by J. D. Robb
“The murderer did that for us,” Eve said between her teeth.
Simpson spared her a glance. “Officially, there is no connection. When asked, deny.”
“When asked,” Eve corrected. “Lie.”
“Save your personal ethics. This is reality. A scandal that starts here and reverberates to East Washington will come back on us like a monsoon. Sharon DeBlass has been dead over a week, and you have nothing.”
“We have the weapon,” she disagreed. “We have possible motive as blackmail, and a list of suspects.”
His color came up as he rose out of the chair. “I’m head of this department, lieutenant, and the mess you make is left to me to clean. It’s time you stop digging at dirt and close the case.”
“Sir.” Feeney stepped forward. “Lieutenant Dallas and I—”
“Can both be on Traffic Detail in a fucking heartbeat,” Simpson finished.
Fists clenched, Whitney lunged to his feet. “Don’t threaten my officers, Simpson. You play your games, smile for the cameras, and rub asses with East Washington, but don’t you come in on my turf and threaten my people. They’re on and they stay on. You want to change that, you try going through me.”
Simpson’s color deepened further. In fascination, Eve watched a vein throb at his temple. “Your people press the wrong buttons on this, it’ll be your ass. I’ve got Senator DeBlass under control for the moment, but he’s not happy having the primary running off to pressure his daughter-in-law, to invade the privacy of her grief and ask her embarrassing, irrelevant questions. Senator DeBlass and his family are victims, not suspects, and are to be accorded respect and dignity during this investigation.”
“I accorded Elizabeth Barrister and Richard DeBlass respect and dignity.” Very deliberately Eve shut down her temper. “The interview was conducted with their consent and cooperation. I was not aware that I was required to receive permission from you or the senator to proceed as I see warranted on this case.”
“And I will not have the press speculating that this department harasses grieving parents, or why the primary resisted required testing after a termination.”
“Lieutenant Dallas’s testing was postponed at my order,” Whitney said with snarling fury. “And with your approval.”
“I’m well aware of that.” Simpson angled his head. “I’m talking about speculation in the press. We will, all of us, be under a microscope until this man is stopped. Lieutenant Dallas’s record and her actions will be up for public dissection.”
“My record’ll stand it.”
“And your actions,” Simpson said with a faint smile. “How will you answer the fact that you’re jeopardizing the case and your position by indulging in a personal relationship with a suspect? And what do you think my official position will be if and when it comes out that you spent the night with that suspect?”
Control kept her in place, made her eyes flat, had her voice even. “I’m sure you’d hang me to save yourself, Chief Simpson.”
“Without hesitation,” he agreed. “Be at City Hall. Noon, sharp.”
When the door clinked shut behind him, Commander Whitney sat again. “Dickless son of a bitch.” Then his eyes, still sharp as razors, cut into Eve. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Eve accepted—was forced to accept—that her privacy was no longer an issue. “I spent the night with Roarke. It was a personal decision, on my personal time. In my professional opinion, as primary investigator, he has been eliminated as a suspect. It doesn’t negate the fact that my behavior was inadvisable.”
“Inadvisable,” Whitney exploded. “Try asinine. Try career suicide. Goddamn it, Dallas, can’t you hold your glands in check? I don’t expect this from you.”
She didn’t expect it from herself. “It doesn’t affect the investigation, or my ability to continue it. If you think differently, you’re wrong. If you pull me off, you’ll have to take my badge, too.”
Whitney stared at her another moment, swore again. “You make damn sure Roarke is eliminated from the short list, Dallas. Damn sure he’s eliminated or booked within thirty-six hours. And you ask yourself a question.”
“I’ve already asked it,” she interrupted, with a giddy relief only she knew she experienced when he didn’t call for her badge—yet. “How did Simpson know where I spent last night? I’m being monitored. Second question is why. Is it on Simpson’s authority, is it DeBlass? Or, did someone leak the information to Simpson in order to damage my credibility and therefore, the investigation.”
