by J. D. Robb
“Damn good chow,” Feeney commented, and chomped into a pulled pork sandwich. “I hear there’s pie.”
She wondered if there was a cop in the universe, including herself, who didn’t have a weakness for pie. “Pie’s for after the formal briefing.”
He gave her a sorrowful look. “That’s harsh, kid.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She moved to the front of the room. “I’m going to begin while all of you finish licking your plates clean. If you’ll direct your attention to the boards, and the two separate but connected cases.”
It was brief, as most of the team had already been updated on the steps and progress. She called on Mira to present personality profiles on Renee Oberman, William Garnet, Carl Bix, and the victim.
“What is your opinion, Doctor Mira, in determining if the Keener case is homicide, accident, or self-termination?”
“Self-termination isn’t consistent with any of the victim’s actions. He moved himself and his possessions to another location. On the night of his death he had a meal and spoke with his server. According to her statement his mood was pleasant, even expansive, and he spoke about relocating.
“Accidental overdose is always a risk with an addict,” Mira continued. “However, the massive dose injected isn’t consistent with the victim’s previous habits. In my judgment, based on facts, statements, and personality, this was homicide.”
“Renee’s going to have a hard time arguing with that,” Feeney put in.
“That’s the plan. I’m going to have to ask her opinion on how her weasel, a low-rent street dealer, got his hands on that much of a high-grade illegal substance. And I’m going to want to know who deals in that substance. I’m going to need to talk to anyone in her squad—then the department—who made a bust involving that substance.
“Which takes us to Property. McNab.”
He swallowed pasta. “At the lieutenant’s direction, I initiated an inventory run on specific illegals invoices in Central’s property room. Do you want to see the work, or just the results?” he asked her.
“The work’ll go into the file, be copied to all team members. Let’s have the results here and now.”
“Illegals squad under Lieutenant Harrod. Detectives Petrov and Roger had a pretty nice bust about six weeks ago. They confiscated a number of illegals, including a large batch of street name FYU. I should add that Detective Roger and two uniformed officers were injured during the bust. In Detective Petrov’s report, he estimated the FYU at thirty keys. That’s a street value of about two hundred and fifty thousand. They also bagged what he estimated to be ninety keys of Dust and five hundred capsules of Exotica.
“I took the majors first, Lieutenant,” McNab explained. “I haven’t had time to do a thorough run. Petrov checked the confiscated substances into Property for weighing, registering, and invoicing. On-site estimates are over a lot of the time. They’re just eyeballing them and, well, who doesn’t like bigger numbers? The official count after check-in was twenty-two keys of FYU, eighty-four of Dust, and three seventy-five caps of Exotica.”
“That’s quite a discrepancy.”
“Yes, sir, it is. Roger was being transported to the hospital, so Petrov didn’t wait for the weigh-in.”
“Who received and weighed said substances?”
“Runch, Sergeant Walter.”
“Computer, display on-screen data on Runch, Sergeant Walter. I conducted a standard background and ran an analysis of Property officers,” Eve continued when the data came up. “She needs a man on the desk or else she’s limited to her own men, and watching all that profit swim right by her. An analysis of Runch in the two years, four months he’s been on the desk shows that his weigh-ins are regularly under the estimate—his percentages of those discrepancies increase when said estimate is outside Renee’s squad.”
“When the cop on the bust is one of hers,” Feeney put in, “he takes the weight off the estimate before weigh-in.”
“That’s what plays,” Eve agreed. “Not every time, not even most of the time, but with regularity and most particularly when dealing with major busts.
“As you see, Runch was assigned to Property after receiving a rip for busting up a bar while beating the hell out of his bookie after he lost five large over a three-point spread in Arena Ball. Runch has a little gambling problem and was given the opportunity for counseling and reassignment, which he accepted.”
Eve picked up the photo she’d already printed out, added it to Oberman’s board.
“You already had him?” McNab asked.
