by J. D. Robb
“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Roarke,” she began, and listed the address. “Date and time stamp on record.”
The building had likely been a small warehouse or factory at some point, and scooped up in the rehab-crazed pre-Urbans. Since, it might have served as sorry shelter for itinerants or a chemi-den—probably both at one time or another.
The rusted and broken chain and padlock drooping from the door proved security measures had been half-assed to begin with, and long since breached.
But the shiny new lock caught her interest.
“Cold weather hole,” Eve said. “Nobody much wants to be inside the dirt and stink in high summer. Still ...” She nodded at the lock. “Somebody put that on recently.” She started forward, digging for her master.
The man who jumped out of the shadows boasted a half acre of wide shoulders. He bared his teeth in an ugly grin that demonstrated dental hygiene wasn’t high on his list of priorities.
Eve imagined it was his six-inch sticker and what he took as a couple of easy marks that put the grin on his face.
“Take care of that, will you?” she asked Roarke.
“Of course, darling.” He gave the man currently jabbing playfully at him with the blade a pleasant smile. “Something I can do for you?”
“Gonna spill your guts all over the street, then I’m gonna fuck your woman. Gimme the wallet, the wrist unit. Ring, too.”
“I’m going to do you a favor, as even if you managed to spill my guts all over the street—and odds are against you—if you tried to touch my woman she’d break your dick off like a twig then stick it up your arse.”
“Gonna bleed.”
When the man lunged, Roarke danced easily to the side, pivoted with an elbow jab to the kidneys. The responding oof! had the ring of surprise, but the assailant spun around with a vicious slice Roarke evaded with another pivot. He followed it by slamming his foot against the big man’s kneecap.
“Stop playing with him,” Eve called out.
“She tends to be strict,” Roarke commented, and when the man—grimacing now—lunged again, he kicked the knife arm, sharp at the elbow. Even thugs can scream, he thought, and caught the knife as it flew out of the man’s quivering hand.
“And here comes the favor.” No longer pleasant, no longer smiling, Roarke’s iced-blues met the man’s pain-filled eyes. “Run.”
As the footsteps slapped down the sidewalk, Eve watched Roarke press the mechanism on the sticker to retract the blade.
“If you’re thinking of keeping that, you’d better dump it in an autoclave first chance. Ready?”
Roarke slipped the knife in his pocket, nodded as he joined her at the door.
She drew her weapon, rested it across her flashlight, angling away so the recording wouldn’t show Roarke doing the same.
They went through the door, swept left, right.
She kicked aside trash to clear a path. Mold laced with stale urine and fresher vomit smeared the air. She judged the main source as a pile of blankets, stiff as cardboard and too hideous to tempt even a sidewalk sleeper.
“Clear the level.”
They moved in, sweeping lights, weapons. Doors, wiring, sections of floorboard and stair treads—anything that could be used or sold—had been torn out, pulled down, and hauled off, leaving raw holes, toothy gaps.
She studied the open elevator shaft. “How the hell did they get the elevator door out of here, and what did they do with it?”
“Mind your step,” Roarke said as she started up the stairs, striding over the wide holes.
On the second level she shined her light over broken syringes, bits of utensils, and pots eaten through by chemicals and heat. She considered the splintered stool, the tiny, scorched table, the shattered glass and starbursts of burns on the floor, the walls.
“Somebody had a little lab accident,” she commented.
She jerked her chin toward the bare mattresses stained by substances she didn’t particularly want to think about. Remnants of fast-food containers lay scattered where she imagined they’d been picked over by vermin of the two- and four-legged varieties.
“Living where they worked, for a while.”
Roarke studied the filth. “I can’t say I love what they’ve done with the place.”
She toed a discarded Chinese takeout container. “Somebody ate here in the last couple days. What’s left in this isn’t moldy yet.”
“Still enough to put you off your moo goo.”
“I think it used to be chow mein.”
