the department.”
“He admired you. I wanted to tell you,” she added, smiling a little at the blank look on Eve’s face. “He sometimes spoke of you working with Captain Feeney and the other young detective, Ian McNab. He was, I think, a little envious of your relationship with both Ian and the captain.”
“Mrs. Halloway—”
“I only tell you that so you might understand why he might have said or done the things he said or did when he was in such terrible trouble.”
“Mrs. Halloway, I don’t need an explanation. Kevin was ill, very ill, and none of what happened after they infected him was any fault of his.”
“It’s good to hear you say that. I heard the statements this morning. Both of them. I wasn’t sure if yours was just the departmental line, or if you meant it.”
“I did mean it. Every word of it.”
Colleen nodded. Her lips trembled once, then firmed. “I know what you did to try to save Kevin. I know you risked your own life to do so. And I know,” she continued as Eve started to speak, “that you’ll say you were doing your job. That’s what all of you say. But I want to thank you first as a mother, just as a mother.”
Her eyes swam and though she blinked to fight the tears, one spilled out and trailed down her cheek. “And I want to thank you for Kevin. Please . . . let me finish.”
Still she had to stop for a moment, clear her throat. “My son was proud to be a police officer. He believed in what that stood for, respected it, and gave his best. They might have taken that from him as well as his life if not for you. If not for you, his captain, his commander, his fellow officers . . . that pride and respect might have been taken from him. Instead . . .”
She reached into a small black purse and took out her son’s badge. “Instead, there’s honor. I’ll never forget it.” She leaned forward now, her expression intense. “Stop them. You will stop them.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll stop them.”
With a nod, Colleen leaned back again. “I’ve kept you long enough. I’m sure you have a great deal of work. I think I’d like to sit here in the light, for a little while.”
Eve rose and went to the door. Then she turned and said what was on her mind. “Mrs. Halloway? He must have been awfully proud of you, too.”
Again those lips curved, just a little. Again a single tear spilled down her cheek.
Eve slipped out and closed the door.
She was nearly to the stairs when Franco swooped up. Chang scurried in her wake like a pet dog. “We’ll talk now.”
When she headed for the privacy room, Eve caught her arm. “Mrs. Halloway’s in there.”
The impatience on Franco’s face faded. Her one last glance at the door was full of sympathy. Then that faded as well as she strode down the hallway, pushed her way into another room.
It was some sort of office, manned at the moment by a young woman at a gleaming wooden breakfront that had been modeled into a workstation.
“I need this space,” Franco snapped. “You’ll have to leave.”
Eve lifted her brows as the girl scrambled out. Franco was a woman who went where she wanted when she wanted. Eve admired the trait.
When Chang closed the door behind them, Franco launched into the attack. “You were instructed to use the official statement when responding to the media. We can’t waste time and resources running along behind you and clearing up the mess.”
“Then you’d better try to keep up. I got a heads up minutes before the latest statement from Purity was to be aired. I responded to said statement as I deemed appropriate.”
“It’s not your place to deem what is an appropriate response to the media.” This came from Chang, in clipped tones. “It’s my job to tell you what’s appropriate in this area.”
“The last time I looked I don’t answer to you, and should that day ever come, I’ll retire.”
“Chief Tibble ordered you to cooperate,” he reminded her. “Yet you refuse to accept the bookings that were arranged for maximum spin and effect. And now you issue your own statement without clearance. A statement that speaks not just for you, Lieutenant, but for the department. This is not acceptable.”
“If the chief or my commander determines I’ve done or said the unacceptable, then they can dress me down, Chang. You can’t.”
She took a step toward him, was darkly pleased to see him take one back. “Don’t ever try to tell me how to do my job.”
“You’ve never had any respect for me or my positi
on.”
Eve angled her head. “And your point is?”
“We’ll see what Chief Tibble has to say about this.”
“Run along and tattle, you little weasel. And let the grown-ups finish talking.” She turned back to Franco, who’d said nothing during the exchange. “You got something else to say to me?”
“Yes, actually. Why don’t you give us a minute here, Chang? We’ll discuss the rest of this in my office in . . .” She checked the time. “Thirty minutes.”
He went out, giving the door a sulky little slam.