“I had the probability. You put the bow on it. What does IAB have on Runch?” she asked Webster.
“I didn’t work him, but if there’s more, I’ll find out. I have interviewed her detective Marcell, regarding a termination. He and a Detective Strumb, both under Lieutenant Oberman, were covering an undercover, Detective Freeman. Freeman was up as a buyer, had been working this deal for a couple weeks, and it was due to go down. It should’ve been a play-by-play, but it went south. Dealer brings along his muscle, and his woman. The woman makes Freeman, screams how he’s a cop, how he busted her for possession. Everybody draws down, Marcell and Strumb move in to assist. Freeman’s wounded, Strumb and the dealer end up dead. Muscle’s wounded according to Freeman and Marcell, but he and the woman managed to get in the vehicle and escape—with the money and the product.”
“Handy,” Eve commented.
“It added up. Freeman’s and Marcell’s statements meshed. Freeman ID’d the woman, and he had busted her for possession six months prior. Crime scene reconstruction played out as the officers reported. Marcell acknowledged terminating the dealer, citing self-defense and defense of his partner as Strumb was down. He went through Testing, and the results corroborated.”
“What did you think?”
“What I thought was he probably terminated the dealer out of revenge for his partner—but I didn’t have it on him. Three days later, the bodies of the muscle and the woman were found in a motel off the turnpike, throats slit. No money, no product. And I thought he might have gone after them. We looked at him for it, but he had a solid alibi. He was with his lieutenant, Detectives Garnet and Freeman at TOD, in the back room of a bar, holding a private wake for their fallen comrade.”
Webster nodded at the screen. “Put it together with what we know now? It smells.”
“Peabody, generate Freeman’s and Marcell’s ID shots, put them up. That’s four in her squad, one in the property room. Generate Lieutenant Harrod’s Detective Roger.”
“The wounded officer?” Peabody asked.
“I’m wondering if the estimate would’ve been so far off the weigh-in if he hadn’t been wounded and therefore unable to do the estimate himself. He’s a possible. She’s got more,” Eve added. “Weighing Mira’s personality profile, I did an analysis on her history as boss of the squad. Within six months of her assignment, three officers were transferred to other squads or divisions. In two of the cases, Renee was able to request specific detectives to replace them. One of those was Freeman, the other Detective Armand, who came in from Brooklyn PD, where he’d worked in their E-Division.”
Eve added his ID shot. “She needs an e-man. The third detective transferred out in under a year, as did another from the original squad. One of the later replacements who transferred in, female—went down in a multi-squad bust eight months after joining the squad. Another remains under her command. Detective Palmer previously worked three years with a squad focused on organized crime. She needs the contacts,” Eve said, and added his photo.
“How many are you looking at?” Whitney demanded. “How many of that squad?”
“It won’t be all of them, Commander. She needs scapegoats, fall guys, sacrifices—as it may turn out both Strumb and the female transfer were. She has to have at least one man in Accounting, for the same reason she needs one in Property. The numbers have to add up to keep her squad under the radar. It’s likely she has at least one in another squad—and I’m looking at Roger—or
has someone who she’s cultivated who’ll just gossip—somebody who passes information about investigations, planned operations.”
She glanced at Mira. “I’m adding Doctor Addams, as she requested him for her psych, and my check indicates her entire squad now uses him.
“The homicide investigation puts pressure on her, and it infuriates her. Keener was supposed to be a speck of lint she flicked off her sleeve. Now he’s a stone in her shoe. I’m going to insist, as is my right as primary, to interview everyone in her squad. I expect she’ll file a complaint with command.”
“Yes,” Whitney agreed. “I expect she will.”
“I request permission, due to the evidence so far compiled, for EDD to install a tracer and recorder on her vehicle. It’s department issue, sir, and not her personal property.”
“So we slip around the need for a warrant.”
“Slip’s the word,” Webster put in. “She can give you grief on that at the end of the day. It’s questionable, and lawyers love questionable.”