She followed the amazing stench to what had once been a bathroom. Whoever had attempted to rip out the toilet had fallen victim to impatience or incompetence so the broken bowl lay useless on its side. They’d had better luck with the sink, and some enterprising soul had smashed through the wall and managed to cut out most of the copper pipes.
They hadn’t bothered with the tub, maybe daunted by the weight and bulk of the ancient cast iron. Chipped, stained, and narrow, it served as a deathbed for one Rickie Keener.
He lay curled in it, knees drawn up toward the bony chest coated with his own vomit. A syringe, a couple of vials, and the rest of his works sat on the lip of the windowsill.
“The victim matches the description and ID photo of Rickie Keener, aka Juicy.” She drew the print pad out of her pocket, holstered her weapon. Crossing to him, she carefully pressed the pad to his right index finger. “ID is confirmed,” she said when the pad verified the identification. “Roarke, signal Peabody. Tell them to break off. We’ve got him.”
She stood where she was, breathing through her teeth, letting her light run over the body. “This corroborates Detective Peabody’s statement vis-à-vis the overheard conversation in the sector-two locker facilities. Visual exam shows some minor bruising, arms, legs. Right elbow is scraped. A more detailed examination will have to wait until command clears the matter. My determination at this time is on-record verification only. To preserve clarity of investigation on Oberman, Renee, and Garnet, William, I cannot secure this scene, but will instead install a recorder for monitoring purposes.”
She turned to Roarke. “Can you put it above the doorway?”
“Already done. If anyone comes through here, your comp and your PPC will signal. You’ll be able to monitor the scene from any location you choose, until you officially open the investigation.”
“That’ll work.” She glanced back at the dead. “Let’s get out of here.”
Out on the street she took a couple of breaths to clear out the worst of the stink, then checked the time. “The scene’s as secure as we can make it, and there’s no point in contacting the commander at this hour. Better to get a couple hours’ sleep, and start the process in the morning. Dallas and Roarke leaving monitored location,” she said for the recorder, then shut it off.
“Fuck.” She breathed it out.
“Did you think we wouldn’t find him?”
“No, I knew we’d find him, but—like I said—a body’s tangible. No getting around it now. No stopping it. We have to take her down.”
She got in the passenger seat so Roarke could take the wheel. He gave her a few moments with her thoughts as he navigated the route back uptown.
“Have you decided how you’ll structure this for Whitney?”
“Straight, start to finish. Once Peabody chilled, her statement of events was cohesive, so we have that on record. By tomorrow, she’ll have steadied more, and she’ll stand up when Whitney questions her.”
“So you’re taking a couple hours down as much for that as to give your commander a full night’s sleep.”
“Maybe. Yes,” she admitted. “Off the record. We’ll lay out the steps we took to locate Keener, and show Whitney the record of the discovery. It’ll be up to him what comes next, but I’ll be able to present him with the most logical and practical plan. We have to keep the investigation taut and tight. It’s not just corruption, it’s murder. And Keener’s not the first.”
“It’s hard for yo
u, going after one of your own.”
“She stopped being one of my own the minute she went on the take.” Deliberately Eve relaxed her shoulders. “I don’t know how close Whitney might be with Commander Oberman. I know he served under him, and he took the chair when Oberman retired. That means something, the passing of command. Renee Oberman’s served under Whitney, and that means something, too.”
She sighed now. “We all know that we may be able to keep the investigation under a lid, but when it’s done, when we bust it, the lid comes off. The media’s going to rip into this like jackals on a fresh kill. I can’t even blame them.”
“When it makes you sad or discouraged, and it will, this process as you call it, think of Peabody in that shower stall, trapped, while two people who’ve exploited their badges to line their own pockets discuss the business of murder.”
She sat in silence for a couple blocks. “That was well put,” she said after a while. “Succinct, and all that. And good advice. Then there’s Keener. He was probably a schmuck, almost certainly a very bad guy, but he’s mine now. And the cop who left him choking on his own vomit in that filthy tub? He’s going to be mine, too, right up until I slam the cage door on him.”