“Do you try to irritate people, Dallas, or is it just an innate skill?”
“I guess it’s the second, because it comes real easy. Especially with pissants like Chang.”
“If I tell you I agree that Chang is an annoying, self-satisfied, and boring pissant—a statement I will vehemently deny making if repeated—can we table some of the hostility?”
“Why do you use him then?”
“Because he’s good. He’s very, very good. If I had to like everyone I worked with or who worked for me, I sure as hell wouldn’t be in politics. Now, issue one, your statement this morning. Chang feels, and I agree—as does the mayor—that your use of Detective Halloway’s death was ill advised.”
“My use? Just one damn minute. They used him, shirking responsibility for his death. I responded and stuck the responsibility right back up their ass.”
“And I understand the instinct that prompted you to do so. For God’s sake, Dallas, do you think I function without a heartbeat? I don’t. And that heart breaks for that woman down the hall. Damn it. She’s lost her son. I have a son. He’s ten. I can’t imagine having to say good-bye to him the way Colleen Halloway is saying good-bye today.”
“It seems to me it would be harder if people were allowed to think her son died for nothing.”
“Didn’t he?” Franco retorted, then shook her head. “Oh, I know how you cops think. On the job. I won’t argue with you because I don’t understand that either. But the point is that the more often his name is said, the more he’s made the story, the harder it is to focus the media and the public on the message we want to send. Whatever you might think,” she added as she turned back.
“I know more about this than you and Chang knows more than both of us. The second point is no statement should have been made without clearance.”
“You won’t box me in that way. I’m no media hound, but if and when I feel using it helps my investigation, I’ll use it.”
“Yet you toss back the bookings Chang arranged, programming where we’d have some control.”
“I’m not sitting in some studio parroting departmental or mayoral approved responses and statements when my time and energies are required in a priority investigation. The fact is, I’m never doing it.”
“Yes, so your commander has made clear.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Had to take a shot.” Franco spread her hands. “We could use the airtime. The other matter I have to discuss with you is, potentially, a great deal more serious. It’s already come to the mayor’s ear that you questioned the Dukes this morning in the course of your investigation. A family who also lost their son recently, and who are protected by sealed files.”
“He didn’t waste any time. The information on the Dukes came into my hands. The connection to two of the victims, as well as Donald Dukes’s profession, led me to believe an informal interview was warranted. Are you going to try to tell me how to do my job now?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake.” Franco threw up her hands. “Why do you insist on behaving as if we’re on opposite sides.”
“It feels that way.”
“Do you know what will happen if Donald Dukes goes to the media? If he talks about being harassed in his own home by the primary in this already hot-button situation? Their son was hooked on illegals by Cogburn—”
“There’s no evidence to support Cogburn was his first dealer.”
“It doesn’t matter if there’s evidence,” Franco fired back. “This is what would be said. Cogburn hooked an innocent, vulnerable twelve-year-old boy, from a good, solid, churchgoing family. The police failed to make a case. Later, this boy—now troubled, now recalcitrant due to his addiction, falls into the hands of a pedophile. Chadwick Fitzhugh beats and rapes young Devin, now a tender fourteen. The family is shattered, the boy is traumatized, and again the police fail to make a case.”
“That’s not the way it happened.”
“That’s the way it’ll be presented, reported, discussed should they go public. Truth, pieces of the truth, outright lies, it doesn’t matter once it’s on the air. A picture will be painted, then you’ll walk into it, questioning this damaged, grieving family who tried to do the right thing, who put their faith and their son’s welfare into the hands of the system only to be failed in the most horrible way. You attempt to implicate them in a homicide investigation. You accuse them of being members of a group you’ve publicly called terrorists. And you do this in their home. Don’t you see how this will play?”
“I’ll tell you how it plays, Franco. Donald Dukes couldn’t or wouldn’t accept his son’s sexual orientation—”
“Oh my God, oh my God.” Franco pressed her fingers to her temples, seemed to try to drill them through. “You start saying that child was gay, you’ll be in a lawsuit, and so will the department, probably the city before I can push you out of the nearest twenty-story window.”