“I expect you to find out.” He jerked a thumb toward the door. “Watch yourself at that press conference, Dallas.”
They’d taken no more than three strides down the corridor when Feeney erupted. “What the hell are you thinking of? Jesus Christ, Dallas.”
“I didn’t plan it, okay?” She jabbed for an elevator, jammed her hands in her pockets. “Back off.”
“He’s on the short list. He’s one of the last people we know of who saw Sharon DeBlass alive. He’s got more money than God, and can buy anything, including immunity.”
“He doesn’t fit type.” She stormed into the elevator, barked out her floor. “I know what I’m doing.”
“You don’t know shit. All the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you so much as stub your toe on a guy. Now you’ve fallen fucking over on one.”
“It was just sex. Not all of us have a nice comfortable life with a nice comfortable wife. I wanted someone to touch me, and he wanted to be the one. It’s none of your goddamn business who I sleep with.”
He caught her arm before she could storm out of the elevator. “The hell with that. I care about you.”
She fought back the rage at being questioned, at being probed, at having her most private moments invaded. She turned back, lowering her voice so that those who walked the corridor wouldn’t overhear.
“Am I a good cop, Feeney?”
“You’re the best I ever worked with. That’s why—”
She held up a hand. “What makes a good cop?”
He sighed. “Brains, guts, patience, nerve, instinct.”
“My brains, my guts, my instincts tell me it’s not Roarke. Every time I try to turn it around and point it at him, I hit a wall. It’s not him. I’ve got the patience, Feeney, and the nerve to keep at it until we find out who.”
His eyes stayed on hers. “And if you’re wrong this time, Dallas?”
“If I’m wrong, they won’t have to ask for my badge.” She had to take a steadying breath. “Feeney, if I’m wrong about this, about him, I’m finished. All the way finished. Because if I’m not a good cop, I’m nothing.”
“Jesus, Dallas, don’t—”
She shook her head. “Run the cop list for me, will you? I’ve got some calls to make.”
chapter twelve
Press conferences left a bad taste in Eve’s mouth. She stood on the steps of City Hall, on a stage set by Simpson with his patriotic tie and his gold I Love New York lapel pin. In his Big Brother of the City mode, his voice rose and fell while he read his statement.
A statement, Eve thought in disgust, that was riddled with lies, half truths, and plenty of self aggrandizements. According to Simpson he would have no rest until the murderer of young Lola Starr was brought to justice.
When questioned as to whether there was any connection between the Starr homicide and the mysterious death of Senator DeBlass’s granddaughter, he flatly denied it.
It wasn’t his first mistake and, Eve thought glumly, it would hardly be his last.
The words were barely out of his mouth when he was peppered with shouts from Channel 75’s on-air ace, Nadine Furst.
“Chief Simpson, I have information that indicates the Starr homicide is linked with the DeBlass case—not only because both women were engaged in the same profession.”
“Now, Nadine.” Simpson flashed his patient, avuncular smile. “We all know that information is often passed to you and your associates, and it’s often inaccurate. That�
��s why I set up the Data Verification Center in the first year of my term as chief of police. You have only to check with the DVC for accuracy.”
Eve managed to hold back a snort, but Nadine, with her sharp cat’s eyes and lightning brain didn’t bother. “My source claims that Sharon DeBlass’s death was not an accident—as the DVC claims—but murder. That both DeBlass and Starr were killed by the same method and the same man.”
This caused an uproar in the huddle of news teams, a scatter shot of demands and questions that had Simpson sweating under his monogrammed shirt.
“The department stands behind its position that there is no connection between these unfortunate incidents,” Simpson shouted out, but Eve saw little lights of panic flickering in his eyes. “And my office stands behind the investigators.”
Those jittery eyes shot to Eve, and she knew, in that instant, what it was to be picked up bodily and thrown to the wolves.
