by J. D. Robb
“You might think,” Eve agreed.
“I’d be interested in what you think,” Janburry told her.
Eve crouched down for a closer look at the body. No defensive wounds, she noted—and she could smell booze on him. She lifted his right hand—bagged now—by the wrist. No user would leave that much candy on his fingers. That, she thought, was overkill.
“I think he and his killer entered together. Why, I can’t say, but I’d bet my ass Garnet believed they were here to screw either with me or my investigation. He not only knew his killer, but trusted him. Walked in ahead of him, got his light out, turned it on. A slice like that?”
She wished she had her gauge, but eyeballed it.
“I figure the killer pulled Garnet’s head back, exposed the area—gives him a wide, clear target, makes a wide, clean slice. The killer came here for that purpose, and then took the ID and the rest so it might appear to be a meet gone bad, followed by a robbery of opportunity.
“Keener’s OD was staged,” she continued. “This is more of the same.”
Janburry crouched down, kept his voice low. “You think another cop did this.”
“I think people who kill for expediency, for profit, for any reason other than self-defense or in defense of another aren’t cops. They just have a badge in their pockets.”
“How much muck are we stepping into?”
“I can’t tell you—yet—but I’d bring spare boots.”
Sixteen
WHEN PEABODY AND MCNAB WALKED INTO EVE’S home office, McNab’s heart, mind, and body arrowed directly to the breakfast buffet.
“Morning eats! Told ya.”
“I just said you shouldn’t count on it.” Peabody shifted her file bag and wished the scent of grilled bacon didn’t wrap around her system like a lover.
But since it did, she dumped the bag and surrendered to temptation, crunching into the first slice as Roarke came in.
“Morning,” she managed. “Best briefings ever.”
“No point in solving murders on an empty stomach. You’re looking rosy this morning, Peabody.”
“It’s the bacon.”
“Woot! French toast.” McNab grinned as Roarke poured himself some coffee. “Thanks for the spread.”
“Feeding cops has its rewards.”
And this one, Roarke assumed, had the metabolism of a manic chipmunk to eat as he did and remain thin as a wafer.
“We got here a little early,” McNab told him, “so Peabody could help Dallas set up.”
“And I want to go over some things with her on the Devin investigation.”
“While they’re at it,” McNab continued, heaping a plate, “I wanted to bounce this idea off you. Feeney and I kicked it around some last night.”
“Bounce away.”
“I think we could use the bugs we planted in Oberman’s vehicle to narrow in on the frequency of her disposable. We’d need to tweak and enhance the remote, narrow the focus to the disposable’s signal when she’s on it. It’d take some luck to lock it in, but if we could, we should be able to use it to triangulate.”
“Coordinate the plants and remote, boosting output while narrowing range, redirect, and trap her signal. Trap it,” Roarke considered, intrigued, “and clone it.”
“Yeah. If we pulled it off, we could—theoretically—use the clone to pick up her signals and conversations whenever and wherever she used the disposable.”
“Like a conference call,” Roarke mused. “Interesting.”
“Theoretically.”
“By boosting the strength, you’d run a risk of her picking up the bug on a full sweep, particularly during triangulation. But timed right, and with the right adjustments, it could work.”
“If you want to play with that idea,” Peabody interrupted, “I could hook with Dallas on my end.”
“She’s not back yet.” Roarke glanced at the time. “She responded to a second homicide at your original scene. Garnet’s dead.”
“Shit, that balls things up.” McNab stuffed a bite of French toast dripping with syrup into his mouth. “Feeney and I were going to start on his electronics today, and if we got the go, slip into his place and wire it up. No point now.”
“Why didn’t she tag me?” Peabody demanded. “If Garnet’s down, I should’ve gotten the tag.”
“It’s not her case—your case,” Roarke amended. “The primary on it contacted her early this morning, as a courtesy I’d say, and likely because he hoped she’d give him a lead.”