Roarke had barely braked in front of the house when Peabody rushed out.
“You found him.”
“First stop,” Eve confirmed. “Luck of the draw. It’s all on record, and the scene’s being monitored.”
“Set up like an OD?”
“Yes. It corroborates your statement.”
“I don’t know whether to be relieved or sorry,” Peabody said as McNab ran a hand down her back. Strain shadowed her eyes, leeched her color.
“Be neither. Acknowledge it, then move on. We’ll have plenty to deal with in the morning. Get some sleep. Take the room you usually take when you flop here.”
“You’re not going to contact Whitney?”
“It’s nearly three in the morning, but you’re free to wake him now if you’re in a hurry.”
“No, that’s okay. Ha. A little sleep would be good.”
“Then go get some.” To make a point, Eve started up the stairs.
“Is there anything you need tonight?” Roarke asked them.
“No.” McNab took Peabody’s hand, gave it a squeeze. “We’re set.”
Roarke leaned down, kissed Peabody’s brow. “Then sleep well.”
He followed Eve into the bedroom, closed the door as she took off her weapon harness. The strain showed in her, he noted, as it had in Peabody. A rub on the back, a hand held might help a bit. But he knew what would shift her mind, at least briefly.
“You owe me makeup sex, but I’m happy to take your marker.”
As he’d expected, she scowled at him. “Why do I owe the makeup sex?”
“Because you were partially sorry first.”
She narrowed her eyes as she sat to pull off her boots. “That just means you lagged behind in the partially sorries. I think that means you owe me. I’ll take your marker.”
“I might agree with that, on the condition that your part of said agreement includes the far-famed sexwear.” He watched her pull an oversized NYPSD T-shirt over her head. “Which I’m hoping that isn’t.”
“I can agree to those terms.” She climbed into bed.
“Then it’s a date.” He slid in beside her, wrapped her against him.
“I have to program the alarm.”
“What time?”
“Ah, I’m going to contact Whitney at six-hundred sharp. I should probably give myself an hour to prepare.”
“Five then. Don’t worry. I’ll wake you.”
Trusting he would, she closed her eyes.
She’d have sworn five minutes passed when she woke to the seductive scent of coffee. She slitted her eyes open and saw him.
He sat on the side of the bed holding a huge mug of coffee a few inches from her nose. He’d ordered the light on, about twenty percent, she judged, so the room held a soft dawn glow.
“You brought me coffee in bed?”
“You could consider me the prince of husbands—or just that I was awake before you. It’s just gone five,” he added.
“Ugh.” She pushed herself up, muttered a thanks, then took the mug and glugged. Then she closed her eyes and let the beauty of caffeine slide through her system. “Good.” Glugged some more. “Shower.” She crawled out of bed, said, “More,” and drained the mug before pushing it back into his hands.
Halfway to the bathroom she glanced back over her shoulder. Crooked a finger. And pulling off the T-shirt, let it drop to the floor as she walked the rest of the way naked.
Roarke set the empty mug on the nightstand. “Who am I to refuse such a gracious invitation?”
She’d ordered the jets on full, and—of course—brutally hot. He’d never get used to her love of boiling herself, and often himself as well, in the shower. Steam pumped, blurring the glass of the big, open area. She stood, sleek and wet, face lifted, eyes closed.
“A prince would probably wash my back.”
Obliging, Roarke tapped a panel and, when it opened, cupped his hand to catch a creamy fall of soap. “You slept well, I take it.”
“Mmmm.”
Her back, narrow and smooth, with just a hint of gold from their days in the sun on their recent holiday, arched—just a little—at the glide of his soapy hands.
He loved the feel of it, the soft skin over tensile strength. The long length of it tapered to her waist then gave way to the subtle flare of her hips.