“Lieutenant Dallas, a veteran officer with more than ten years of experience on the force, is in charge of the Starr homicide. She’ll be happy to answer your questions.”
Trapped, Eve stepped forward while Simpson bent down so that his weasley aide could whisper rapid-fire advice in his ear.
Questions rained down on her, and she waited, filtering them until she found one she could deal with.
“How was Lola Starr murdered?”
“In order to protect the credibility of the investigation, I’m not at liberty to divulge the method.” She suffered through the shouts, cursing Simpson. “I will state that Lola Starr, an eighteen-year-old licensed companion, was murdered, with violence and premeditation. Evidence indicates that she was murdered by a client.”
That fed them for awhile, Eve noted. Several reporters checked their links with base.
“Was it a sexual crime?” someone shouted out, and Eve lifted a brow.
“I’ve just stated that the victim was a prostitute and that she was killed by a client. Put it together.”
“Was Sharon DeBlass also killed by a client?” Nadine demanded.
Eve met those cagey feline eyes levelly. “The department has not issued any official statement that Sharon DeBlass was murdered.”
“My source names you as primary in both cases. Will you confirm?”
Boggy ground. Eve stepped onto it. “Yes. I’m the primary on several ongoing investigations.”
“Why would a ten-year vet be assigned to an accidental death?”
Eve smiled. “Want me to define bureaucracy?”
That drew some chuckles, but it didn’t pull Nadine off the scent.
“Is the DeBlass case still ongoing?”
Any answer would stir a hornet’s nest. Eve opted for the truth. “Yes. And it will remain ongoing until I, as primary, am satisfied with its disposition. However,” she continued, rolling over the shouts. “No more emphasis will be given to Sharon DeBlass’s death than any other. Including Lola Starr. Any case that comes across my desk is treated equally, regardless of family or social background. Lola Starr was a young woman from a simple family. She had no social status, no influential background, no important friends. Now, after a few short months in New York, she’s dead. Murdered. She deserves the best I can give her, and that’s what she’s going to get.”
Eve scanned the crowd, zeroed in on Nadine. “You want a story, Ms. Furst. I want a killer. I figure my wants are more important than yours, so that’s all I have to say.”
She turned on her heel, shot Simpson one fulminating look, then strode away. She could hear him fighting off questions as she headed for her car.
“Dallas.” Nadine, in low-heeled shoes built for style and movement, raced after her.
“I said I’m finished. Talk to Simpson.”
“Hey, if I want to wade through bullshit, I can call the DVC. That was a pretty impassioned statement. Didn’t sound like Simpson’s speech writer.”
“I like to talk for myself.” Eve reached her car and started to open the door when Nadine touched her shoulder.
“You like to play it straight. So do I. Look, Dallas, we’ve got different methods, but similar goals.” Satisfied that she had Eve’s attention, she smiled. When her lips curved, her face turned into a tidy triangle, dominated by those upslanted green eyes. “I’m not going to pull out the old public’s right to know.”
“You’d be wasting your time.”
“What I am going to say is we’ve got two women dead in a week. My information, and my gut tells me they were both murdered. I don’t figure you’re going to confirm that.”
“You figure right.”
“What I want’s a deal. You let me know if I’m on the right track, and I hold off going out with anything that undermines your investigation. When you’ve got something solid and you’re ready to move on it, you call me. I get an exclusive on the arrest—live.”
Almost amused, Dallas leaned against her car. “What are you going to give me for that, Nadine? A handshake and a smile?”
“For that I’m going to give you everything my source has passed to me. Everything.”
Now she was interested. “Including the source?”
“I couldn’t do that if I had to. Point is, I don’t. What I do have, Dallas, is a disc, delivered to me at the studio. On the disc are copies of police reports, including autopsies on both victims, and a couple of nasty little videos of two dead women.”
“Fuck that. If you had half of what you’re telling me, you’d have been on air in a heartbeat.”