“It should be ours,” Peabody began, then settled down, backtracked. “No, it can’t be ours. She had two confrontations with him yesterday. McNab was monitoring when the asshole tried to jump her right out front here. We can’t work the case. Do you know who the primary is? How much she’s going to tell him?”
“Detective Janburry, but as to the rest, I couldn’t say.”
“Renee did this, because he went outside the box, became a negative factor. I have to run this Janburry.” Peabody forgot her love affair with bacon and moved off.
“Garnet made some bad moves,” McNab commented. “Too bad he’s dead because he earned a long stretch in a cage. But ...” With a shrug, McNab shoveled in more food. “How’d he buy it?”
“I don’t know that either. She hoped to be back to run the briefing.” Christ knew he’d hoped it. “If she doesn’t make it, and she’s cutting it close, I’ll lead things off.”
“Solid.”
Feeney came in, smiled at the buffet. “I told the wife I’d get plenty of the most important meal of the day. The boy tell you about his brainstorm?”
“Yes,” Roarke answered. “It would be interesting to program.”
“I’ve been playing with it—in my head,” Feeney said as he filled a plate. “It’ll come down to catching the waves.”
For the next ten minutes they discussed options, alternatives, possibilities.
“Morning, all.” Webster strolled in, looking relaxed and a little sleepy-eyed. “Man, I could use some fuel, and that looks prime.”
“I imagine you could use it,” Roarke said smoothly when Webster hit the buffet, and couldn’t help enjoying Webster’s lazy grin. “How was the play?”
“Unforgettable.”
“Darcia goes back soon.”
“Couple more days. I’ve got some time coming.” Webster scooped eggs onto his plate, spoke casually. “I’m going to check out this off-planet resort of yours personally.”
“You couldn’t have a better guide than the chief of police.”
Mira and Whitney came in together. Whitney scanned the room, then focused on Roarke. “She’s not back yet?”
“No. She asked me to begin the briefing if she was delayed. You can take the floor if you prefer.”
“No, we’ll follow Dallas’s line.” He poured coffee but skipped the food.
“You look tired, Charlotte,” Roarke said to Mira.
“I am a little. Long night.”
“Have some food. Get your energy up.”
“I don’t think that will help. It’s clear my colleague’s involved in this. A man I’ve worked with, a man I trusted.”
“I’m sorry.” Roarke touched a hand to her shoulder. “It’s a deeper kind of treachery, isn’t it, when there’s trust?”
“When I think how many police officers have trusted him with their secrets, their fears, their feelings, yes, it’s a very deep kind of treachery. All of this is, isn’t it?” She looked at the board. “On the deepest level. Doctor to patient, cop to cop, to the public, daughter to father.”
“You’ll stop it, all of you. Treachery only thrives in the dark. You’ll bring it into the light.”
“It weighs on him.” Mira glanced toward Whitney as he took a seat, alone with his coffee. “On all of us, but it’s his command. And what this small and, yes, treacherous, percentage of all the good men and women who work and risk and fight every single day has done to diminish that work, that risk, that fight, it weighs heavy.”
And so, Roarke thought, he couldn’t put it off any longer.
He moved to the front of the room. “The lieutenant’s been delayed.”
“Dallas isn’t here?” Webster interrupted. “Where the hell is she?”
“At the scene, or hopefully on her way back from the scene, where Garnet was murdered.”
“Garnet? What the—” Webster broke off, and the relaxed body, the sleepy eyes vanished. “When the hell did this happen, and why wasn’t I apprised? She can’t investigate Garnet’s murder. Commander—”
“If you’d take your seat.” Roarke handled the outburst as he would at any meeting he conducted. Coolly. “You’ll be thoroughly briefed on this matter, and all others pertaining to these investigations. The lieutenant isn’t assigned to this last murder, but consulting with the officers who are—at their request.