Lean and angular, his cop, built for both speed and endurance. And yet he knew her vulnerabilities, where a touch—his touch—would weaken or incite.
The delicate curve at the back of her neck, the little dip at the base of her spine.
He continued down, sliding, circling the silky liquid over slim, strongly muscled thighs. Up again, fingers teasing, advance and retreat, in lazy seduction.
She hooked her arm around his neck, arching back. And in a limber twist from that narrow waist, turned her head until her lips found his, until they parted for a long, deep mating of tongues.
She turned, her eyes glimmering like burnished gold through the water.
“You missed a few spots.”
“Careless of me.” He filled his palm with soap, swirled it over her shoulders, her breasts, her torso, her belly.
Every inch of her yearned, here in the heat and steam, with the pounding and pulsing of water against tile, against flesh. His hands were magic on her body, triggering needs, tripping sensations, finding—owning—her secrets. His mouth, when he used it on her, infused her body with a thousand aches of pleasure.
His fingers found her, opened her, and wet to wet stroked her through those aches and beyond.
She wrapped around him, a sleek, fragrant vine, her hands tangled in his hair, her mouth avid on his. Her heart beat wild and strong against his chest in quick, lusty kicks. And she filled her hands with soap, glided them over his back, his hips, slicked them between their slippery bodies to take him in that silkened grip.
To destroy him.
He all but heard the lead snap on his control and plunged into her. Trapping her against the wet tiles, capturing her cries even as her arms chained around his neck.
Hot jets of water pummeled their joined bodies. Drops glistened on skin, on the air. Steam rose and spread to blur them into one desperate form in that last mad rush.
She went limp in his arms. It was a moment he loved, when the pleasure overwhelmed her, left her weak. Just that instant of utter surrender to him, but more, to them.
Basking in it, she rested her head on his shoulder until he lifted her face, laid his lips on hers. Softly now, and sweetly.
He watched her eyes clear, watched them smile. “That wasn’t makeup sex.”
“Of course not.”
“Just confirming.”
“But it was an excellent prelude.”
“Worked for me. Coffee in bed, sex in the shower—makes a
solid wake-up combo.”
She nuzzled another moment, then was gone—stepping out and into the drying tube.
While air swirled around her he ordered the water temperature to lower five civilized degrees.
When he walked into the bedroom with a towel slung around his waist she stood in a short robe doing something he rarely if ever saw her do. Actively studying the contents of her closet.
“This is weird,” she said, “but I need to ... Pick something out for me to wear, will you? I need to look in control, an authority, serious. Seriously in charge.”
Frustrated, she circled her hands in the air. “But without looking planned or studied. I don’t want it to come off like an outfit, but—”
“I understand you.” He stepped in, studied the jackets first. He’d selected every one of them himself as wardrobe—much less shopping for wardrobe—was dead low on her list of priorities.
“This.”
“Red? But—”
“Not red, but burgundy. It’s not bright, not bold, but deep and serious—and transmits authority, particularly in this very tailored cut. With these pants—a serious gunmetal gray, and this top in a slightly softer gray—no fuss, no embellishments. The gray boots, as they’ll give you one long line, with the jacket as the subliminal element of authority.”
She puffed out her cheeks, blew out the air. “Okay. You’re the expert.”
Once she’d dressed she had to admit there was a reason he was the expert. She looked put together but not—how had she put it—studied. And the red—sorry, burgundy—did look strong.
Plus, if she got blood on it, it might not show. Much.
“Wear these.”
She frowned at the little silver studs he held out. “I hardly ever wear earrings to work. They’re—”
“In this case, just a bit of polish. Simple and subtle.”
She shrugged, then put them on. Finished, she stood studying herself in the mirror as she sipped another cup of coffee.
“You’re not giving this attention to your wardrobe for Whitney,” Roarke said. “At least not particularly. It’s true, that old saying. Women dress for other women. This is for Renee Oberman’s benefit.”