“How about this? Her current vehicle experiences some mechanical problems. She has to requisition a replacement. When she accepts said replacement, she signs a waiver. Who reads those things? We cover it—carefully—and if she signs, she’s agreed to accept said vehicle as it comes to her.”
“That’ll work.”
“Feeney, who can you glad-hand in the vehicle pool to find out what gets earmarked for her?”
“I’ve got a couple guys. That’s not a problem.”
“Can you and McNab get to the vehicle, wire it up so it doesn’t show on a standard sweep?”
He tipped his head down, eyes narrowed on her. “I’m insulted you’d even ask.”
“Fine. Peabody, generate a standard vehicle waiver, and we’ll make a few amendments.”
“How are you going to decommission her vehicle?” Webster demanded. “Much less slip her the doctored form?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Eve told him, careful not to so much as glance at Roarke. “Feeney, just let me know, asap, when you nail down the vehicle—and you could use your geek magic to get me the exact location of her old one.”
He loved to watch her work like this, Roarke thought. How she laid it out, ran it through, timed it—even down to giving the nod for pie to relieve some of the tension in the room.
He looked at her board now, thought of how deliberately she’d added one name, one image at a time so each had its own specific impact. So each mattered as much as the next. Not one melded group of bad cops, but individuals.
Now, with the pie lending a less formal mood, she brought him into it. Clever girl.
“From the conversation between Renee and Garnet Peabody overheard, we know Garnet owns property—tropical, beachy. I’ve asked Roarke, as expert consultant, civilian, to try to locate that property. If Garnet owns a little tropical paradise and has gone to any lengths—perhaps illegal lengths—to conceal that ownership, it’ll help wrap him up. It may help flip him, if and when we need one of her crew to flip on her.”
“Not that I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Webster began, “but anything that scratches too deep at his financials, his assets—without the filter of a warranted search or IAB status, is going to alert him. Even with those, if he’s taken the precautions, he could catch wind of a sniff.”
“Which is why I’ll have to be very quiet about it,” Roarke returned.
“Listen, if you obtain any data by questionable means, the data becomes questionable when the lawyers start on it.”
“I’m aware of that.” Roarke angled his head. “I’m married to a cop. Would you like me to tell you how it might be done, Detective?”
“Go ahead.”
“One might, particularly as a businessman with many interests and investments in transportation, generate a kind of survey. And as an example, we might collect data on how many men, with a certain demographic, travel from New York to a tropical location more than three times a year—the same location. It might be worth our while to increase our transportation services to those locations, and offer incentives to that specific demographic.”
“Yeah.” Webster began to smile. “I could see it might.”
“As our services include private transports, and it always pays to offer perks to those who could afford them anyway, we’d look at those individuals, particularly if we found those individuals owned property. People who own multiple homes and can afford to travel to them regularly are excellent customers.”
“I bet they are. It’s a good angle. If you get a hit, let me know. I could work a filter from there, so you could take it down a few levels.” When Roarke lifted a brow, Webster nodded. “A filter sanctioned by IAB keeps it from edging into questionable.”
“Understood.”
“If that’s all for tonight, I’ve got to take off.” Webster pushed to his feet. “I’m meeting someone.”
“As pertains to this?” Eve demanded.
“No, as doesn’t pertain to this.” He shot Roarke a quick grin. “Thanks for the pie.”
“I’ll thank you, too.” Mira stepped up as Webster left. “I’ll have profiles on the other officers, get them to you tomorrow. I’d suggest you find a way to talk with members of the squad prior to Renee’s command there, get a sense from them.”
“It’s on my slate,” Eve told her.
When the room finally emptied of cops, Roarke leaned back on Eve’s desk. “Alone at last. And I suppose we’ll be leaving shortly so I can decommission Renee’s official vehicle.”
“I figured you’d enjoy it. A nostalgia thing.”