“Now, as I have the floor, we’ll begin with some progress I made regarding the finances of three of the subjects. Data one on-screen,” he ordered, and the image of Garnet’s passport, with photo, came on.
“As you see, this is Detective William Garnet, aka Garnet Jacoby. Though they’re both dead now, it’s of interest that Garnet, under this assumed name, has amassed over thirty-five million dollars in cash, stocks, bonds, and property. He has quite a lovely home in the Canary Islands. Had, that is. Data two with image, on-screen.”
“How did you dig this out?” Webster asked him. “You never tagged me for a filter.”
“Carefully, tediously, and within the law. Barely,” Roarke added, “but within, as the lieutenant ordered and expected.”
“We could’ve hung him out to dry on this,” Webster muttered as his angry gaze scanned the screen, the image of the lavish house, the numbers. “Out to fucking dry.”
“A bit late on that. However, if you’d prefer we can move on, come back to this. It might improve your mood to see another stream of data. One-A, on-screen. Meet Marcia Anbrome, currently of Sardinia, Italy.”
“Oh yeah.” Though he said it between his teeth, and his face hardened further, Webster nodded. “That improves my mood.”
“Maybe the idea of taking her down on graft, on corruption brightens your day, Lieutenant,” Peabody said as she swung around. “But she’s killed cops. Not all of them were like Garnet. They’re dead because they weren’t like Garnet.”
“Understood, Detective. We all want the same thing here.”
“Detective Peabody.” Roarke’s tone was more gentle than the one he’d used on Webster. “I understand you’re pursuing a side investigation on the death of Detective Gail Devin. It might aid you in that investigation to know that Renee Oberman—as Marcia Anbrome—deposited two-point-eight million USD in her account two days after the operation in which Devin was killed. Garnet also made a large deposit at the same time. One-point-two. As did Bix, under his assumed identification.”
The hell with the screen, Roarke thought. He had all of it in his head. “As John Barry, Bix holds accounts in Montana—where he’s also purchased a cabin and fifty acres—in the Philippines, where he was once stationed while in the Army, and in Tokyo, where he was born. While we began with these three, we’re working through the squad. I have Freeman, Palmer, and Marcell complete. I should have the others within hours.”
“You’ll need to add Doctor Addams to your list.” Mira sat, hands folded in her lap. “As I’ve already informed the commander, in reviewing all the case files, testing results, evaluations, and history of each member of Lieutenant Oberman’s squad, I’ve found troubling inconsistencies, and what on closer study appear to be amended results in those squad members Doctor Addams examined, tested, or treated.”
“Of course.” No point in telling her he’d already added her colleague, already found some of the pots the man had buried.
“Detective Peabody,” Mira continued. “You should be aware that a few weeks before Detective Devin’s death, Lieutenant Oberman, according to Doctor Addams’s notes, expressed concern about Devin’s state of mind, citing the detective had difficulty focusing on her work, adhering to procedure, took excessive personal time. Addams arranged for sessions with Detective Devin. He saw her twice a week for seven weeks, until the time of her death.”
“She would have trusted him.”
“She may have come to, yes,” Mira agreed.
“If she did, she could have told him she thought something was off in the squad, and why. What she was going to do about it.”
“It’s possible.” The fatigue on Mira’s face deepened. “If she did, I believe Addams was certainly complicit in her death.”
Eve came in, her strides long and brisk. “Apologies for the delay.” She glanced at the screen, nodded. “I see you’ve been briefed on the financial angles. This gives us proof Renee, Garnet, and Bix procured false identification and with that hid property and funds.”
“Add Freeman, Palmer, and Marcell,” Roarke told her. “Others to come.”
“Good. This alone is enough to remove them from the force, to arrest them, charge them, try and convict them. We have to take Garnet out of that process as I’ve just come from examining his body, but the data on him weighs on all involved.”
“I’d like a report on Garnet’s homicide,” Whitney said.