“Not if I push you first. In any case, evidence indicates he was gay, or certainly confused about his own sexuality. He never got the chance to make up his mind. His father is rigid, domineering. The kind of guy who’s just not going to be wrong. He destroys evidence that may have helped make the case against Cogburn, but it’s the system’s fault. He edits and changes the facts in the Fitzhugh matter so the case falls apart, and again, it’s the system’s fault. Now he’s found an outlet for his aggressions and his viewpoint: Purity.”
“You have proof of all this?”
“Of some. I’ll get the rest.”
“Dallas, if I’m having a hard time believing any of this, no one else will believe it. In addition, you’re speaking of facts and suppositions that were in a sealed. An official and public reprimand from your commander may not be enough to stop legal action, or the media storm.”
“If and when my commander deems it necessary to reprimand me, that’s his right and that’s my problem. The media storm’s yours and Chang’s. Dukes can start all the legal actions he wants. They’re not going to go anywhere once I put him in a cage. Are we done here?”
“You’d better be very sure of yourself,” Franco warned.
“I’m sure of the job, and that’s the same thing.”
Eve walked out. As she started back downstairs, she heard the clear, strong voice of a tenor singing the opening bars of Danny Boy.
Cops were always singing Danny Boy at funerals, she thought. She’d never known just why.
“Lieutenant.” Roarke met her at the base of the stairs.
“I need some air” was all she said, and strode out the door.
Chapter 16
A double-parked delivery van had tied up traffic for what appeared to be a good six blocks. The resulting noise from blasting horns and hurled obscenities turned the air into one long scream of rage.
A glide-cart operator had overcooked and oversauced his kabobs. The stink of the greasy smoke was amazing.
Eve preferred the noise and stench to the murmurs and flowers inside.
She strode straight through the nauseating odor and dug out credits. “Gimme chocolate,” she ordered the operator.
“Got sticks. Many ya want?”
“Six.”
“Got yer fruitade, got yer Pepsi, got yer Coke, got yer fizzy water. Whatcha want?”
“Just the chocolate.”
She tossed him the money, snagged the skinny sticks out of his hand. She bit fiercely into the first. They were already melting i
n the vicious fist of the heat.
Roarke bought a large water and grabbed a small mountain of napkins. “Hand one over. You’ll be sick if you eat them all.”
“I’m already sick.” But she proved her depthless love by giving him one. “Peachtree gives me the thirty-second lecture on teamwork, ending in the warm, we’re both just public servants arm squeeze. Then Chang and Franco jump on my ass about the statement I gave 75 this morning. Not screened, not approved. Let’s not confuse the public with the truth. I’m a cop, not a public relations puppet.”
“Which I’m sure you pointed out.”
“Yeah.” She smiled grimly, ate more chocolate. “There was that. Franco doesn’t seem to be an idiot, especially for a politician. But she—and all of them—sure seem to be more interested in perception, in image, in spins than in the investigation.”
“They wouldn’t understand the investigation the way they would perception, image, and spin.”
He drank water to wash down what was laughingly called chocolate by the city vendors, then dampened a napkin to get the smear of it off his fingers.
“And they wouldn’t understand you and the fact that you care less about media exposure than you do what shirt you put on in the morning,” he added, two-pointing the napkin into a recycler. “Which is not at all.”
Eve looked down at her shirt. It was white, she thought. It was clean. What else did you need to worry about?
“We’d all be better off if they did what they did, and left me alone to do what I do. I’ve got suspects, damn it. Price, Dwier, and now the Dukeses. I crack any one of them, and this breaks open.”
She started on the third stick. “Dukes called a lawyer. Jumped right on that. Whining harassment, making lawsuit noises that’ve put Franco and company into orbit.”
“Was that unexpected?”
“No, I expected it. I guess I hoped it would hold line until after the memorial.” She glanced back at the bereavement center. A few cops were heading out. Back to duty, she thought. Life didn’t always go on, but the job did.
“He’s in it, Roarke. Dukes. Slides into the profile like it was a tailor-made suit. You know how you handled Jamie this morning, what I said about knocking him back, grinding him into dust, then building him up again? Dukes wouldn’t trouble himself with the last part of that cycle. My impression is he made his kid’s life a small, personal hell. I’m going to bring him down, and the rest of them with him.”