“It would be more enjoyably nostalgic if I stole it.”
She actually considered it for a moment. “No, it’s better to just take it out. But you need to do it so it looks like a regular—but severe—mechanical problem, not tampering. I don’t want her to be able to use it for, say, a week—and I want diagnostics to see it as a normal breakdown.”
“Well then, at least there’s a tiny challenge involved. I’ll need to change. While I do you can tell me how you plan to fix it so Renee signs your doctored waiver.”
“You should know when you need to run a con, you hire a grifter.”
Ten
VEHICULAR TAMPERING WASN’T SOMETHING she did every day, particularly with departmental approval. She wondered just how she’d write it up in her report.
Assigned expert consultant, civilian (former thief), to debilitate the official vehicle of a ranked NYPSD officer.
Probably not quite that way.
“She doesn’t deserve to be a ranked NYPSD officer,” Eve muttered.
Roarke glanced over as he drove. “You’re not actually feeling guilty about this?”
“Not guilty. Uncomfortable,” she decided. “It was my idea, and it’s a good step. It’s department property, so the commander can order or approve said step, and we have tacit IAB sanction with Webster’s attachment. But I’m still a cop deliberately and covertly disabling another cop’s ride. So I have to remind myself she doesn’t deserve to be a cop.”
“Whatever gets you through, darling. You might try to enjoy it, as I intend to.” He flashed her a grin, gave her a playful finger in the ribs. “Criminal activity does have its appeal. Otherwise there wouldn’t be so many criminals.”
“It’s not a criminal activity. It’s department sanctioned.”
“Pretend.”
She only rolled her eyes. “The building has—as you’d expect with a cop, and a dirty one at that—solid security. Underground parking for tenants is assigned—”
“Which you already told me, and is the reason I took a little walk through the records for said garage and identified her slot. Level two, slot twenty-three.”
“I’m just going over it.” Because, she admitted, it made it seem less criminal. “Visitor parking is limited to level three. Visitors have to clear garage security. The simplest way is to key in a name and corresponding apartment.”
He tipped her a glance, quick
and full of humor. “No, there are simpler.”
“Which I have here,” she added, willfully ignoring him, “from your little walk-through. Apartment 1020, Francis and Willow Martin. There’ll be cams at the entrance to the garage, and on all levels.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“They’ll document the vehicle and tag going in and out,” she continued. “But Renee will have no reason, if you do the job right, to suspect tampering and request a review of the discs.”
“I’ve often wondered what sort of partner in crime you’d make, should we have met back in the day. Now I see, sadly, it would never have worked. I fear, darling Eve, you’re much too tight-assed.”
“I take that as a compliment,” she said between her teeth.
“Which proves the point.”
“Listen, smart-ass, I don’t want to give her any reason to question the disabled ride, or to take too hard a look at the new one.”
“Trust me,” he said simply, and turned to the gated doors of the garage.
“Apartment 1020,” she reminded him.
He said, “Mmm-hmm,” even as the gates lifted.
“How the hell did you do that?”
“I could cite professional secret, but since I’m among friends, I activated a jammer just before I pulled up. It released the gate while it briefly disabled the cam. They’ll have a bit of a video snag—the cams flicking for a time. On the way down,” he continued as he snaked the downward curve. “Then when we’re done, on the way up.”
Slick, she thought. Pretty damn slick. But still. “I don’t know why that’s simpler than just keying in some data.”
“Well now, we don’t know Francis and Willow, do we? Whether they’ve got a visitors’ block up, or are off in Saint Maarten’s having manic sex on the beach.”
“I checked their data—I’m not an idiot. She’s an OB, and she has regular office hours tomorrow. They’re not in freaking Saint Maarten’s having any kind of sex.”
“More’s the pity for them. Maybe they’re out for the evening. Perhaps she’s delivering a baby as we speak, and taking advantage of her absence, Francis slipped out to visit his young, nubile mistress for a bit of that manic sex.”