“Sir. Detective Janburry is primary, and with his partner, Detective Delfino, is investigating. The detective contacted me, allowed me on scene. At which time I gave them a statement regarding both my altercations with the victim.”
“What do you mean ‘both’?” Webster asked.
“The second occurred at approximately twenty-two hundred last night when Garnet confronted me outside the gates of my home—where he had lain in wait for my return. My assumption is he was informed I left the residence by Detective Manford and/or Freeman who attempted a two-point tail on me some ninety minutes earlier.”
“What the hell is this, Dallas? Why wasn’t I kept informed?”
“You were busy,” she snapped at Webster. “And you’re being so informed. My altercation with Garnet is on record, and that record and my report on same was given to my commander.”
She paused a moment. “Moving on. Detective Garnet entered the building where Keener was killed at one this morning, breaking the seal, bypassing the locks. Or his killer did so and left the master on him. About six paces in the door, Garnet was attacked from behind. His throat was slit. There were no other visible injuries other than the bruises I put on his face at approximately twenty-two hundred.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Read the report, Webster. Watch the record. Garnet’s valuables were removed—except for the knife he had sheathed on his belt. The detectives have agreed to keep me informed of their progress.”
“What did you have to give them for that?” Webster demanded.
She rounded on him now, every bit as angry as he. “Not everything comes down to payment, to quid pro quo. I have an interest in their case—their vic is connected to mine and was killed in the same place. Since they’re cops with brains, they can follow the dots. I told them I couldn’t share certain details and areas of my own investigation with them, at this time. Which, again since they’re cops with brains, tells them it’s bigger than a dead junkie. Which they were smart enough to have already figured out. It will be the commander’s decision as to whether the officers investigating Garnet’s murder will be so informed.”
“I’ll review it,” Whitney told her.
“Yes, sir. From my own examination, from the angle of the wound, the killer was taller than the vic. The vic was a solid six foot. He was also taken from behind, indicating he entered ahead of his killer, had his back to his killer. Indicating this was someone he knew, trusted. I believe Bix killed Garnet, and given his pathology and profile, he did so on orders from his lieutenant.”
“A little housecleaning,” Feeney said.
“Yeah, Garnet was mucking up her tidy area. I suspect in the period
between his altercation with me and his death, he contacted her or went to see her. He knew IAB was sniffing,” she added with a nod to Webster.
“I put out the scent, as agreed.”
“It worked. He’d turned on her before, put the muscle on her the night Peabody overheard them. He lost control, twice, with me. She had no control over him in her office yesterday—and she knew it. Her attempts to clean up after him went nowhere, and added to her embarrassment. He came at me again last night, and would lose his badge over it. He was not only no more use to her, but a threat. She acted quickly—too quickly, I think. Heat of the moment. A cooler head would have found another, quieter way, to get rid of him.”
“Yes, I agree,” Mira said when Eve looked her way. “Garnet and Renee were once lovers. She took away whatever power he had in the relationship by ending the sexual connection.”
“Which was probably why she started and ended it,” Eve suggested.
“Very likely. He took orders from her on two levels, and did so because it was profitable, and because she continued to see he had meaningful assignments on both levels. She reprimanded and punished him for whatever mistake he made with Keener. Then he was confronted with another female superior, one who did not show him the respect he deemed himself due, nor did she placate him as Renee would. Now he’s punished again, reprimanded again. And snaps.
“Oberman can’t control him, which reflects poorly on her, on both levels again. His actions demand that she do so, and since she can’t, she eliminates him. The ultimate control, proving she is in charge. Proving it,” Mira added, “to herself as well as those under her command.”
“And that’s priority for her,” Eve put in. “To be on top, in command, in charge.”
Mira nodded. “If she’s not in charge, she’s nothing. Nothing more than the daughter of an important, revered man, one she can in no way live up to. Except by treachery and deceit. She acted quickly, decisively, because she saw it as command. When, in fact, it was fear and loathing.”
“Why that location?” Eve asked.