“I thought about it,” Nadine admitted. “But this is bigger than ratings. Hell of a lot bigger. I want a story, Dallas, one that’s going to cop me the Pulitzer, the International News Award, and a few other major prizes.”
Her eyes changed, darkened. She wasn’t smiling anymore. “But I saw what someone did to those woman. Maybe the story comes first with me, but it’s not all. I pushed Simpson today, and I pushed you. I liked the way you pushed back. You can deal with me, or I can go out on my own. Your choice.”
Eve waited. A fleet of taxis cruised by, and a maxibus with its humming electric motor. “We deal.” Before Furst’s eyes could light in triumph, Eve turned on her. “You cross me on this, Nadine, you cross me by so much as an inch, and I’ll bury you.”
“Fair enough.”
“The Blue Squirrel, twenty minutes.”
The afternoon crowd at the club was too bored to do much more than huddle over their drinks. Eve found a corner table, ordered a Pepsi Classic and the veggie pasta. Nadine slid in across from her. She chose the chicken plate with no-oil fries. An indication, Eve thought glumly, of the wide difference between a cop’s salary and a reporter’s.
“What have you got?” Eve demanded.
“A picture’s worth several hundred thousand words.” Nadine took a personal palm computer out of her bag—her red leather bag, Eve noted with envy. She had a weakness for leather and bold colors that she could rarely indulge.
Nadine popped in the disc, handed Eve the PPC. There was little use in swearing, Eve decided as she watched her own reports flick on-screen. Brooding, she let the disc run over Code Five data, through official medical reports, the ME’s findings. She stopped it when the videos began. There was no need to check out death over a meal.
“Is it accurate?” Nadine asked when Eve passed back the computer.
“It’s accurate.”
“So the guy’s some sort of gun freak, a security expert who patronizes companions.”
“The evidence indicates that profile.”
“How far have you narrowed it down?”
“Obviously, not far enough.”
Nadine waited while their food was served. “There’s got to be a lot of political pressure on you—the DeBlass end.”
“I don’t play politics.”
“Your chief does.” Nadine took a bite of her chicken. Eve smirked as she winced. “Christ, this is terrible.” Philosophically, she shifted to the fries. “It’s no secret DeBlass is front runner for the Co
nservative Party’s nomination this summer. Or that the asshole Simpson is shooting for governor. Given the show this afternoon, it looks like cover-up.”
“At this point, publicly, there is no connection between the cases. But I meant what I said about equality, Nadine. I don’t care who Sharon DeBlass’s granddaddy is. I’m going to find the guy who did her.”
“And when you do, is he going to be charged with both murders, or only with Starr’s?”
“That’s up to the prosecuting attorney. Personally, I don’t give a shit, as long as I hang him.”
“That’s the difference between you and me, Dallas.” Nadine waved a fry, then bit in. “I want it all. When you get him, and I break the story, the PA’s not going to have a choice. The fallout’s going to keep DeBlass busy for months.”
“Now who’s playing politics?”
Nadine lifted a shoulder. “Hey, I just report the story, I don’t make it. And this one’s got it all. Sex, violence, money. Having a name like Roarke’s involved is going to shoot the ratings through the roof.”
Very slowly, Eve swallowed pasta. “There’s no evidence linking Roarke to the crimes.”
“He knew DeBlass—he’s a friend of the family. Christ, he owns the building where Sharon was killed. He’s got one of the top weapon collections in the world, and rumor is he’s an expert shot.”
Eve picked up her drink. “Neither murder weapon can be traced to him. He has no connection with Lola Starr.”
“Maybe not. But even as a periphery character, Roarke sells news. And it’s no state secret that he and the senator have bumped heads in the past. The man’s got ice in his veins,” she added with a shrug. “I don’t imagine he’d have any problem with a couple of cold-blooded killings. But . . .” She paused to lift her own drink. “He’s also a fanatic about privacy. It’s hard to picture him bragging about the murders by sending discs to reporters. Somebody does that, they want publicity as much as they want to get away with the crime.”